“What th–”
The van’s dark hood was right in front of me. I caught a glimpse of the passenger-side window as time slowed to a crawl. Powerless, I saw the bike approach the car. A glimpse of the trees and sky. And then, the pavement. I held myself up on my forearms, moaning. A gash on my left arm. Blood. And some white tissue—fat. I whimpered rhythmically, too sore to move, too shocked. Work. I needed to get to work. That’s why I had left early in the first place.
The driver got out of the van. “Are you all right?!” he asked. “The sun was behind you, I didn’t see you.” He flipped open his cell phone, called 911. A stranger stopped and knelt beside me. “Don’t try to move. Did you hit your head? How many fingers am I holding up?” I had no patience for silly games, but I wanted to reassure them I was fine, and I answered.
The police came, and the ambulance. As the paramedics pulled out the gurney, a police officer asked me if I had any ID. I told her to look in the handlebar bag. As they rolled me over so they could slide the stretcher under me, I could see the officer take out my driver’s license and copy down my info. They put a padded orange head restraint on me. I called out to make sure the handlebar bag came with me. “I can’t get it out.” “Push the orange button… and lift,” I feebly tried to shout.
Up I went, looking at the sky, then into the ambulance. We waited there for a moment. What for? Paperwork? I tried not to panic, but my thoughts were swirling: this had happened to me. This would disrupt my plans. Would I ever bike again? Would I want to? Finally, they closed the doors and we were off. The EMT tried to put an IV in me, but it was difficult; I was sweaty from biking. Then he came over to my left side, “I know these bike clothes are probably expensive, but I’m going to have to cut them.” Bye, bye, polka-dot jersey that Knox gave me. “You have big gash right there.” He covered my now-naked form as the ambulance pulled into the hospital.
I watched the ceiling lights stream past, just like on TV. In the big room, a whole team of doctors was expecting me. They lifted me onto the bed. Everyone was talking. “Do you want us to call someone?” They looked up Knox’s number on the cell phone, but couldn’t reach him on the land line. “Oh, it’s long distance.” We decided to wait until after I’d been sutured, which wouldn’t be long, they promised. All the while, nurses and doctors were talking. “Where does it hurt?” “We’re going to stick this in you” “I’ll need to probe your butt to make sure there’s no bleeding.” Like a rag doll, I lay there, trying to be helpful and agreeable, but just letting them poke and prod me.
Finally, I was wheeled to my own curtained-off room. I had a chance to calm down. But I didn’t, not consistently. I was trying to go with the flow and accept this, let it be, but then doom and despair would hit me. One of the nurses came back to talk to me. Then they wheeled me off to get X-rays. A police officer stopped me to get my signature on a form, and said he’d leave an accident report for me. “Your bike looks like an L,” he said. “You might want to get in touch with a lawyer.” Great.
The periods of inactivity were the hardest. When people were doing something, I could hold it together. But during the lulls, in the X-ray room when the film was being swapped out and later back in my room waiting for the resident to come back and finish my sutures, a disconsolate anguish would take hold and make me quiver. A few hours and a couple of doctors later, however, I was finally all stitched up and had time to myself. The nurse had handed me my cell phone. I called Knox.
“How are you?”
“Not so good. I— I’m alright, but I was in an accident.”
And then I completely lost it.
* * * </center
That was three weeks ago, Friday, August 11. During my morning bike commute through Newton, an oncoming driver waiting to make a left turn did not notice me and cut me off. It was one of those chance encounters that would not have happened had I left home five minutes earlier or later, but which instead became a reminder that control over our fates is not as tight as we like to imagine.
At the end of the day—and a long day it was, twelve hours before they discharged me—I had a gash on my groin (off-center, thank goodness!) and one on my arm, both of which required stitches. Two metacarpals were fractured in my left hand. My left shin had a large arc-shaped scab (chainwheel?). Both my left shin and foot were swollen, making it hard to walk. My right buttock was bruised, making it painful to sit. I also had a respectable case of road rash on my right shoulder.
All in all, I was lucky. I could have been killed. I could have had internal trauma. As it was, I was wearing a helmet, did not pass out, and suffered injuries that will heal just fine (with some battle scars I can use as a conversation piece). In the days and weeks that were to follow, I would keep this fact in mind: things could have been worse. Oh, yes, they could have been much worse.
My friend Bill picked me up from the hospital and put me up for two nights in his guest room. As the doctors had warned, the day after the accident was the hardest. I was sore all over, could hardly get around, and was still getting used to having my left hand in a splint (another lucky strike: I’m right-handed). Bill helped me get set up at home on Sunday with a cane he lent me and first aid supplies we bought. Mike brought dinner that night, and the next day I was able to work remotely.
The doctors in the ER and at the follow-up appointment at the hand clinic both said I could go ahead with my previously scheduled trip to Seattle on Wednesday. Knox and I had discussed whether it made more sense for him to come to Boston to look after me instead, but I felt that it would be too frustrating to give up the trip I had so been looking forward to. Having gotten no medical vetoes (but an email warning from my primary care doctor to get up often in flight to prevent deep-vein thrombosis, for which I was now at higher risk), I decided to get on the plane.
As it turns out, that was absolutely the right choice.
