Painful, Part 1

Now two weeks into recovery, I am, for the first time, attempting to keyboard and feeling ready to tell the story.

I’d estimate that, since taking up road biking in 2008, I’ve rolled at least 40,000 miles. The only mishaps have been encounters with drivers who chose to pull across the double yellow line directly into my path, suddenly and without warning–one in 2009 and another in 2012. Otherwise, despite the obvious hazards of the sport, I’ve been unscathed.

No longer.

What’s more, I am a far-from-cautious cyclist. On the urban arterials, I’ll challenge cars for right of way. On winding mountain roads, I’ll enjoy the thrill of a fast descent.

However, on February 27th, I was doing just what any kid or adult might do when taking a spin around the neighborhood–just riding along at an easy pace in the company of friends. In other words, this could’ve happened to anyone on a bike.

I do have a woulda coulda shoulda about it, though. The trauma probably affects my memory, but I do seem to remember thinking, oh, railroad tracks, they look like a hazard, angled 45 degrees across the roadway like that, but they’re not really, because you can just roll right across…

Except this time I didn’t. I distinctly recall the unexpected tug on the handlebars, and looking down at my front tire wedged alongside the iron rail, and heading at terrifying speed for the pavement.

And the sharp crack of the bones in my forearm breaking.

I didn’t hit my head or lose consciousness or anything. I think I was mentally calling for 911 before my body came fully to rest.

Because I wanted everything to be as calm and routine as possible. I wanted to be in that ambulance on the way to the hospital with no damned chaos or excitement and delay before I got there.

For the most part, I got what I wanted. Randy and Kyle were shocked and asking me questions, but a passerby said he’d already made the call. Then, somewhere behind my head, on the other side of the tracks, some lady angel had stopped, was making calls, bringing me a mask–mine was still in my jersey pocket–offering to come back with a truck to pick up my bike, making sure BNSF was told to stop the trains. I focused on breathing–in, then out– and moaning just as much as I needed to, and no more.

I heard the sweet sound of a siren in the distance. They were coming for me.

Yeah, I knew my name, and DOB, and the year. I was amused that they didn’t ask me the standard question of who’s the President. Too loaded, I guess.

The arm was kind of a problem. There was no way to get a splint on it, bent as it was. Eventually the EMTs just wrapped it loosely in gauze. I stopped them from trying to lift me. I could roll onto my good side while I cradled the arm against my body, and then I could walk on my knees to where I could swing my butt on to the gurney. From there it was a cinch for them to load the crumpled mess through the bay doors.

Inside, the paramedic was unwrapping supplies and hooking me up to the monitors. I was asking for the pain meds. It wasn’t long before she had a 20 gauge IV in my arm and 100 mcg of Fentanyl on its way.

It wasn’t near enough, but we got to Kaiser’s Oakland ER anyway.

From there, the care was attentive, professional, reassuring. They gave me a solid IV dose of ketamine while they put the arm back straight and plenty morphine as I whiled away the afternoon hours. And then it was time for surgery.