Sprawled in the middle of the road, my son kneeling beside me, I asked, “Why are you home from college?” Not sure if I had said this out loud or merely thought it, I watched his face for signs of understanding. It hurt to keep my eyes open. But in those short seconds I saw the fright in his eyes.
“Mom, I graduated two years ago. I’m home for the 4th of July. Remember?”
Fuzzy- headed and aching in every joint, I replayed what might have happened. How strange not to be in charge. It was a reversal to be on the receiving end of my son’s concern. He had never seen me in such a weakened state. I prided myself on being invincible, at least in his eyes.
In between flashes of catapulting over the handlebars, I assessed the physical damage to my body. Paramedics swarmed, taking off my helmet and fitting me with a neck collar. The stinging all over my face felt as if boiling water had been poured over it. Did my jaw still work? Were my teeth intact? Was there a gaping hole on my chin where I felt the most pain? I wasn’t sure if it was my brain or voice asking these questions.
Nearby, my husband was speaking to a police officer. In that moment, it was enough just knowing he was here. Somehow, my family had been notified. I had been unconscious, but for how long? As my memory focused, I pieced together that I had fallen off my bike without a recollection of where or how. Even with the trauma to my head, I kept telling myself that my cycling days were over. Would I ever be able to get back on that road bike and take my weekly forty-mile ride again? Climbing steep New England hills for the reward of flying down the other side had always been my way to remain young and energized. Never a worry about crashing. Only the thrill of speed.
The repeated question from the emergency room staff was how fast had I been going? Not recalling any steep downhills in that last dash for home, I didn’t have an answer. It was an easy stretch that I had ridden time and again.
It could have been a scene out of Grey’s Anatomy. The swarm of young resident doctors (they’re all fresh out of med school students on any July 4th weekend, the worst weekend at any hospital in the US) yelled across to one another, “58-year-old cyclist, traveling at approximately fifteen to twenty mph, with face lacerations and multiple contusions. Possible internal damage.” Who was I to tempt the fates and be reckless with my life? At this age or any age!
After five hours in the ER with the trauma team checking vital signs, taking cat scans and stitching up my chin, I was good to go. Nothing more serious than a concussion, swollen black eye and major road rash down one side of my body. I was the lucky one, being rolled out to curbside in my new hospital scrubs. My cycling jersey and shorts, cut to shreds, were in a bag on my lap. As my husband and son lifted me into the car, I glanced at my bike in the cargo section. Barely a scratch to its frame. I didn’t care. I’d already vowed never to set foot on that thing again.
Maybe I’ll feel differently in a few months, but right now I doubt it. It was a wake-up call. At one moment I was at the top of my game, and the next, unconscious. I’ll never know what happened. Did I hit the recessed gas cap in the road or black out first from dehydration? No doubt with only two miles to go before home, I was daydreaming and planning the rest of my day, not focusing on the road directly in front of me. A metaphor for my life.
I am grateful to be alive. Not paralyzed, not brain damaged, not broken at all. With only a stage three concussion and a Frankenstein face, I’ve replayed all the future images in my mind: dancing at my daughter/son’s wedding, grandchildren and traveling in retirement. As trite as it sounds, that’s what I had focused on during the ambulance ride, the hours of scans and the sleepless nights thereafter. It was the “what if’s” that haunted me and will continue to haunt me weeks and months later.
I loved my Sunday morning rides with my gal pals. Sometimes, men joined our group, but mostly it was a group of fellow women warriors. Biking has been my outlet for the last twenty years. It was the country barns, two hundred year-old trees and breathtaking gardens that kept my legs pumping up hill after hill. Sensory perceptions, heightened by the scent of hay, honeysuckle and occasionally manure, thrilled me. A feeling of pure strength and immortality. I’ll miss that the most.