The News
So, on Saturday, I was stongly considering wimping out of my scheduled 100 kilometer ride and going on Sunday instead. If I had the last 36 hours to do over again, I’d have done just that.
43.5 miles into my ride, after a decent enough hammer up to Portola Valley, down through Woodside, and missing my hoped-for 45 mph descent down Woodside because of cross-winds, I was racing the sunset home. Cruising through Menlo Park, I noticed I had about an hour and twenty minutes until sunset and 20 miles to go. I can do that.
I paced another cyclist in a Los Gatos Bicycle Racing Club kit. He jumped the red-light at Valparaiso. “Moron,” I thought. “That’s really a great way to get hit by a car.” I should have jumped the light with him.
I got my spin going pretty well. I was up to about 22 mph, when the guy in the traffic lane in a white truck decided he needed a video and attempted to turn right down Ashton (or was it Gordon), just before Avy Avenue in West Menlo Park. There was only one problem with his unsignalled turn. I was going straight down Alameda de las Pulgas. One moment, I’m thinking about how awesome it’ll be to knock out those last 20 miles, get my shower, my pizza, my disco nap, and head on up to the clubs in costume tonight. The next moment, I’m thinking “HEY, HEY” and I’m on the ground, spitting out pieces of my teeth.
A gaggle of witnesses came rushing out from the nearby cafes and sidewalk to help untangle me from my bicycle. Menlo Park Fire Department and paramedics were there in minutes. Despite the unquenchable desire to jump up and beat the hell out the driver, I stayed on the ground. I kept spitting out chunks of teeth and answering the paramedics’ questions. No, I didn’t lose consciousness. Yes, I can feel the pain in my mouth, ears, jaw, face. They put me in a neck brace. Wait, please take the cyclometer off my handlebars and bring my trunk bag — yeah, the black one with us. My digital camera, Palm Pilot, keys, and cellphone are in there. Yes, that’s my wallet.
We went to Stanford hospital, where all the ER nurses are cute and so are the doctors. I was in the ER from 5:40 pm PST through the time change until about 3 in the morning. I had the volunteer lady call Emmett, who dropped his Hallowe’en weekend plans to run to my house and get me some clothes, my iPod, and some other miscellany. He really deserves all praises for coming to my rescue and spending ridiculous amounts of time at the hospital with me.
After two cat scans, they determined that I had not broken my neck. That’s a relief. That neck brace was getting uncomfortable. After a while, they told me that I had dislocated and broken my jaw and that they’d need to look at the x-rays and scans, but they could probably reduce it (put it back into joint) and make me feel a little better. Then, a neurosurgeon came to see me. “You look pretty serious,” I said.
“Do you know what I am?” “I see neurosurgeon on your lapel, so I’m taking it you want to remove my brain and find someone for it who will actually use it.” “That’s funny. You have a sense of humor.” He asked me lots of questions and told me that I had a small fracture in my skull running behind my left eye from the impact. They needed to run another cat scan and keep me overnight to make sure I wasn’t bleeding into my brain.
That’s the worst thing anyone has ever said to me. “You could go home right now, but if you are bleeding into your brain, you could hemorrhage out and die before you can make it back to the hospital.” Okay, dude, make more jokes or you will fucking lose it right now. My face is messed up, but I’ve never been that pretty. My brain, though. That’s fucking serious.
After another cat scan at 4am, I was sent back to my room, which had lots of beeps and they happened to be set to an interval that would let me start dozing when another loud set of beeps would come through with “DR. RECTUMWORM TO 306. DR. RECTUMWORM. 306.” Another twelve hours of drifting into and out of short periods of sleep, having the cleaning lady come through once an hour to clean the sink, my cellmate buzzing the nurse every six minutes to get something adjusted. I have very little to bitch about considering I shared my ER with a multiple transplant recipient, a diabetic with some other problems, and a guy who already had a couple of heart attacks – in addition to sharing a room with a guy who underwent major surgery on his back. As lucky as I should feel that I only destroyed my jaw, I am still not going to be able to eat solid food for a long time.
Emmett chased down and wrangled nurses and doctors for me and got a clear understanding of when I could go home. He drove me home, took me to the pharmacy, endured my Vicodin-induced vertigo turning into motion sickness, and walked me home when I realized that I could not ride in a car without needing to stop to throw up.
You are a prince, Emmett. I cannot thank you enough and you have no idea how grateful I am.
I’m at home now. My friend, Patrick, is driving down from San Francisco to take me to the hospital in San Jose to consult the surgeons. I’m hoping to return to work some time this week, because I get paid by the hour (oh, yeah, and I have no medical insurance, thanks to lack of information about whether or not I was automatically enrolled or if there was a specific time period to show up).
But, scratch the rest of my cycling this year. Scratch my sister’s memorial ride next summer. Scratch dancing, eating, socializing, travelling to Idaho for x-mas to see my babies. And scratch these ripped legs and a body that I’ve been working on for three years. A liquid diet for the next few months is certain to see me losing quite a bit of weight.
But, I’ll live. Here’s to what’s next. Thanks for reading this far.
Also, before I forget. That Giro Eclipse helmet saved my fucking life. Do not ride your bicycle without a helmet. Please.
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