black & blue but nothing broken
This is the second in a series of posts about a single vehicle motorcycle collision I had in July 2024. The first post is here. Some of the names of folks in the story have been changed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The ambulance ride to Perth was uncomfortable and uneventful, except for an incredible coincidence. Tess, the female paramedic, was driving while the young man attended to me in the back.
“I think I’ve seen you before,” he said.
“Really?” I replied.
“Yeah, I think so. Did you transfer by ambulance from Almonte to the Civic in Ottawa a couple of years ago? Also because of a motorcycle collision?”
“I did,” I said. “I can’t believe we’ve met again under the same circumstances! I’m sure you’re a nice guy but, to be honest, I would rather not see you at all.”
He laughed.
~~~~~~~~~~
The team at the Perth General Hospital Emergency Room was excellent; I was in and out in a matter of a few hours.
When we arrived, the paramedics wheeled me into a small open space, which felt as if it might be full of equipment. It’s hard to know what’s around you when pretty much all you can see is the ceiling or someone leaning over your face when you’re flat on your back with one of those neck collars on. Speaking of which, my back had begun to feel quite sore.
A nurse came into my space and drew a curtain halfway around the bed.
“How are you doing?” she said.
“Okay,” I said. “My back hurts.”
“On a scale of one to ten?”
“Eight.”
“Anything else hurt?”
“Not in comparison.”
“Your head?”
“Nope. Head’s fine.”
The nurse nodded.
“We need to get your jacket off.”
“Okay,” I said, wondering where my chaps were. I didn’t remember them being taken off, but I didn’t have them on anymore either. The chaps have long pockets. Mom’s prayer beads – the ones she’d had since her first communion – were in a little gossamer bag deep in the right pocket. Mom had prayed with them every night before she went to sleep until she didn’t remember to pray anymore because of the dementia. The bag and beads hung from my handlebar until the start of this season when I had put them in the chaps’ pocket.
“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to cut the jacket off.”
“Oh.” I replied with equanimity. Unlike moms and their prayer beads, jackets are replaceable.
The first nurse left and a second one appeared.
“Good thing you’ve got good gear,” she said before cutting through both sleeves and the front of my Twisted Sister jacket, my fuchsia t-shirt and the black tank top I was wearing underneath. (I like to wear layers I can easily peel off or put on as temperatures change.)
I didn’t see the cutting of it all, but I heard it. The nurse must have had one helluva’ set of shears because she scissored through the outer layer of my Gryphon jacket as if were silk. It had been warm enough to ride without the liner, which had stuffed into one of TheFox’s saddlebags before we left Grass Point.
“I’m not wearing a bra,” I said, stating the obvious after everything else had been removed. “But I’m not terribly modest.”
Modesty went out the window when I started life modelling in my mid-fifties. Because, well, why not? YOLO, right?
The nurse smiled at my comment. She helped me into a hospital gown and then adjusted the neck collar. I asked if she would tilt the bed up a bit, which, once done, afforded me a somewhat better view of my surroundings as well as myself.
My left arm was black and blue from my wrist up to my elbow and several lumps had formed on the top of my forearm. The bruises would darken and the lumps would get bigger and harder over the next day or two but they wouldn’t hurt much until about a week later. I couldn’t see the bruises above my elbow, but there were a bunch of them running up to my shoulder and more on my left hip and knee. My index and middle fingers were both a light shade of purple.
Sigh.
I requested ice chips to sate my increasing thirst. I knew from my visit to the Civic that they wouldn’t give me water until they were sure I wouldn’t need surgery, which they wouldn’t be able to determine until after I’d been x-rayed and breaks had been ruled out.
My memory with respect to exactly how things unfolded from there is fuzzy. But at some point, the police officers appeared.
“How are doing?” The male constable asked. His female colleague stood silent behind him: I could just see her around his much larger frame.
“Back’s sore,” I said.
“I can imagine,” he said. “We searched extensively, but we couldn’t find your phone.”
“Oh well. Thanks for trying.”
His next question was interrupted by a crashing sound. I thought perhaps it was my helmet falling off the bedside table. But no.
Constable P. (I learned his name later), spun around.
“Corry! Are you okay?” He sounded worried as he disappeared below the end of the bed.
Corry, the young female officer, had fainted without warning, dropped to the floor and hit her head when she landed. There was lots of shuffling and scuffling as nurses scurried to the rescue. I couldn’t see Corry or the flurry of activity around her but I assumed she was being decked out in a neck collar as I had been.
Constable P. returned after Corry (she’s a cadet as it turns out) was evacuated to another area in the emerge. He showed me pictures of the ditched Fox, which, when I asked, he said he couldn’t give me. (I’m still trying to get my hands on them a month later. No luck so far.) He also shared that he had recently successfully completed the rigorous training to become an OPP motorcycle patrol person. Aha! A fellow rider.
“Someone will need to come and pick you up,” he said. “Whom should I call?”
Simple question. Except when, like me, you have no significant other or family to speak of and you live alone with your cat who hasn’t yet learned how to drive. Living on your own, I mean really on your own, is a lot more challenging than many people might think.
“Maybe my friend Judith. She lives in Almonte. But I don’t know her number. It’s in my phone…”
“What’s her last name? I’ll see if I can find her.”
I spelled it out for him and he left to track her down.
At another point, the doc came in, examined me (he was gentle and kind), ordered a urine sample (they brought a commode), a tetanus shot (which I never got because I’d had one a couple of years ago) and x-rays of my cervical spine, back and left arm.
Getting into position for the x-rays was excruciatingly painful. I almost passed out and the techs had to bring me a barf bag. Good thing I hadn’t had any breakfast and that my injuries weren’t more extensive. Good thing I was wearing good gear.
After the x-rays, one of the radiology techs gurney-ed me back to the emerge. Constable P. resurfaced to tell me Judith was on her way. He also gave me a note with the name of the towing company, his own name and the occurrence file number on it: E240855479
“Ride safe,” he said as he left.
~~~~~~~~~~
Judith arrived shortly thereafter. Shaking her head, of course.
“Thanks for coming, Judith.” I tried my best to sound contrite and look sheepish.
“What happened?”
“Gravel.”
“Oh my God, Susan.” Judith’s voice was full of concern. “I worry about you on that motorcycle…”
“Well, I…”
I was going to tell her that the idea of giving up riding had crossed my mind a couple of times during the previous few hours. The doctor came back before I could say as much.
“The X-rays indicate you have no broken bones,” he said. “But you’ve got significant tissue damage. I’ll give you a script for the pain. And your nose looks a bit nasty.”
My helmet had pushed my glasses down the bridge of my nose and scraped off a swath of skin. That’s where the dripping blood on the visor had come from. The scar will likely remain for life.
“You’re free to go,” the doc continued. “You should follow up with your family physician. It’s going to take some time for you to heal.”
“Thanks, doctor.” I may have sounded calm, but my mind was racing.
How much time is ‘some’ time? How am I going to manage at home alone without a phone? What if something happens? What if I need help? Arghhh!
I don’t like to impose on others; I prefer to be self-reliant and independent. Nevertheless, I recognize when I need support and I’m not afraid to ask for it – as my friend and riding partner James well knows. He lives around the corner and is forever doing motorcycle-related stuff for me (for which I am eternally grateful!). I’m lucky to have selfless and compassionate friends.
I asked Judith to contact James through Facebook to see if he could meet us at my place. We couldn’t call him because his number was in my phone – along with all my other numbers.
One of the nurses gave me a blue hospital-issue top with snaps down the front to wear home. Judith got in touch with James, then we gathered up my gear and made our way out to the parking lot.
~~~~~~~~~~
Now, I knew the extent of my injuries, but I still didn’t understand exactly what had happened or what I might have done differently to change the outcome. And I wasn’t sure if I would ride again… Stay tuned and follow my FB page here.
© 2024 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry and posts widely, but please do not reprint, reblog or copy and paste them in their entirety without my permission. Thank you.
