The Stunning Conclusion to My Fateful Ride...
(AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!)
When you last heard from me, I was shuffling out of the hospital, clad in spandex and a woman's scarf and in search of medication. If this seems odd to you, you may want to revisit part one of this odyssey, found here...
Continuing on!
Part IV: Get Me Drugs
And fast!
Much like the last time she had to care for me
(tonsillectomy), the first task at hand was drugs - I needed pain pills like I
needed to get out of my spandex shorts: bad. I couldn’t expect to call the
doctor until Monday morning at the earliest and my collarbone was broken so
badly that I could quite literally see, feel and hear it – a nasty triumvirate
of sensory bombardment.
Of course, as luck had it, this task would prove challenging
as well. For starters, I still had no insurance card. As helpful as they were –
and I must reiterate that they were extremely kind and helpful – the Bike MS
volunteers weren’t yet able to track down my backpack, which contained my
wallet and therefore my insurance card (as a side note, does this mean that I
will need to add “insurance card” to my in-case-of-emergency stash when I
ride?) It was in Lawrence, and I’d either have to have a friend bring it back
with them or pick it up at the Bike MS headquarters on Monday. I called
Walgreens and fortunately they found me in their system, so I could fill my
script at the location close to my house. Minor success.
I resolved this dilemma while sitting in my dad’s truck –
which I was luckily borrowing since my Saturn has a manual transmission –
watching Melody chase after a stray dog that had just been hit by a motorist.
Wearing her scarf because I was freezing (still no shirt, remember; spandex
too), I was waiting in a parking lot, pathetically, I might add, while she
inserted herself into one of those weird and uncommon situations that tested
the true resolve of a Good Samaritan.
We saw a car stopped in the middle of an intersection close
to our townhouse, a lady gesticulating awkwardly at something - a dog appeared;
not just any dog, but a dog that had been violently struck by a car. Melody
gave me puppy-dog eyes and I told her to pull into a parking lot so she could
chase after it because no one else seemed to be doing anything but yelling or ignoring
the situation entirely - as I secretly wanted to do, I’ll admit.
Off she went, across the street and, eventually, out of my
sight. After the calls that fixed my pain pill situation, I grew agitated that,
1) she had yet to return and was no longer within visual contact, and 2) she
had left the driver-side door open and the breeze was cutting through her lacy
scarf (yes…I previously left out that the scarf was lacy), and 3) I was so cold
that my teeth were chattering profusely. To move from one side of the truck to
the other seem a monumental task, so I tried to fight the cold by attempting to
fall asleep – keep in mind, the drugs were kicking in. No luck - terrible plan
foiled - so I stepped outside, braved the chill, entered the driver’s seat,
shut the door and turned the engine on. HEAT!
I was going to find her. Almost 30 minutes had passed by now
and my mind – under the initial effects of the painkillers, mind you – was
going to dark places. All I wanted to do was go home, pass out on the couch and
forget about what happened. So I hopped into action. Of course after I used my
left hand to awkwardly shift into drive and headed across the street, I
immediately spotted her back where we had initially parked. That was my luck
that day – I was a pawn in a shitty game of screw-that-guy-or-whatever.
While the accident (obviously) pushed the limits of the
amount of physical pain my body could tolerate, the worst was yet to come. The
you-stupid-idiot-what-the-hell-did-you-do’s were gnawing at my psyche as the
day went on. I was home by 10:00 am, at which point I should have been roughly six hours from the finish line. In my
mind, I knew exactly where I should have been at that exact moment pedaling and sweating and feeling the cold
wind at my face; but instead I was drugged, bandaged, covered in a dinosaur blanket
(yes, the one I’ve had since I was five), cuddling with my large-eyed and concerned
dog. She always knows when I feel like crap.
All day long, each hour that passed saw another mental
pitchfork thrown at my brain, reminding me where I should have been at that
time, what I should have been doing. Why only wearing boxers and a robe was
taking the easy way out. I hated myself for not being able to let it go, and
knew there was no point in trying. Today was going to suck, and nothing anyone
could say would make it better.
Then the calls came ringing in. I sent an email to Tommy and
another rider – Jake – to let them know what had happened, and that in spite of
the broken bone, I was okay (sounds funny to say, but it really could have been
a lot worse). I felt obligated to get the word out there, knowing I’d receive a
lot of attention about the accident, something I’m not comfortable with, and
would prefer stay ahead of. Fatigued teammates and race finishers were all
asking how I was and what had happened. Initially there was word – how, I have
no idea – that I had recovered from a “minor” fall and continued on with the
ride. I wanted to dispel any rumors early on, so that the weekend and my
transition back to work went as easy as possible. Not that I’d be there anytime
soon.
Once the calls subsided and the time I estimated my Lawrence
arrival at had passed, a huge mental weight was lifted from me. I felt better
now that I was no longer forced to dwell on the crap-pile that had been my day.
I was drool-druggy with painkillers too, which helped, I imagine, and I had my
dog and Netflix. What more could I ask for?
Part V: Recovery
Sleep was terrible! I awoke to a shooting pain in my, you guessed
it – collarbone. I lay there on my back approximately three degrees rotated
from the position in which I fell asleep, yet that was just enough for the
bones to grind, alerting my brain once again to the fact that shit wasn’t
right. My right hand carelessly attacked my nightstand in hope of a solution. I
struggled, but eventually found and popped a few pills and lay there awake,
waiting for them to kick in. I would drift in and out of
if-you-can-call-it-sleep before ultimately resigning myself to getting out of
bed. Even the transition from back-on-bed to feet-on-floor was laborious and
painful. They don’t make pill strong enough…
And so it was that I would rise early with nothing to do,
nowhere at all to go, feeling like crap and oh yeah, with bones grinding
against each other. I was drooling from pain pills throughout the day, my
dexterity went to hell and the only thing I had to look forward to was the next
show on TV.
(Day 2: Lots of ice)
If you’ve never had a serious injury, you’re unaware of how
much it affects the little things we all take for granted. Sure, I wouldn’t be
able to throw a baseball for a few weeks. I accepted that - but that’s minor in
comparison to how it really affected me. Try brushing your teeth with your
off-hand. It sucks! What about getting dressed? Impossible without first
bracing myself against a dresser, jumping up and down, twisting, rotating and
using a bed for leverage. I challenge you to button a button with one hand –
you’re off-hand. It also sucks! I convinced myself that if I went outside –
which for the record I did not do often – I would carry a pen in my left hand,
Bob Dole-style. Just makes things easier if people know that your hands are of
no use.
There are other, way more personal ways in which this injury
affected - think anything hygienic. I will not go into detail, but will say
this: you learn a lot about yourself when you have to do things one-handed,
off-handed. You learn your limitations. You learn to prioritize. You learn that
it’s okay to wear a robe, no shirt and gym shorts all the time, because there’s
no reason not to. You learn more about yourself than should be legally
possible.
And so the awkwardness went for four straight days until the
orthopedic surgeon sliced my skin open, Humpty-Dumptied my collarbone back
together and sealed them in place with a metal plate and screws he could very
well have purchased from Ace Hardware. Though the pain was bad – intolerable at
times – those first few days before the operation weren’t altogether terrible.
At least I could shower normally. Sure, I had to hold my right arm in place
with my left, splashing water and soap at random parts of my body, hoping to
freshen up, but that was nothing compared to my bathing experience
post-surgery.
Before Surgery: Welcome the Stache (for luck)
Just Before Surgery
Immediately After Surgery: Not really sure where I am
Recuperating
Scar-Bandage
Bathing after the operation involved a highly-complex system
of carefully-placed towels, bowls and sponges. I had to “bucket-bathe” myself
for the first time since my days in Nicaragua, however this time I had to do it
one-handed (opposite-handed, to boot), in a small shower space and covering my
massive wound with gauze. To say it was tricky was an understatement.
I had to be careful with the staples, though. That’s right,
staples. Looks like they could have been purchased at Staples (lame joke, but
whatever). When the doc sewed my skin back in place, he sealed the wound with
staples. To understand what happened, take the stapler at your work desk and forcefully
eject 15 of them into your shoulder. That’s the exact same thing that happened
to me. Pretty sweet, huh?
Warning: Avoid this image if the previous paragraph made you uneasy!
(Once Again: AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!)
The good news was that the bone was healing properly. The
surgery took two hours – one longer than expected, unfortunately for my dear,
waiting mom – as the surgeon “fished” out bits of my bone and put them back in
their normal place. It was a bad break, but not unusual enough to round up the
medical interns. It just took a while. Upon shattering, the two main portions
of my collarbone pushed past each other, criss-crossing and forcing my right
side into a natural slouch (see the image below, for reference). The surgeon fixed that slouch and pieced the bone
back together - the metal plate will do the rest.
(Before and After)
It was not a quick recovery process. The Cliff’s notes
version goes something like this:
- Crash my bike/break collarbone/curse the cycling Gods
- Four days of swelling/uncomfortable is-my-bone-going-to-pop-out-of-my-skin line of self-doubt and questioning
- Two hours of surgery – Yay! Bone is back in place
- Fifteen days of “Don’t get the bandage wet or your arm will fall off!” Or thereabouts. Hello once again awkward bucket baths.
- Shave chest and armpits due to “stink factor”. Not sexy.
- Remove big bandage to reveal smaller bandage – can now feel staples with finger. For the record, they feel like staples.
- Three more days of bucket baths before removing second bandage
- Staples removed. First “real” shower since the surgery feels amazing. Skin around wound gritty from weeks of no cleaning.
- Two months of no biking, no running, no lifting, lots of annoying Melody.
(The after-after)
And that was it. After two months, I began lifting light
weights to start the physical recovery process. I wasn’t given any special
physical therapy exercises – just told to take it slow and easy. After two
months of absolute inactivity, I could definitely do that.
It was nice to have my mom up in KC for a few days after the
surgery, helping me with minor chores and giving me someone to talk to. To
prove that I could be productive, I watched every single episode of Twin Peaks and
sometimes heated up leftover Chinese food all by myself. When I took the dog
out, I wore gym shorts, a robe and no shirt – something I’m sure the neighbors
appreciated.
I didn’t leave the house much, since anything I’d do would
involve moving, walking, gesturing, saluting or some other movement of the arm
that could potentially cause pain. I talked with my dad quite a bit, as well as
with friends, but otherwise I became a temporary hermit. It wasn’t a terrible
experience, just super-boring. Super-super boring. With a capital “B”!
Now three months out, my scar is massive and sexy. The pain
is all but gone, only popping up if I sleep wrong (i.e. on it) or take direct
contact. I can now run, bike (though no way I do that until next year) and lift
weights, which I’m doing if for no other reason to build up the muscle by the
bone. I will forever need to be scanned at airports and other security
checkpoints, which is kind of a downer, since I’ll never be able to claim again
that I’m being racially discriminated against.
I’m still reminded of the accident every time I see my shirtless
body in the mirror. I suppose this will continue until I face my fears and begin
biking again. Hopefully I learn from this. Too often I become distracted –
whether it’s biking, driving, running, walking at work with my laptop – thinking
ahead, instead of paying full attention to what’s happening right NOW…in the
moment. This accident proves that shiny objects in my brain could be more
damaging than they appear. So the question is, will I change?
Forget that, the better question is, will I finally complete
a century ride? I’m sitting at zero for two, with the second outcome
significantly worse than the first. Here’s what I think will happen. I’ll sign
up for the race again, late of course. I’ll train just as poorly as I trained
this year, or less. I’ll be nervous as hell when the gun goes off and the race
begins. Pedaling past the starting line, I’ll tell myself to put last year’s
race out of my mind. Then, when my GPS device hits the 4.0 mile mark, I’ll look
over at the side of the road, nod my helmet in respect, search for the same
discarded beer can, keep on pedaling, and…And…And?
Only time will tell.
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