Scars as a Story
I sense some sort of conversation going on, but I can’t make out any of the words — they are lingering way over me. I am down on the ground, lying over a rocky pothole. All my weight is pressing the right side of my body. I feel tiny rocks and debris against my skin and imagine them sucking me deeper into the ground; I feel heavy. There is no way I can get myself to stand. My gaze suddenly fixes on my bike, which is lying at eyelevel a few feet away — so close, yet so far. There we lie, both motionless.
Cycling is a sport characterized by motion — rapidly spinning wheels, incessant upward and downward motion of the feet, surging heart rate, crazy pumping of blood. Once you find the position that is comfortable enough to maintain — sit bones poised perfectly on the seat, hands over handlebars with shoulders resting comfortably — you become one with your bike. There is so much I enjoy about cycling: I love having the wind kiss my face; I love the swooshing sound of another cyclist riding past me, pushing me to my limits. Right now, there is none of that. Those moments were washed down by confusion, blood, and pain. Lots of pain.
I find it difficult to summon words and thank the person that is helping me pick myself up. When I finally manage to stand, the voices that seemed undecipherable become amplified and loud. Still, I am unable to comprehend. I start feeling dizzy, really dizzy. My feet slowly start to lose ground. I cannot recognize the faces of those around me; I don’t distinguish between the shape of eyes, noses, mouths — I see blobs. Someone lends me a hand and I begin to take slow and steady steps towards a pickup truck that is fast approaching. Before I know it, the back door of the truck swings open and I am sitting on the back seat.
I start breathing — deep inhales and slow exhales. As I do, my body melts into the seat and I experience a weird sensation as if I were fleeing my body — finally relaxing? No, I am beginning to zone out.
My body jumps to someone’s touch; a gentle shake feels like an earthquake. “Do! Not! Fall! Asleep!” I use the little energy I have left, if there is any, to try not to.
The trip to the hospital happened in a flash. Time became an illusion, I just trusted I would get to the ER quickly and that everything would be alright.
Everything would be alright…
As I lie on the hospital bed, I ask for my helmet and secure it between my arms. It is such a bittersweet feeling. This was the first time I used this helmet; it was the inauguration ride. I bought this helmet in Boulder and couldn’t help remembering the good time I spent there while putting it on; I thought I would revisit those good memories every time I wore it on subsequent rides. After extensive research and various fittings, I chose this helmet because of how it snugged on my head and because of its superior safety features. I take a closer look at it; irreparably broken. I don’t let go — the helmet saved my life.
I receive the doctor’s diagnosis: no head damage, no broken bones. Against all odds, there I lie — beautifully bruised and perfectly fine. Everything is alright. At that moment, I stop trying to fight my chaos.
I’d rather not think about what would have happened if I had worn my old helmet — a helmet I irresponsibly used for too long that fits loosely on my head. The mere thought of it gives me chills. Negligence is our foe, continuously seducing us into thinking that it will not be us — nothing ever happens to us. Until it does.
I cannot stop thinking about how grateful I am: grateful for not having my thinking ability impaired, grateful for both my legs and being able to walk, grateful for both my arms and being able to hug, grateful for all those people I hold close to heart that have made the shock subside — they know who they are. Since the accident, I haven’t gone a day without thinking about how much I love my body, scars and all..
