Estimated reading time: 6 minutes
Here I am ten years later. Ten years after being mowed down by a woman who “didn’t see me.” In spite of my bright red motorcycle and high-viz gear.
At times I feel like I have a lot to say about this unwelcome anniversary. And sometimes I don’t. I decided it was important not to sweep it under the carpet, though. And sure enough, as I began to put thoughts to keyboard, the momentum built and I found I do have a lot to say. So much, in fact, that I had to break this into multiple blog posts to wrap up another time in my renewed vigor for this blog.
The other dichotomy is that it feels simultaneously like yesterday and also like many lifetimes ago. There are Olympic-worthy mental gymnastics at play in trying to process this life event in the context of the bigger picture. I find myself trying to process everything that has happened and everything I’ve done in the last ten years and how this event, and its impact on my life, fits into the narrative.
The emotional bits
The trauma noise is mostly a low-level murmur in the mental recesses these days. I still have reactive moments, though. They’re often less-strong or, at least, easier to get back in control when they burst to the surface.
The thing about traumatic events is that they’re always there. They’re never gone. They’re just waiting for their opportunity to fuck with you again. They wait for a vulnerable moment to pounce when a trigger word or scene crosses your path so it can cruelly take you back to that moment in all its vivid reality.
And lest I ever have a moment of peace, there are always the gnarly scars and tibial hernia to serve as constant, daily reminders of the hell of the experience.
Physical status
In spite of my Herculean efforts to rehabilitate Frankenleg, I eventually reached a plateau of the strength I could realistically rebuild and maintain. I’ve spent many hundreds of hours doing physical therapy in the last ten years. I’ve been tenacious as fuck about it. But with the level of damage, there’s really no putting it back to what it was, just getting to the best it can be.
I manage chronic pain and a multitude of mobility limitations on a daily basis. I work hard to hide and minimize how un-awesome Frankenleg is. I’m mostly successful at that. Physicians, physical therapists, and massage therapists have been the only people who notice the hitch in my giddy up for the most part. With the exception of going down stairs. There’s only so even and smooth I can make that look, which isn’t very much.
But most people who don’t know this part of my history wouldn’t suspect the level of injury I manage. Ten years later, though, I can chalk any trouble with stiffness, weakness, or clumsiness to just “getting old” when it is noticeable to someone.
Why try to hide it? Emotional self-preservation really. I’ve talked a lot about this over the years. After the first few years when I felt obligated to talk about it and it seemed to be what defined my life, I decided to change the playing field. So by minimizing the physical glitches, I get to be more in charge of when and how to talk about it. Plus, by trying to be as smooth and “normal” in my gait as possible, I head off creating new problems by favoring it.
What lies ahead?
The various injuries keep finding new and creative ways to hurt. There are a host of smaller ones that sound in on a daily basis. But obviously the big daddy is the femur shaft fracture and associated hardware.
I’ve discussed removing the hardware with my various orthopedists over the years as a crap-shoot effort to ease some of the recurring and supremely painful issues in my knee. I was at the beginning stages of pursuing that more seriously right before COVID hit.
The notion has been on the back burner since but the specter remains. I don’t relish the idea of going back into surgery and all of the knowns and unknowns that come with it. But often, it seems like it might be worth a shot.
Then there’s the ever-present question mark about the femoral artery repair. It will always put me at increased risk for a clot or blockage in the graft area. So that’s fun.
Fallout
Obviously there’s a lot of mental and physical fallout from the whole ordeal. But what’s on my mind more so than in years past are the less-obvious facets—what this has taken from me in terms of time and life enjoyment.
Sure, I’ve gotten on with my life, adjusted my expectations, and incorporated managing all this into the flow. But really, I had to give up things I enjoyed because either I can’t do them at all anymore or they’re just too painful and not worth it now. Running and backpacking are out of the question.
Even things I can still do are at a limited capacity. Hiking is limited to shorter walks. Yoga requires a bunch of modifications and such. Full lotus? Uh uh. Ain’t happening anymore.
There’s lots of that kind of stuff. All those details might seem small, but they add up.
And when I take a beat to think about the amount of time this has taken from me life, it’s staggering. All the doctor’s appointments and time in physical therapy? Not just the first round. Every damn round since then too. Fuck all, that’s a whole lot of hours stolen from me.
And it’s not over. I’ll spend the rest of my life dealing with this.
All because someone chose to be a shitty driver. How fucked up is that?
Something to consider
So is there a point to sharing all this shit with you? Yes, of course there is. The message is largely the same one as five years ago–the last time I wrote about this.
Brass tacks, I’m taking this shit show of an anniversary to remind you what’s at stake when we’re behind the wheel. And how quickly and easily we can serve someone a life sentence of pain and misery. If they survive, that is. I almost didn’t.
And it’s completely avoidable. The carnage we see and experience on the road every day is not inevitable. Yet we seem to accept that it is. It’s mind-blowing to me. That’s the stuff we’ll talk about another time.
For now, remember to pay attention. I mean really pay attention. Teach yourself to watch for vulnerable road users—motorcyclists, bicyclists, pedestrians. Please don’t be the shitty driver that does this to someone.
I’m a big ball of fun today, I know. Book me for your next party.
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