Statistic

My first thought is... I don't know where I am.

And beyond that, I have no recollection. I don't remember anything.

I can see, a little, but not much. I'm limited to looking at the inside of my helmet visor, which is still snapped shut, but I can't see through it. What I do see are red smears. So thick in some places, it's almost black. In other places, it simply looks like crumpled red cellophane, but nowhere can I see out.

Neither can I move my arms to open my visor. I try...try to move my arms, but they don't move. I don't know why. I can't even feel them, my arms, but I know they are there.

Somehow, I know.

I just want to see something – ANYTHING!. Anything but red! The only thing I can see is differences in the light shining through the visor, like shadows moving. Like, maybe someone - or some thing - blocking the light at times.

Ordinarily, I would be scared - not being able to see, not knowing, but right now, at this moment, I’m more concerned than anything. I’m concerned because I don't know what I've gotten myself into. Not this time, but maybe if I could see, I would know more. I could figure it all out. But as it stands, I don't remember anything.

And I don't know where I am.

And I can't see.

So, I'm concerned.

And maybe a little worried.

OK, maybe more than a little. I’m very worried.

And I hear things. Voices, maybe. And noises. Noises like things being moved or torn, dropped or opened, but I don't know what any of it means.

And, yes. It's voices. I know that now. But they’re low and muffled, and I can't make out what they’re saying. Not the exact words, anyway. The helmet is heavy and thick, and designed to be quiet even at high speeds, so it’s like wearing earplugs, in a way, making it almost impossible to tell what the voices are saying.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Maybe I don’t want to know what the voices have to say.

Not right now, because frankly, I'm worried enough as it is without adding to that problem, so maybe I'm better off not knowing. Not now, anyway. So, without being able to listen to what’s being said and finding out where I am, and what’s happened to me, I do the only thing I can do: lie here still and unmoving.

…and not knowing.

And in a way, not wanting to know.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

I don't know where I am, not for sure, and I don't know where I've been, or how I got here, even, wherever 'here' is. And even though there is much I don't know, there is one thing I am certain of: I'm not alone. There are people around me, and I get the sense that they are here because of me. I know they are here because I can hear them.

And I can feel them.

I feel someone tugging on my pants, while at the same time, someone is doing something with my arm, my right arm, but I'm not sure what.

And through all of this, something—something deep inside—keeps telling me just to lie still; to let them do whatever it is they are doing, because they are doing it with authority. Like, maybe they’ve done this before. A lot. Like maybe it's their job, and I'm their latest task; their latest chore, assignment…something. The next thing on their 'to-do' list, maybe.

And that worries me even more.

And now I'm more worried than I am concerned.

Mainly because I think I know where I am now.

…I think

I hope I'm wrong, but probably not. And if I'm right about where I am, I know why, the reason I'm here - or there, or wherever. And it's not good. It's bad. How bad, I don't know. All I know is that it's not good.

But if I'm right about where I'm at, what I can say is this: I've been here before, a few times, but never like this.

Never.

And that's what worries me. To the point that the worry has now turned into fear, so on top of everything else, I’m scared.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

I hear a new noise. Maybe mechanical, maybe something else, I'm not sure. And the voices... They never stop. They‘re continuous. Two people, at least, talking to one another.  And while I can't make out the individual words, I can make out the tones and inflections, and from that, I understand that the communication is urgent. Urgent, but not panicked. Just calm and precise. Almost practiced, in a way. It's easy to tell that whoever it is has done this before, and now they are doing it to me - because of me.

And I see them, these people, pass between the visor and the light source. It’s the moving shadows I noticed earlier, the obscured blurs constantly moving around me. Moving their arms, their heads... Moving this way and that, from one side of me to the other… Never stopping or pausing. Just one continuous motion. Motion that is hurried and deliberate, but at the same time, never clumsy or panicked.

All very precise.

All very practiced.

And I know - somehow, I know - that I'm in good hands; that these people - these EMTs, ambulance attendants, nurses…whoever, are here to help me. Helping me because I'm their current task, the next action item on their to-do list.

And I want to thank them, but I can't.

Not yet.

So instead, I lie here and let them do whatever it is they are doing, because it's a given that whatever they’re doing is necessary. Otherwise, why would they be doing it?

I try to find a spot in the visor, even a small one, to peer through so I can see, but I don’t find any. Not even one. Just smears and crumpled red cellophane.  And then something occurs to me: at least my eyes are working. I can see, so certainly that's a good sign.

Yeah. A good sign. One that lets me know everything’s going to be alright, that I’m going to be OK.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

At this point, I feel nothing. Well, no pain, that is, and I'm grateful for at least that much. What I do feel is wetness. Maybe warm, maybe cold, maybe both. I don't know. I can’t really tell. And it's sticky, whatever it is, and thick, and my body's covered in it head to toe. No doubt blood. A lot of it.

I feel something around my arm now, and it's squeezing. Someone’s taking my blood pressure. I know this because it's what they did the last time, only then, I could see them do it. Still, I remember how it felt.

After a short while, the squeezing stops and the pressure band is removed. Once the band is gone, I begin to feel something else, like a different kind of pressure on the inside of my arm near the elbow joint. Whatever it is, it's hard, and it's pressing against my skin, but only for a moment, and then I suddenly feel it inside, inside my arm, like an intrusion of some sort.

The person tending to my arm then lifts it and begins wrapping something around it at the point of the intrusion. It's tape. I know because I hear it, sort of, as it's peeled from the roll. And now I know what the intrusion is. It's an IV needle, and the tape is there to hold it in place, just like last time.

Whoever it is finishes with the right arm and then moves to the other arm, my left, and repeats the process, leaving me with two IVs, one in each arm. Once the attendant - or whoever it is - finishes taping the current arm, they lay it back on the table, and do so in an ever so careful and gentle way. The way a woman would do.

The way my mother would do.

But I don't feel my arm, either one, just dull sensations at best, just like the rest of me. I can feel my pants being removed, but I can't feel my legs.

About this time, someone begins tugging on my riding jacket. I hear a faint noise as they slowly remove it from my body one piece at a time. First one sleeve and then the other, and then the front, followed by the back. I can only imagine that the faint noise I’m hearing is a pair of scissors cutting the jacket apart. The sound has the same rhythm. After a while, the sound stops, and I feel the last of the jacket, the backside, being pulled out from under me. After that, my shirt’s removed in pretty much the same manner, leaving me, as best as I can tell, naked except for my underwear. I think I still have my underwear on, but I could be wrong.

 Once the jacket and shirt are removed, a pair of hands begins wiping spots clean on my torso as if to make big polka dots, and once they’re complete, the dots, I feel something being applied to each one. EKG sensors, probably, but I'm not sure.

But I am pretty sure I know where I’m at now. I'm in a hospital. It could be an ambulance, but I doubt it. The light’s too bright, and there’s no movement or siren. There's no traffic noise,  at least that I can make out, but maybe I just don't hear it. Still, I would feel some type of movement, even if only the shifting of weight by the people attending me. I would feel them moving about, but I don't.

No.

I'm in a hospital.

I'm sure of it.

And that's a good thing, in a sad way. Because obviously I'm hurt, and if that's the case, then this is where I need to be, the hospital. I wish to God that I wasn't hurt at all, to begin with, but it's a little too late now for wishful thinking because it's all too apparent that I'm injured, injured bad enough to be brought here, a hospital.

And now I'm even more scared.

I know it's bad, but I don't know how bad, and I can't stop thinking the same thing over and over...

...if only I could see.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

I feel tired, sleepy. I want to close my eyes, but I can't. I'm too alert, so I lie here, instead, tired, sleepy, and alert all at the same time.

And I'm worried. Very worried. I'm worried because maybe this time it's really bad. But maybe not. Maybe it's not as bad as what I'm fearing. I remind myself that people tend to assume the worst, so I keep telling myself that it's OK, that it's not that bad. I don't know this for a fact, but it's what I keep telling myself - that everything will be OK. You'll see.

And all the attention I'm getting makes me feel better about things. Mainly because I'm in a hospital and there are people here helping me. I'm not alone. And I know that whoever it is helping me knows what they are doing, that I'm in good hands.

This I'm sure of: that I'm in good hands.

And hearing their muffled voices makes me feel better, as well, even though I still don't know what they are saying. They are here with me, doing what they are trained to do, and that's what matters. There's no panic. There's no yelling, no barking orders, just deliberate, dutiful communication. Business as usual. Another task on their to-do list: something that needs to be done and finished so that they can move on to the next thing, the next important task.

And all of this lets me know that I'm going to be OK. A mess, but OK. I know because I've been through it all before. It's not the first time, and probably won't be the last. I'll get through this OK, I will. I always do. But even still, I know there will be a cost to it all, a cost beyond the road rash; a cost beyond the broken bones, the scars, the doctor bills…a more personal cost.  Namely, the hell I will catch later from my dad and Cindy, my girlfriend. Because make no mistake, they'll have plenty to say.

They always do.

My mom? Well (sigh), she’s mom. She’ll just hug me and tell me how much she loves me. My brother and sister? They won't say a word. They'll just be glad that I'm OK.  But even though they won’t say anything, this will still be very upsetting to them. It will upset them because they love me. They all do. They all love me, but really, enough is enough, and I understand this, I do. I know I’m in the wrong here, so I'll simply take whatever it is I have coming to me; take whatever they - dad, and Cindy – dump on me. I deserve it, I know. Just like I know that I only have myself to blame.

They know it, and I know it.

But no, none of them needed this to happen, and I'm sorry. I fully understand that I'm not the only one paying the price for this. They pay it too, just in a different way. Whereas I will eventually heal, and then afterwards, live with the reminders, the scars, they too will live with their own reminders, their own permanent scars, namely, the bad memories.  Memories they never asked for or ever wanted, but ones they now have to live with thanks to me.  So yeah, we all pay the price.

But we'll get through this.

We will.

We always do.

We'll get through this, all of us, and in time, all will be forgiven. Dad and Cindy will be angry with me, the way they always are, but they won’t say anything until later, once I've healed, and that's when the windy speeches and lectures will come, once I’m well again.

But I'll worry about that later when the time comes. Right now, more than anything, I just wish I could see. I wish I could hear what the voices are saying, but I can't. I can’t see, and I can’t hear what’s being said, so for now I just lie here, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, motionless and devoid of movement. Because that’s what my body is telling me to do. It's telling me that things are bad, and I believe it, but I'm already worried and scared enough to lie still on my own without it telling me to.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

I hear a noise.

Something new, a new noise, one I haven't heard before. It sounds mechanical and close. Very close, and near my head. And I hear it distinctly. A whirring sound. Spinning, maybe. And then it changes, like maybe it's speeding up or slowing down, but always changing.

And it's close, real close, and it's moving slowly and with purpose. It started above my head and is slowly making its way down the right side.

They're cutting my helmet off, the one that took me three years to buy, my most prized possession.

But I guess that doesn't matter now, my helmet, because if they are cutting it off, it means that it was ruined anyway. And that's OK. It's OK because I'm still alive, which means that it did its job. It saved my life.

The good news is, is that once the helmet is off, I will finally be able to see again. See what, I don't know, but for sure, more than I can see now. In the meantime, I simply lie here and listen to this…this…thing. This machine. This cutter, or saw...whatever it is.  I listen to it whir and spin as it cuts, and I wait.

I wait.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

As I lie here waiting for the helmet to be removed, my mind drifts. I think about my mom, the one person I know will always love me no matter what, unconditionally and forever. Always has, always will.

She's my mom.

I think about how much this will upset her, how much it will hurt her to see me this way. And I think about how I'd give anything to prevent that. Because, as much as it hurts me, it will hurt her more. Much more. She is the one who will feel the real pain of it all. Much deeper and more profound than anything I will feel. Physical pain is temporary. Eventually, you heal, and then it's gone. The pain, as bad as it may have been, becomes a memory. A bad one, but a memory just the same.

And I would know.

But the bruises this will inflict on my mother’s heart, to see her firstborn this way, will last forever. The images will be ingrained in her memory for all the rest of her days, and on the rare occasions she will recall them, the images, they will cause her brows to furrow. Her lips will quiver, and her heart will hurt. She will relive that dark chapter all over again. I know she will, because I know her.

She's my mom.

And what I wouldn't do to save her from that pain and grief. Jesus.

But it's a little late for that now. Too late to consider the consequences of the things I do, of the choices I make, and the hurt I inflict on others as a result.

And it's so unfair that my mother has to pay for any of it. All because she loves me the way she does.

It's so unfair.

So very unfair.

On the other hand, my dad is tough. He's strong. I guess the way all dads have to be. Because that is what his family needs from him, his strength, to be strong for the times they aren't. The tough times. That's when they turn to him, the dad, and in my dad's case, he has never once let us down, ever.

Whereas I will trip and fall as I make my way through life, as I have done now, Dad never falters. Never. And at those times I do fall and trip, he is always there to pick me up. And no matter how many times I fail him, and there have been many, he always manages to love me just the same. I don't know how he does it, but he does. And I love him for it.

He's my dad.

This will hurt him, my dad, but not like my mom. Not the way it will hurt her. The difference between the two being that Dad will be angry with me, and rightly so. I can't blame him for that, not in the least. But mom...Well, I can't recall a time in my life when she's ever been angry with me. For sure, I've given her enough opportunities, but she's never taken advantage of any of them. Not even once.

But dad...I've known his anger plenty of times. Too many times, in fact, and this will simply be the latest installment. Again, my fault.

Jesus, my poor dad.

I've apologized and said I'm sorry to this man far too many times. But be that as it may, he always finds it in his heart to forgive me, somehow, someway. Even when I can't forgive myself, he does. He forgives me.

He forgives me because, well, he's my dad.

And I'm his oldest son, one of two, but he's had me the longest. I'm the one who taught him how to be a dad. He learned through me, for five long years, until the next son would come along, my brother. But until then, it was just the two of us. Just he and I.

And we learned about life together. About parenthood, about childhood, and, about what it means to be a family.

He taught me how to pitch a ball and how to hit a home run.  He taught me how to ride a bike, then later, how to fix it when it broke. He taught me how to fish, how to set up a tent, how to make and fly a kite, and then, later, when the time came, he taught me how to be a man.

But Dad is tough. Besides, we've been through this before. He'll be angry, alright. But not at first. He'll wait until I'm well again. But for sure, he'll be angry with me. And then, in time, when the anger fades, he'll remind me why it is he gets angry with me to begin with: because he loves me. Because he cares. Because... Well, because that's what dads do.

And that's what I'll do, one day when I'm a dad.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

The machine has cut through the right side of the helmet and has since moved to the left. Soon, I will be able to see again. It's just a matter of time now.

And when that happens, the helmet comes off, the people helping me will, for the first time, know what I look like. I will no longer be just a bloody helmet to them, a thing, a task. I will be a person.

And likewise, they will no longer be just muffled voices. I will know what they look like as well. And when that happens, we finally see each other for the first time, things will change, I think. Because in some odd sense, we will get to know one another. It will become personal. I will no longer be the next item on a to-do list.

But right now, I don't know them - the people helping me. I've never met them. I don't know anything about them, even, but still, I trust them. In the short time that our lives have crossed paths, I have come to trust them. With my life, even.

I trust them with my life.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

After a while, they cut through the left side of the helmet as well, and the noise stops.  The noise stops, but the talking continues, only not as much as before.  They’re still close by, the voices, in front of me and in back of me, but I still can't make out what they’re saying. Not the exact words, anyway, just the tones. That's what I hear, the tones. Still deliberate, still dutiful.  And, they don’t stop. The communication between the two attendants remains continuous.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

My head begins moving again, but in a different way. This time it’s a slight side-to-side rocking motion, as if they’re trying to get the helmet off but can’t. They give it another try but have no more success the second time than they did the first, so I guess they abandon the effort. They must have, because I can hear the voices move away from me. They become distant, and I begin to hear a new sound. Something metallic, but not like a pan or tray or something. It’s something much heavier, like a tool, maybe, and I’m thinking it must have something to do with my helmet. Because the helmet’s been cut, yet it’s still on my head.

And if I’m right about the new sound, it being a tool that will get my helmet off, it means that soon…very soon…I will be able to see again.  Hopefully, something more than the blood splatters I see now.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

My brother and sister are younger than I am. Five and six years, respectively. And, we are close, but not as close as we used to be. Not our faults, really. That's just the way life is. It seems that the older I got, the further I drifted away from them. Not intentionally, it's just that I started spending more time with friends, starting when I was about fourteen or so, the age you begin to become more exposed to life, your mid to late teens. That's when life starts to change and your interests begin to shift. It’s a time when friends become more important in your life. Well, not more important than your family, but their role in your life becomes bigger - more significant, I guess you could say.

It's not that you're deliberately distancing yourself from them, your family; it's simply that you're following the natural progression of life. We begin maturing, growing up on our way to becoming adults. We become busier and more engaged with things outside the family.

And it's a shame, in a way. Because I stay so busy now that it seems I hardly have any interaction with them these days, my brother and sister. Between work, friends, and a girlfriend, life seems to be pulling me further and further away.

But the same is true for them as well. Life is pulling them in their own individual directions. It’s as if we’re an explosion of some sort, one that happens in slow motion, and we're the fragments that are slowly moving away from the thing we were all once part of.

It's just the cycle of life, for us as well as any family.

*   *   *   *   *   *   *

The voices return, and once again, my head begins to move in small, gentle increments, while at the same time, something begins to tap on the helmet’s outer shell. Something heavy, like maybe the thing I heard earlier, the tool.

Whatever it is, the tapping causes the two halves of the helmet to begin separating.  They separate slowly at first, and then more and more until suddenly, I begin seeing light spill in. Not a lot, but enough, and the longer the tapping continues, the more light that finds its way into the helmet. This continues for a while until eventually, the entire front of the helmet comes off, and I’m almost instantly overwhelmed by all the brilliant white light shining in my face. It takes a moment or two for my eyes to adjust, but once they do, everything quickly comes into focus, and after what seems like an eternity, I can finally see again.

Finally.

In the meantime, the two attendants shift their effort to the rear half of the helmet and remove it as well. The only thing remaining is the Styrofoam dome that fits on top of my head, the helmet liner, and now it's gone, too, meaning that the entire helmet has now been removed, and I'm finally free.

I can see.

And what I see now that the helmet is gone is that everything is bathed in a bright, white light. It's the ceiling. That's what I see. It's not much, but it's a lot more than what it was, and if nothing else, the blood splatters are gone. So yeah, I can see again.

And then a face appears, looking down at me. A nice face. A woman's face, in her 30s. Maybe early 30s, with soft, brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. And soft eyes. Brown and soft, and caring. She smiles at me. I try to smile back, but I can't,  not yet, but hopefully, she can see it in my eyes, the smile that is, the one that tells her ‘Thank You'.

And then another face. This time a male, also in his 30s. A friendly face, like the face of a big brother. He smiles at me as well, but only slightly, and I can tell that it’s forced. I can tell because he looks concerned, too concerned to be smiling, and probably only does so for my benefit. And I appreciate that, his kind gesture, because really, at the moment, there's not a whole lot to smile about. For either of us.

And I hope that he, too, can see the smile, the one in my eyes, my immensely grateful eyes.

Both attendants are wearing the same thing, traditional green surgical scrubs, but they themselves are not doctors, I don't think. They don't have that 'doctor' sound about them. More than likely, they’re EMTs or nurses, but I could be wrong, as I often am.

The two are working around my head now and talking softly as they do. They have a brace of some kind, a neck brace, maybe. It's in halves, a right half and a left.

The male places his hand under my head and slightly lifts it. At the same time, the female attendant positions the brace halves on either side of my neck and then fastens them together with the Velcro straps. The male gently lowers my head and removes his hand. He takes a small penlight from his shirt pocket, clicks it on, and then shines it in my eyes, first one and then the other. Once done, he clicks the light off and returns it to his pocket. He looks satisfied with whatever it is he saw. He turns to the female and tells her something, and then the two disappear from view.

The girl - the woman, rather- returns with warm, wet towels and begins gently cleaning my face. Cleaning it very gently, as if she's afraid of breaking something. Meanwhile, the male is doing something with my legs, to both of them, in turn. First the left and then the right. I hear him say the word 'tourniquets'.

I try to talk, but I can't. I want to ask them to put a pillow under my head to elevate it so I can see more, but I can't get the words out. The jaw doesn't work, and the mouth doesn't move.

And the towels the female attendant is using to clean my face? Solid red, now. Crimson, as if it were a dye.

The two attendants continue their routine, and I can hear their words clearly now.  I can hear them, but I still don't understand anything they are saying. Medical jargon and terminology. All foreign to me, like they're speaking another language. Also, I suspect that they are careful with their dialogue so as not to upset me, which may be why, on occasion, they step away from the table and talk quietly amongst themselves, almost as if they don't want me to hear what they are saying.

And maybe I don’t.