On August 11th, (Note: 2008) a Monday, I fell off my bike and broke my left femur. I’d been riding maybe 15mph on the nice paved bike path that runs along Denver’s Cherry Creek. The previous Friday evening we’d had a “tropical” downpour.
The rain left stones and sand in the gutters of city streets. In low spots, near Cherry Creek say, it left patches of pretty deep sand or silt. I did not see the patch of sand that took me down until I was in it. Or maybe I did.
Maybe I saw the sand and tried to steer around it at the last instant. Maybe my effort to avoid it was too late. Instead of hitting it straight-on, I hit it with my front wheel turned. Maybe the sand grabbed the turned wheel so that I lost control of my bike.
Who knows? Maybe I didn’t try to steer around the sand. Maybe I was going to fall either way. Can’t recreate the accident. No skid marks to measure.
In any case, my bike veered across the path. Luckily no one was coming. I saw decorative rocks cemented into the upward slope next to the path and thought, oh damn, I hope I don’t fall on those rocks. But I did. I fell on the bottommost rock and broke my femur.
I also dislocated my left middle finger and tore up the top of the knuckle where my thumb joins the rest of my hand. My hand was bleeding. I’d landed on my back, half on, half off the bike path, my leg flopped in front of me at an unnatural angle. I knew I was hurt.
I used my undamaged right arm and hand to fish my cell phone from my jersey pocket. I called 9-1-1 and gave my information to the nice woman. I realized that I did not know the name of the street that crossed above the bike path where I lay.
A passing cyclist asked if I needed help. I asked him if he could see a street sign. He could, and yelled the name back to me – Quebec Street. I told the woman. Help is on its way, she said. I left a message for Tamar that I was hurt and had called for help.
When I looked down the trail, three minutes after I called 9-1-1, a team of five EMTs was walking toward me. When I saw them, I was thrilled. It was the cavalry arriving just in time to save the settlers in an old western movie. I could almost hear the bugles.
I figured I was going to be all right. I just had no idea how long it would take.
I’m writing this on September 19th. I spent eight days in Denver’s best trauma hospital, the go-to hospital during the Democratic National Convention a week or so later. Doctors put a titanium rod in the bone in my upper left leg, the rod held in place by three screws. Rod and screws will be there permanently if all goes well.
The hospital stay was eye-opening. The period of convalescence has been a further learning experience. No need to dwell on any of it here, but helplessness and loss of privacy are uneasy burdens.
Then, once you’re home, your loved ones bear a heavy burden too. I can’t believe many couples go through an ordeal like this - a serious injury and the slow recovery from it - without signs of strain. Hasn’t been easy for Tamar, trust me.
I’m getting around on crutches now. I won’t be able to put any weight on my left foot for a few more weeks but I can walk a number of blocks. I can walk to coffee or to the bank. Those walks, so unremarkable before, are luxuries now, liberation.
It appears that I will need surgery on my left middle finger; its range of motion is not coming back and the joint is still swollen. What a nuisance, huh?
Certain things stand out in my memory. I remember the first shower – seated in my wheelchair in the corner of my hospital room’s john. I remember the first unassisted (seated) shower at home, when I became able to get my left leg over the side of the tub.
I remember the first few rides in cars or even being pushed in the wheelchair, scary rides that felt too fast. I remember the first unsteady, frightening times I walked on crutches. I remember being scared of everything, anything: any change in any aspect of life, any “disturbance in the force.”
Now I see things I never saw, like the community of wheelchair, cane and crutch users out there on our streets. I see how difficult it is to navigate a wheelchair on crowned, uneven city sidewalks, but how easy it is to get through an airport. There’s a huge team of people in airports connected by radios, there just to help you get around.
Like many doctors and all the physical therapists I met, those airport people seem “called” to the work. It’s not just a job.
What have I learned that I would pass on to you? Well, try not to fall off your bike. That’s helpful, huh?
Please do not leave your mobile phone at home when you roll out for a ride. If there’s any way you can secure health insurance, please don’t shine it on. Once you have fallen and hurt yourself, you are “in the healthcare system.” You can’t choose minimal care to save a thousand here and a thousand there.
Thousands vanish in hours. You don’t want to be in pain, helpless and inconveniencing your friends and loved ones – and ruining yourself with debt.
I sincerely hope it doesn’t happen to you. I hope you see the sand in time.
Oh – after all the whining I’ve done verbally and journalistically about drivers and clueless riders making cycling dangerous, I hurt myself by myself. As the fellow said, if you want the job done right, you gotta do it yourself…