It happened Monday, April 14th. There’s no good excuse. I ran my bike straight into the base of a light pole. “Oh. That was dumb,” I thought as I tumbled headlong over my handlebars. I heard the smack of my helmet against the sidewalk. I landed on my butt and lay back, trying to take it easy. A motorist stopped his car, called 911 and waited with me while responders came.
In the course of the next three and a half hours I had eight X-rays and a CAT scan. With half a dozen bandaids I was back at work the next day. I didn’t break anything but my bike, which will probably never ride again. But what was unusual was being immobilized. For those hours I experienced the world primarily through my sense of hearing, laying in a neck brace and waiting for care.
There was another man parallel parked in the emergency room who came in just after me. (Neither of us had a room.) From what I could gather he was a homeless man who had been drinking and took a fall. He was saying he didn’t have anyone to call; he said his family wouldn’t have anything to do with him. None of his Facebook friends would come. One of the overseeing doctors named Emily talked patiently with him. I heard him say, “I’m tired of living like this. I’m tired of hurting all the time.” At one point she must’ve asked his religion because I heard him say, “Well, Christian, for lack of a better word. I don’t really like the word Christian because I don’t like labels.” His voice revealed more and more desperation as he talked. “God doesn’t want to have nothing to do with me,” he said at one point. “I’m a waste of space.” My heart sank. I wanted to try to comfort him, but I couldn’t make eye contact, couldn’t move.
Later, I was transported on my bed to the left of two little stalls separated by a curtain. I heard a neighbor breathe and shift on his bed. Again I struggled to figure out how to make conversation.
“Mr. Perez?” Another attendant appeared, asking me. “No,” I responded.
“No?”
“No. I’m Sirico.”
The attendant made a quick, confused grunt, found the man next to me and wheeled him down the hall to my right. Another patient soon took his place.
“Yeah, this is the ninth time I’ve been transported today,” I heard him tell his transporter. He sounded enthusiastic and lively. This was my shot at redemption.
“Hey neighbor, I’m Chris,” I launched in, “I ran my bike into a light pole today…” “Oh hey. I’m Nick,” he replied. “I’m real young. I’m only 18. I have testicular cancer.” The words marched matter-of-factly through the tent, collapsing on me phrase by phrase. “I just had my right testicle cut out,” he continued. “But that was the one that was swollen, so at least it doesn’t hurt so bad now.”
“Well that’s good, I guess…” I said, grasping for a means to ease the tension. He wins, I thought, feeling a little stupid. I lay there with my stupid little injuries and stupid sob story. “It’s in my liver and my lungs,” he continued, “but they say it’s the kind of cancer that responds real well to chemo so they expect a full recovery,” he summed up.
“Wow, that’s a lot to handle,” I said at last. Nick told me he was bummed to be missing spring break. He said his friends would be taking trips overseas. He said all this in the same energetic, matter-of-fact manner he used to announce his cancer. He recounted a trip to London the year before. Trying to steer him to brighter thoughts, I asked if he’d gone out drinking or gotten into any mischief there. He didn’t drink. Instead he told me he dressed up like a ghost while staying at a spooky church. He scared his roommates, who ran and lock themselves in their room. Nick just sounded like a simple, salt-of-the-earth kid. “I’m really young,” he repeated.
Another transporter was wheeling me down the hall before I had the presence to shout back a goodbye to my new friend. I watched machinery spin around my head, got moved, tipped over, X-rayed and moved back to my original parking spot. I heard the homeless man from earlier. He asked a nurse for something in a desperate but restrainedly polite tone. I nurse tried to calm him, listening empathetically, but his voice grew louder. “I don’t trust that asshole doctor!” He said. His frustrated shouts moved down the hall, echoed from a room and faded behind a door.
My gaze was still fixed upward by a neck brace. I examined the bottoms of an exit sign, an acoustic ceiling panel and a security camera dome. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for myself, but I knew my circumstance was temporary. I lay considering the ways I have been fortunate. And then I decided it was time to start looking for a new job.