I got in an accident

Most of you reading this have already seen me or heard about my accident, but here’s the score: my bike’s fine, no worker’s comp, the guy drove off, small fracture in my wrist but I plan to start back work tomorrow.

I came to the store early and had a sandwich before my shift Friday. I noticed a parking attendant eyeing my car near the store, so I told Nikki I’d move it and ride back for my shift in half an hour.

Traffic was crazy with all the CIAA activity uptown. I wove through dead stopped lanes of cars heading up 7th St.

The light at 7th and Tryon turned yellow as I crossed into the intersection. I heard a long honk behind me. An engine roared and a silver Prius raced up on my left in the wrong lane. We exchanged indignant glances, and I took a swing at the car. I found myself leaning against its side as it sped up and left me careening. I flopped on my left and tumbled forward. “This isn’t good,” I thought vaguely as my left eye socket slid against the pavement. My helmet had the foresight to slide up on my head, coming through the fall unscathed. I felt stupid. A touch to my head produced a piece of detached skin with a few eyebrow hairs protruding. “Are you okay? Do you need anything?” a man in a suit had stopped and was examining me with concern. “Yeah, that f—er’s license plate,” I yelled as the car shrank towards the far intersection and made a left.

I stood collecting my wits and humoring the pedestrian for a moment. “I shouldn’t have done that,” I confessed. “I lost my cool.” “It was his fault,” he reassured me. “That’s gonna need stitches,” the pedestrian noted as he stared at my forehead. A moment later I announced my intention to chase the driver down. “He’s gone now, man,” said the pedestrian as I mounted the bicycle, which my body had spared from any real damage.

I made it as far as the next light, where I found a police officer parked on the side of the road. “There was a silver Prius that just passed through two cycles ago…” I explained in my best calm, reasoned tone. “You need attention,” the officer looked up, more impressed with the blood beginning to stream down my face than with my speech. “Nah, I don’t need an ambulance,” I protested. “You need to get checked out. Just let them come and clean you up.”

“I can’t afford this,” I thought as I called in to work. I grew frustrated at the driver, the work I was missing, the officer’s disinterest in investigating my report.

A fire truck produced three helpless gawkers in boots and jackets. I heard the ambulance miss its turn a street over. It came around the block and the police flagged the medics toward me. “Yeah, the guy with blood all over his face,” I joked to the driver, whose window was down.

I was surprised to hear my heart rate recorded at only 80 beats per minute. Two medics cleaned my cuts while making arguments for an ambulance ride. “You’ll need sutures. How do you plan to get to the hospital?” demanded the senior medic. “You could have a brain hemorrhage. You could start driving to the hospital, black out and get yourself killed.” “If you don’t get that looked at you’ll end up with an infection. You’ll be one of those guys talking to himself on the side of the road. You could end up with something that’ll rot your dick off.” I almost laughed as the tactics became more desperate.

“I’m not trying to scare you…” he started. “Sure you are, but that’s part of your job. I get it.” I said. I signed their waver and collected my things. The officer grimaced at my contorted bike as I straightened the handles with the front wheel between my knees.

I rode my bike to the hospital, one arm raised to my chest and my face bloody but swaddled in gauss. I rode awkwardly through crowds of staring pedestrians. “Oh God,” I heard a nurse on her smoke break exclaim. I struggled one-handed up the hill to the emergency room. The check-in nurses at the hospital looked startled when I walked up and greeted them, “Hey, how are you?” “Uh, would you like to see a physician?” “Yes please.” I waited only 5 minutes in the triage room before going back for a few X-rays and a CAT scan.

I spent an hour and a half mostly waiting to be seen for each step of my treatment. I found myself antsy, pacing my room, repositioning the examination lamp arms and fiddling with my phone. I learned I had a small fracture in my wrist, but the doctor said I could still ride. He stitched up my eyebrow in silence while my earbuds played a design podcast. Bright light filtered through the green paper mask draped over my head. My mind wandered from the earlier events of the day to their consequences in the weeks to come. How much would I have to pay? Would I really be ready for work?Later, a nurse forgot that I needed a splint before being discharged. The splint was hardening before I realized it wrapped almost to the tip of my fingers. It left no articulation to hold a bike handle, let alone operate the brake lever. Two nurses goaded me to the doctor’s desk. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he said impatiently of the splint, momentarily lifting his eyes from a monitor. The overall experience was like being pushed through a system that didn’t have quite enough time for me.

I rode my bike to my car and drove home to an empty house. I felt sorry for myself. I wanted to be coddled, wanted someone to feed me. I found a nice takeout dinner and two chocolate chip walnut cookies my roommate Andrew had left me. I ate the cookies, lay down and knew I’d be okay.