I began to harbor an interest in motorcycles during my junior high school years. The inspiration and starting point are completely lost to time. I learned to identify the different brands and sizes at first. It wasn’t long before I could tell the difference between a 125cc and a 250cc along with the brand with just a glance at any given bike. The larger street bikes weren’t as common within my social ranks in those days, but I do remember when Kawasaki came out with the KZ1000. It seemed like such an ultimate riding machine to a young kid who was still learning the fundamentals of proper grammar in school.
During that time period I knew a guy, about my age, who rode a small 125cc with all of the bravado of a Hollywood stunt driver. He would pop into a wheelie and ride for perhaps thirty feet without bringing his front tire back down to the ground. As I think back I realize that he was very much of a careless showboat, but at the time his youthful lack of caution only served to foster my interest and desire toward motorcycles. I mostly paid attention to the Japanese manufacturers. Harley Davidson bikes were seen as more of a biker gang brand in those days, and I rarely gave them any thought. They seemed bigger, louder, and tougher than I could possibly envision myself as being. It was enough to simply think of myself riding on a foreign 250cc with no homework for the weekend.
I remember being given a short manual on motorcycle engine repair in a ninth grade mechanics class. It was very basic in content and about the size of a very thin magazine, but I treasured its content. I kept it without permission with the intention of using it one day to aid me in working on my as yet unpurchased and unattainable motorcycle. Yeah, I was a planner. I also remember conversations with friends regarding the cars that we would buy when time and finances would eventually allow. It was all a waste of time, as most of us knew within our hearts that we would inevitably inherit something driven by our parents that might make us feel mobile and cool, but would definitely leave us looking as though we couldn’t really impress anyone outside of the age bracket where early bird specials highlight any given day’s excitement.
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A junior high school student's dream.
Yeah, I'm old. |
Still, I always spoke of getting a motorcycle while my friends spoke of buying a Camaro or Trans Am. They would all passionately remind me that a motorcycle wasn’t practical and that taking a girl out on a date would be nearly impossible. I didn’t care; my mind was set on getting a bike one day. The closest that I ever came to the goal during my youth was to ride as a passenger with a couple of friends throughout the years.
Time has a way of fading certain dreams, and so it was with my desire to own a motorcycle. My later teen years had me preoccupied with girls, music, and any form of recreation that eventually caused my parents the inability to sleep at night with any sense of peace at all. As I grew older I fell in love, married, worked hard to live, and settled into a pattern involving one car purchase after another. I can honestly say that for nearly four decades I never gave any thought at all to owning or riding a motorcycle. The desire and inclination were genuinely gone and over the years my wife and I lived a fairly domestic existence as we worked, worshiped, played, traveled to different places, and bought a variety of toys, all the while raising and nurturing our daughter. We truly enjoyed life together and spent little time focusing on anything that might have been lacking in our lives. My wife and I eventually began to work together and consequently sold our second car. We didn’t see the need for a second set of maintenance and insurance bills, and we gladly chose the less expensive option of being a single car family. Life was good and I was happy. Really happy.
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2004 Nissan Maxima. Our "4 door bliss".
Bikers would call it a "cage". |
All of our transportation needs were settled until nearly two decades of four door bliss were interrupted by a change of employment for my wife. We found ourselves working more than a half hour drive away from each other, and our single car family was suddenly hit with more miles driven within any given work day than we had previously covered within an entire week. After a couple of years of travelling over two hours round-trip daily in order to get each other to work and back home for the sake of paychecks that didn’t include reimbursement for transportation costs and travel time served, we knew that something had to change. We didn’t want to commit ourselves to monthly payments for a second car because our daughter (along with a great deal of our money) was attending college at the time. We were in a precarious financial position in which inability would not give way to need or desire. It was far from being a crisis, but we determined to resolve the need one way or another.
I believe that I’ve always been a fairly practical guy. My decisions are usually based on research and reason. At a time in life that is generally considered to be middle age, I had no real mid-life issues with which to contend. I’m always fairly comfortable in my own skin and I don’t really waste any time coveting the things that I don’t have or regretting the things that I haven’t done. All in all I’m a fairly content individual. When the transportation issue arose, I gave it some thought for a while and eventually placed a motorcycle on the short list of possibilities. I knew that we couldn’t afford a new car and I felt that a used car within our budget would be a mechanical nightmare almost immediately after purchase. We had some cash available, and a quick search on the internet assured me that we could afford a new bike with a cash payment. The decision to pursue the purchase of a motorcycle was honestly a choice based on frugality and practicality, as opposed to some thrill seeking fulfillment of childhood dreams. I researched the various brands and sizes, along with insurance and operating costs. I had already spoken to my wife and we had both agreed that a motorcycle would be a fairly practical solution as long as I approached it with a “safety first” attitude.
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| 2012 Kawasaki Vulcan 900 Classic |
After some research and thought I decided to purchase a Kawasaki Vulcan 900. It was a mid-sized cruiser style bike with a good reputation for reliability. I read reviews, searched internet forums, and learned all that I could about the bike’s specifics. I then researched the availability of required riding courses given within my area. I eventually dealt with several motorcycle dealerships throughout the Eastern U.S. by phone and convinced a local dealership to accept the price offered to me by dealerships that were located much farther away. I had already visited the local people and knew that they were asking for considerably more money than the deals that I had negotiated over the phone with others. However, they seemed fairly anxious to make a sale and reluctantly met every condition given by me for a purchase. We paid cash for the bike and arranged for it to be delivered to my home. I honestly didn’t know a thing about operating the bike when it was delivered to my house on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. I pushed it into my garage and left it sitting idle for a few weeks. I remember thinking that it was much heavier than I had envisioned.
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| My riding class manual |
I eventually registered with a local company that taught the required motorcycle training course needed for a driver’s license change. It was a two day event held at a church property with a large parking lot. We rushed through the basics with time divided between classroom teaching and course riding. They supplied the bikes, and I learned to ride on a Honda 250. It was battered, due to past learning experiences I’m certain, but it ran well and wasn’t difficult to handle physically. I had no sense of confidence in my riding skills, and it didn’t help that all of my classmates, both young and old, had previous riding experience. I remember coming home after the first day and telling my wife that I was certain that I would fail the class on the following day. I believe that she was a little thrown off by the conversation because I’m generally so confident in myself that I honestly believe that I can do just about anything set before me. Despite my misgivings, I passed the course and had my driver’s license changed to include motorcycle driving as an option. The helmet that I chose to purchase was a full face helmet that was certified by both DOT and Snell. I was ready to ride, but I was far from excited about taking the much larger bike in my garage on the road.
My first trip on the bike was short. I almost dropped it at the first stop sign located at the end of my street and I had a difficult time getting past the initial acceleration in first gear. After a few engine stalls and embarrassing pauses, I rode the bike home and parked it in my garage with a great sense of frustration. I then determined to approach the situation methodically. The problem with initial acceleration had to be solved. I did so by rolling back out of the garage roughly 10 feet and then accelerating forward into the garage. I went back and forth repeating this procedure roughly 50 times until I could coordinate between the clutch and accelerator smoothly.
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| Ready, set, back up! |
It must have looked strange to the neighbors, but in the end I conquered the problem and felt confident that I would not stall on an initial acceleration again. I then restricted myself to riding the bike solely on my street. It’s a fairly long residential street with a couple of shorter connecting side streets that lead to cul-de-sacs. There is very little traffic on it throughout the day. The entire journey roundtrip involved perhaps a mile, and I logged roughly 50 miles on the bike as I rode back and forth while practicing take offs, stops, and turns for several days. I also began to feel quite comfortable with the size and weight of the bike. Kids that I didn’t know would often wave from their front yards, but I was never certain if it was a wave to acknowledge the cool guy riding down the street again, or a wave to point out a guy they called “dork”. The first option allows for a more pleasant memory. I then began to ride within the confines of my entire neighborhood, a suburban residential community filled with quiet streets and plenty of different routes. I logged another hundred miles over several days on the bike by doing so. My next step involved venturing out onto the different roads throughout my small city, a mix of residential and semi-commercial areas sprawled throughout suburbia U.S.A. It is officially labeled as a “village”. Within time I practiced maneuvers in the parking lots of major retailers, rode within dense traffic, traveled through the stop and go traffic involved with road construction, and cruised liberally at higher speeds down larger arteries. I eventually practiced riding on a high percentage of the roadways within five miles of my home. Several were major thoroughfares with higher speed limits, but I became quite confident and proficient within time.
My practice time included all of the maneuvers taught to me in riding class. While riding in fairly empty parking lots I even practiced hard stops that caused the tires to screech a little and the bike to skid very slightly while then steering to a side in order to avoid an imaginary vehicle stopping in front of me. I had logged roughly 700 miles of practice time on the bike before I began to use it for regular commuting. The trip to work was a five to ten minute ride and the bike became something that required little effort for me as I used a couple of appliance straps to secure all my work gear to the back seat.
I purchased a service manual online and planned to do all of the maintenance and repair work myself. I eventually purchased a nice leather riding jacket for the coming winter and had plans to buy a cooler protective jacket for warmer weather and some riding gloves soon. We have a motorcycle riding supply store not too far from home and I enjoyed looking at all of the different things sold within. Throughout all of this activity I never did consider riding the motorcycle as being a fulfillment of childhood dreams or middle aged thrill seeking. I honestly rode exclusively for the purpose of work and errands and thought of it all as a very practical matter. Within a fairly short time I learned to handle the bike with a good degree of proficiency and ease. All of my commuting problems had been solved safely and within budget. Genius.
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| Our Thanksgiving table 2013 |
On the Friday morning after Thanksgiving of 2013 I drove my car to a local mechanic’s shop. He had done some work on the car a few days previous, but the car had developed a related noise soon after and I wanted to have him fix the problem before it became an issue for me while on the road. It turned out that his shop was closed for the entire holiday weekend, so I headed back home. I must have decided quickly upon my return that I wanted to get my hair cut, and I’m told that I spent a few minutes talking to my wife about taking my daughter on a trip to Disneyworld for a few days. I then ventured out on my motorcycle. I know that I did get my haircut because I was well groomed during the weeks ahead. On the way back home I rode through a major intersection that I had driven through countless times before throughout the years. The road that I was on is a four lane thoroughfare with a median and a fifth lane for turning that borders both commercial and residential properties on either side. The intersecting street is a larger road that leads from one end of the state to the other. It is a six lane boulevard that includes a wide median with additional turning lanes and borders mostly commercial properties on both sides. There was a driver wanting to turn onto the road that I was travelling, and she mistakenly ran a red turning arrow light as I entered the intersection. There were several witnesses to the accident, and the police report states that I ran into the front driver’s side of her car while riding at the posted speed limit of 40mph. My body then pounded into the front end of my bike and flew onto her windshield and hood. She then accelerated her car briefly in a panic and sent me toppling to the ground. My body endured three impacts within seconds of time.
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| Side view of my broken femur |
I was attended to by EMTs at the scene and then airlifted by helicopter to one of the two hospital trauma units within our county. Ironically, the accident occurred within a quarter mile of a hospital located on the same road, but they don’t have a trauma unit capable of handling the things that happened to my body. The following week and a half predominantly involved a series of nightmares and hallucinations within my mind. The things being done to my body and the events of that time period are mostly lost to me. I remember roughly five or ten minutes of actual reality, although the nightmares and hallucinations that I experienced during this time period involved many elements of the reality around me. It is obvious that my mind was attempting to place together everything that I was experiencing with very little success, but all of it did relate to being in the hospital. I don’t remember most of the morning of the accident, including the conversation with my wife, the haircut, and the accident itself or anything following it. The day is almost completely lost to me, and the previous day of Thanksgiving yields just a few minutes of memories. Family members have shown me photos of the holiday in attempts to jar my memory, but nothing has ever worked.My injuries were numerous and they included:
- Various scrapes and road rash.
- A double broken jaw, upper and lower.
- Five missing or damaged teeth at the front of my mouth.
- A lacerated liver.
- A lacerated colon.
- A broken femoral neck.
- A broken femur.
- A shattered tibia at the knee.
- A broken fibula below the knee.
- An “open book” fracture of the pelvis.
- A compound fracture of the radius at the wrist.
- A ruptured aorta. It was said that this one should have killed me.
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| "Michael Jackson Juice" |
Additionally, I went into respiratory arrest and required a tracheotomy because my mouth was being wired shut due to the broken jaw. I was kept sedated on some very serious drugs for the first week and a half and endured roughly a dozen surgical procedures. One young doctor told my wife that I should have died due to the severity of my combined injuries, particularly the ruptured aorta, and signaled this by running his finger across his throat as he spoke. Nice. One nurse referred to one of the drugs given to me as “Michael Jackson juice”. My wife had a lot to face in the coming days.
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| My restrained arm in the hospital |
The mental haze began to clear slowly after the initial week and a half as they stopped administering the more serious sedatives. I remember being prepped by a nurse in order to have me moved from the ICU to a unit called Stepdown ICU. I begged her to untie my arms from the bed railings, as they had been tied for most of my stay in ICU. I apparently had a problem with pulling on the various wires and tubes protruding from several points of my body. Some of my worst nightmares centered on the issues of immobility and having my arms tied down.These things bothered me greatly when I became more coherent. I blame the drugs. She untied me, and I kept my promise to leave the various tubes and wires alone. I can’t say with any certainty how valid this memory is, but it seems real at this point in time. My wife had been told to expect three weeks of ICU and three months of total hospital care. I was in each for only half of their predicted times.Things grew mentally clearer for me while in the new room at the Stepdown ICU. It was a good sized single patient room and the privacy helped greatly with the entire process of managing my condition. I was physically helpless, but the hospital staff watched over me day and night. My wife works at a school and she was very graciously given a good deal of paid time off beyond the regular holiday recess. She was with me constantly, along with various family members throughout the day. My wife restricted family members to short visits and nonfamily members from visiting at all. As I look back now it was a good choice. The truth is that I was a mess and I don’t think that I would have wanted anyone outside of family and hospital personnel seeing me.
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| My broken pelvis |
The weeks ahead were marked by subtle progress. I only required one surgical procedure during my stay in the Stepdown ICU and it involved a broken femoral neck. This break at my hip had been overlooked by the orthopedic surgeon in the weeks previous. The hospital personnel in charge of my care had been turning my body over in the bed daily during this time and the physical therapists had me getting out of the bed and walking for short distances. I would shout in severe pain during these times, but I think that the hospital nurses and nursing assistants thought that I simply had a low tolerance for pain. Within a week or so I was taken to x-rays and the break in my hip was discovered. I had surgery the next morning and the physical therapy resumed within a day after the surgery.
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Side view of the broken bones
below my knee |
The therapists started by teaching me how to get out of the bed and walk to the door of my room, but I eventually began to progress in distance by walking down the hallway. This was all done with a strap placed around my torso that was used to aid the therapists in holding on to me in case of a fall.
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| My trusty walker |
It also involved a walker that held my broken arm elevated on a brace while I used my other arm to grip the side rail. It was all very slow and awkward because I could only hop on one leg while holding on to the walker with one hand, but the therapists were good at getting me to move again on a daily basis. I was unable to do any of it for long periods of time because of weakness and fatigue. They would have me end the sessions by sitting in a large padded chair for two hours with pillows providing support for my leg. It was a grueling wait and provided more pain and discomfort than the actual walking. Most of my time, however, was spent lying in bed and being visited by loved ones until visiting hours were over. My body was weak and in pain, my mind was hazy due to the aftereffects of drugs, and the bed was the only place that made life seem safer and more settled for me.My wife’s care for me during this time period was a vital part of my recovery. She would handle any necessary business with the hospital, various medical personnel, insurance companies, and legal people. She also took charge of our finances, a responsibility that had always been mine, along with her own job-related responsibilities and the maintenance of our home. She provided comfort for our daughter while having to bear the greatest crisis of her life with a strong and positive attitude. Beyond all of those things was the attention that she gave to me. She was by my bedside during the majority of the time allowed by the hospital visiting hours and constantly made certain that I was as well as possible, given my physical condition. She would read aloud every card and letter sent to me by various people, feed me what little food I would accept, move and rub the foot on my injured leg, and provide a constant source of positive conversation while I laid in bed and watched time pass.
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Me and the love of my life at the
hospital bedside |
My wife would comfort me when I seemed confused by the drugs and constantly provided smiles and words of love that helped me to find a sense of security and relief during a very difficult time. The hospital was located more than a half hour drive (highway speed) from our home, and she was constantly travelling back and forth to be with me daily. I had a host of family members who helped her and kept vigil at the hospital while also making certain that my wife was doing well. All in all I was blessed with a great deal of loving people who helped to ensure a better recovery period for me.
Eating was a difficulty throughout the ordeal. My mouth was wired shut due to the broken jaw and my colon had been surgically repaired. I did everything that I was told to do while in the hospital with a good sense of submission, but when they tried to get me to start eating the food offered by the hospital, I rebelled. The hospital would have all of the food served to me placed in a food processor that turned everything that was given to me into a glob of poorly flavored product with the consistency of mashed potatoes. This included meat. The reason for this involved my broken jaw. The only way to get food inside of my mouth was to insert a very minuscule amount of food carefully through the small opening provided by some of my missing teeth. Additionally, I was unable to actually chew anything given to me because my mouth was wired shut. I always found it a little humorous that they would place these mashed foods into molds in order to make them look as they did in their original form. The fact that I’m an extremely picky eater made things worse. I don’t eat many of the things considered as common food by most people, and I don’t eat many of the prepared dishes that other people accept as meals. One silly example is the fact that I have never tasted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. There’s something about the look and consistency that throws off my whole world. In any case, I refused to eat anything served to me by the hospital. No food, no nutritional shakes, nothing. The hospital nutritionist expressed concern because I had lost a significant amount of weight and my healing required a much larger caloric intake.
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Bonefish Grill corn and crab chowder.
Tempting, even when your jaw is wired shut! |
My family members began to bring me different restaurant soups that they knew I would eat along with fast food restaurant milkshakes. My wife would attempt to feed me a few of the things served by the hospital, but her success rate was negligible. They all tried their best to increase my caloric intake for the purpose of having me gain weight in order to help my body with the healing process.My days were spent between staring at walls, physical therapy, visiting with family, and dealing with a body that continued to manifest one problem after another. My condition can best be described as weak, confused, and tired. I often felt more like a helpless child than an adult. The drugs kept me mellow, but the hallucinations and dreams that had occurred in the original ICU were a constant source of mental and emotional confusion because I still thought that they were all true. My rational mind could deny much of what I had experienced through them, but they all seemed so firmly real that it was difficult for me to release them from being events that actually occurred. As the days progressed I had a very difficult time sleeping at night and my days were consequently often peppered with very short naps. Most nights yielded perhaps a half hour of sleep in total and it only added to the sense of weakness and confusion. One of the ironies of staying in a hospital involved the way in which they would give me a sleeping pill at midnight and then wake me up at 3am to take my vitals. I had one head nurse who placed a standing order that I was not to be disturbed at night, but his shifts only lasted for two nights at a time.
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My arm in what I thought of
as "Swiss cheese" |
I was in the Stepdown ICU for several weeks and my physical condition was less than favorable, but doctors and nurses continued to take very good care of me. I spent Christmas and New Years in the hospital, and family members even celebrated my brother-in-law’s birthday in the hospital room while I attempted to behave as though I was completely coherent. It all seems so strange looking back now, but my family gave a very compassionate and valiant effort toward helping me to endure the things that had happened to me.I was eventually released from the Stepdown ICU and placed in an adjoining rehabilitation center for five days. It was noisier, busier, and less relaxing than my previous room, but the daily therapy sessions were considerably more extensive and helpful as the therapists worked toward improving my strength and mobility. An occupational therapist helped me with the need to get back the use of my hand and also taught me how to navigate through different places within a house such as bathrooms and kitchens, while the physical therapists helped me in using a walker and wheelchair more extensively. The wheelchair was a bit of a challenge because I had to coordinate the use of only one arm and one leg in order to move and navigate the chair.
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X-ray of the central area
of my left leg (repaired) |
I was also taught how to get in and out of a car. They were all very compassionate, but also very demanding. Imagine an artsy drill sergeant and you’ll get the picture. My time at the rehabilitation center was a bit more difficult for a few reasons. One of them involved my lack of ability to sleep, and another was the fact that I was no longer alone in a room. I had two roommates at separate times during my stay at rehab and they both required a great deal of care during the day and night. I was awake most of my time in rehab except for a few occasional hours of sleep. The hallways were understandably much busier and noisier than the two ICU’s that I had been in previously. I was expected to do a few more things for myself as I progressed physically, but I wasn’t allowed to get out of the bed without supervision and help from a nurse. In the end I became very much anxious to leave for home. When the day came to be discharged, my wife and I waited into the late afternoon for some medical supplies to arrive and I was then released to go home. I remember how strange it felt to be in a car while travelling down familiar paths within the “regular world” as my wife drove me to our house.We arrived home in the very late afternoon. My wife and daughter had cleaned the house and rearranged some of the furniture for my sake. They were both a bit nervous and tense about having me back home, and I must admit that I was a little tense about it myself. I insisted on entering the house without any aid and used some of the techniques taught to me in rehab to do so, but my body was not ready to fulfill the things that my mind believed would occur. I had them sit me on the couch that had always been “my space”, but it was far too uncomfortable and painful a place for me. After a few minutes I attempted to get myself up, but I simply couldn’t. My wife and daughter had to hold me from each side and lift me up. I was then placed in a wheelchair nearby. It was at that moment that I realized how different things would be for me. This became the new “my space” for many weeks following. I required help with getting down the hallway in order to go to the bathroom, and help with getting in and out of bed. Most of my time was spent in the wheelchair, with brief periods of standing time in order to alleviate the discomfort of the chair. My wife and my daughter constantly took care of my needs and made certain that I was always as well as possible. Within a short time my daughter had to leave for college, and I would spend the first half of my days alone while my wife was at work. She was allowed to leave work early for my sake and would come home in the early afternoon. She made me a breakfast of scrambled eggs each morning and left it along with any snack and drink items that she thought I would actually use. This was all placed on a small tray table next to my wheelchair along with any medications and therapeutic items that I would use as the morning progressed.
My one leg remained in a large brace and my one arm remained in a cast. I was still not allowed to place any weight on my leg, but I could hop on the other leg with the aid of the walker. I would spend the days watching TV and looking out of the window into my backyard.
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| My leg in the brace |
After a short time the wires in my mouth were removed and I was able to eat with more liberality. I was never very hungry, and my jaw was stiff and sore for many of the coming months, but it was nice to eat more solid foods again. Eventually the cast on my arm was replaced with a brace and things became more comfortable for me. The following months also involved many visits to the oral and maxillofacial surgeon that did the original work on my jaw, along with a separate general and cosmetic dentist. The labor necessary to repair my mouth was extensive and required the efforts of two separate dental professionals. It took roughly a year to finish and it involved many combined hours of time in a dentist’s chair. The work done was tiresome and painful at times, but my mouth was eventually restored with permanent implants. The dental staff at both offices included some of the kindest and most compassionate people that I dealt with throughout the entire ordeal of the accident. It required a great deal of time and labor, but in the end all of the work done on my mouth was a great source of relief and joy. In regard to the rest of my body, the orthopedic surgeon supervised the recovery of my broken bones and eventually assigned me to physical and occupational therapy when he determined that I could place my body weight on the damaged leg. The therapists that were assigned to me were both demanding and compassionate, with an emphasis on demanding. They always treated me as though I was expected to recover and never allowed for me the opportunity to excuse myself from advancing past the aftereffects of my injuries. It is something that benefitted me greatly over time as I was placed in a position to expect progress.
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| Progress! |
My twice-weekly sessions at therapy lasted for a few months and were at times a painful physical challenge. Nonetheless, the things that were required of my body for the sake of improvement were a great blessing as I was able to see progress from session to session. I grew very fond of the therapists and developed an appreciation for all that they did to advance my recovery. The limits of my insurance coverage eventually caused an end to the therapy, but by then I was using my hand fairly well and I was walking on my own with a moderate limp.Within a few months of leaving the hospital I was able to attend church services on Sunday mornings and occasionally went out to eat or socialize with family. It was difficult at first because I was still confined to using the walker, but I eventually graduated to using a cane and within time settled into limping without any additional aid at all. After my time with the therapists was finished I worked hard at home to exercise with different styles of walking (forward, backward, and sideways) along with the use of a stationary bike and some upper body work. I also did some work with leg lifts, knee bends, and stair stepping. I made certain to never leave the house to do my walking because I was quite paranoid that I would fall somewhere down the street and have to call 911 on my cellphone for help. I started by walking very short distances in front of the TV at first, but later paced back and forth down the long center hallway of my home.
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| My repaired wrist |
My hand remained limited in function and at times provided more pain than my leg, but I worked daily to stretch the fingers in both open and closed positions along with gripping different squeeze objects for the sake of improving strength. I also worked hard to restore a better level of flexibility and strength to my wrist. The progress was very slow at first but I was able to see slight improvements almost weekly. A great deal of my time was spent at home, but family would come for visits, and time progressed slowly but surely.The first year after the accident also became a bit of a challenge for me within my heart and mind as opposed to the physical challenges that I had been facing. The internal conflict centered on dealing with the reality of the changes that had taken place in my life as a result of the accident. I honestly had no inherent problem with the damage done to my body or the work needed to recover. I was resolved to move forward by taking on the challenges day by day. My difficulty centered instead on my return to domestic life. While it was certainly true that I was progressing physically and that I had the support and love of family and friends, my issue involved the ability to see the world that I had known before the accident and to realize that nothing had essentially changed within it but me. The house was the same and my family member’s lives were the same, but the problem remained that I was not the same.
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| Side view of my repaired leg |
It was a long and arduous challenge but within time the months turned into years, and my body began to function with greater strength and mobility. The limp is predominantly gone now and only recurs slightly when I am at my weakest point in a day or have been sitting in a bad position for too long a period of time. I cannot say that the recovery process will ever allow my body to function the way that it did before the accident, but I can say that I am able to function well and to live according to many of life’s demands.One of the unforeseen aftereffects of the accident was an incisional hernia in my abdomen. I first noticed it about a year and a half after the accident. The hernia developed on a scar that runs from the bottom of my chest to below my navel. I had to function with more caution and limited mobility for many months because I did not have insurance coverage at the time, but I eventually signed up for a new policy through my wife’s workplace and had the surgery necessary to repair the hernia. I was unable to have the standard laparoscopic procedure that has become common with hernias because of my previous injuries, but the traditional open surgery was performed on me as an outpatient and my recovery time at home involved a few months.
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Dealing with diabetes.
My blood, my tester, my routine. |
Another unforeseen and perhaps more life changing aftereffect of the accident is diabetes. I recognized the symptoms manifesting themselves quite severely within me almost two and a half years after the accident. I went to a well-respected endocrinologist in our area and he determined that the most likely cause of my Type 2 Diabetes was undiagnosed damage done to my pancreas from the accident. He said that I had been a diabetic since the time of the accident, and looking back I believe that I had milder symptoms all along before they became more intense and noticeable. The hospital personnel had alerted me to the fact that my blood glucose number was at a pre-diabetic level, but everything about my vital numbers (blood pressure, iron level, pulse, etc.) was irregular while in the hospital so it wasn’t given much thought. The endocrinologist placed me on daily insulin shots along with oral medication and a change in diet. I eventually saw a significant drop in my blood glucose levels and was taken off of the insulin. This disease has altered my life completely and is a constant reminder of the things that have changed since November of 2013. I have been able to manage it well, but the effects of diabetes are ever present on a daily basis. Over time it has become glaringly obvious that I will always have to live within the many restraints of a diabetic “lifestyle”. My diet, physical activity, energy levels, and general health have all been altered by this disease. It is manageable, but it remains at its very best an unpleasant addition to my life. It has caused me to believe that I have experienced the traffic accident that keeps on giving. Yay for me.The accident has left me with physical limitations due to my damaged bone structure, constantly recurring and shifting bodily pains, an altered sleep pattern that borders on insomnia, relentless fatigue, a change of lifestyle, the certainty of arthritis developing in my knee, and the prospect of future surgeries that include a total knee replacement. I have a stent in my aorta that requires monitoring and medication.
I also have an IVC filter that was installed somewhere between my leg and my lungs because of the initial danger of a clot developing and causing a pulmonary embolism. I often see commercials on the TV advertising law firms that offer to sue the manufacturer if the filter breaks and pierces a heart or a lung. Those commercials are a constant reminder of the dangers that still exist for me as a result of the accident. All of the metal placed within my body for the sake of repairing my bones means that going through airport security now involves the large body scanner, an additional hand-held scanner, and a pat down search that always leaves me wishing that I had chosen to drive instead. I have had to grow accustomed to visiting doctors often, which is something that I avoided to my own detriment before the accident. I have my heart and chest thoroughly checked once a year by a cardiologist that includes an EKG and CT scan because of the stent placed in my aorta. I also visit an endocrinologist several times a year for the sake of necessary blood work. Daily medication is required from both. I have managed to stay away from an orthopedic surgeon for some time now, but a return visit in the future is inevitable. Both my hand and my leg will most likely require further surgical work as time progresses. I have also had to grow accustomed to spending more time alone at home because my fatigue levels leave me with limited energy at times.
Despite these issues I can honestly say that I have progressed greatly and that I am very much thankful for the life that I have been given. I believe that every day is a gift to be appreciated and enjoyed as it unfolds before me. On a more positive note, all of these things have caused me to lose approximately fifty pounds. At 5’7” I had allowed myself to reach an unhealthy weight before the accident, but I am now well within a healthy and fit weight for my height. I can remember riding my motorcycle past a long empty storefront at a local strip mall and seeing my reflection in the glass. I always thought to myself that I looked like someone else, an overweight stranger on a bike that wasn’t really me. I weigh now roughly what I weighed in high school. Problem solved.
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| No reason to quit? |
I have been asked by many people at various times if I plan to ride a motorcycle again. The question was first asked when I was in the hospital, and I still get asked to this day. At times it seems like an irrational question to me because in my mind the accident was caused by the reckless actions of another driver, not the bike.
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| The front end of my bike |
I remember watching a local news story on TV while in the hospital that told of a driver who had died in a traffic accident. The accident didn’t involve any other vehicle aside from his. He had lost control of a large delivery type of truck on the highway and wrecked. I remember thinking of it as a strange and sad irony that he died having been surrounded by a large truck, but I survived while on a seemingly far more exposed and dangerous motorcycle. Should people who are involved in a car or truck accident consider the possibility of never traveling again within a car or truck? Nevertheless my answer is always the same. I will not ride again out of respect for my wife and my daughter. I believe that it would ultimately hurt them if I was to ride again, and I cannot allow myself to cause them any further pain. It is clear to me that the accident has caused them a great deal of trauma and I will not knowingly place myself in a position where the potential for such anguish exists, whether it results from memories of a past event or from another accident occurring. It would be duplicitous of me to say that I love them while also allowing for the possibility of this accident to cause any further trouble for them. It can’t truly be called love when you claim that you care for others while simultaneously choosing to fulfill your own desires above their well-being. In and of myself I believe that I would enjoy riding again because I truly have no fear or apprehension regarding motorcycles. I did enjoy riding in the past and I don’t believe that I would have any emotional or psychological problem with riding now, but I do not plan to ride again because the people in my life mean more to me than something as comparatively insignificant as a motorcycle. It is doubtful that I will ever ride again.
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| Where I work |
I have skipped seemingly countless details from the story of my accident and recovery, but I do not believe that any of the progress in my life beyond the accident would be possible without the blessings of my relationship with God. I am a Christian and the pastor of a Baptist church. I had an assurance of God’s love and control from the first time that I experienced coherent thoughts in the hospital and my faith in Him has allowed for a great deal of peace throughout this ordeal. I can honestly say that the love and grace of Christ has kept me from any form of anger or bitterness toward my circumstances or the driver that caused the accident. Although she has never attempted to contact me, I wish her only good in this life and trust that she is well. I have no trouble with accepting my condition or the fate that lies ahead for me, and I count every day as a gift from Heaven. I can remember speaking with someone about this accident a short time after I was released from the hospital and stating that God knew that I would be in that intersection on the morning of the accident, and that He also knew that the other driver would be there running the red light. The Lord knew of that accident long before it occurred and determined that it would serve a purpose in my life that involves His honor and glory. I stated that my peace in God’s control and divine will was sufficient. The person to whom I was speaking responded with a slight sense of shock, but what I said to her is absolutely true. The Lord was watching over my life long before this accident occurred and my faith in His perfect wisdom allows for a life of hope and peace. Every challenge that I have faced since the accident has been met with grace as the Lord has allowed my heart and mind to find the determination to fight on, while He has also allowed my body to experience healing and strength beyond every limitation. He has led me in finding good medical professionals and compassionate people while also providing divine intervention as the Great Physician. I know that my life has been redirected by this accident according to God’s leading. My faith in Him grants to me an assurance that He has allowed this not only for His purpose and glory, but also for my personal good. He has been kind to me, and life remains as good now as it was before the accident. I realize that many challenges lie ahead within the years to come, but I have a promise from the Bible that those challenges will be met by the sustaining work of God’s grace. Faith is always the victory.
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