Motorcycle Mishap

I’m sure there’s a law of physics somewhere that decrees a motorcycle’s doom when its tires strike oil on the road. Here’s the scary thing: if this law states that your motorcycle will slide on oil and launch you over the handlebars, there’s nothing you can do about it. Humanity is powerless against the laws of physics.

Tuesday, July 31^st

On this sunshiny morning, Clayton and I were on our way to the Jordan River temple where my mom’s stepmom, baptized just over a year ago into the LDS church, was going through the temple for her first time. Totally awesome! We were nearly there when my Daddy called. I was driving, so Clayton answered, and soon I heard him say unnerving things like “Ohh, man” and “Are you okay?” and repeatedly “Okay, we’ll tell her.” What the…? Confused and concerned, I tried to picture what might have happened. An accident? Dad’s voice sounded too normal for someone in dire condition. Lost in thought, I missed our next turn.

Clayton “hung up” the cell and I made him regurgitate the conversation back to me. Well, Dad’s motorcycle slipped on oil on his way to the temple; he wasn’t going very fast; he had a gash in his ankle; and he was in an ambulance. It was a little shocking. Things like ambulances and motorcycle crashes usually suggest far worse results than a gash in the ankle, and Dad seemed alright. I spoke my thoughts aloud, reflecting especially on the fact that Dad would be alone in a hospital for more than two hours. That idea didn’t sit well with either of us, and before we got out of the car we decided to visit him.

But first we had to tell Mom.

In the temple, cell phones are off or on silent. Mom had gotten there earlier with Grandma and was already inside. I showed the temple workers my recommend for the sole purpose of retrieving Mom. After a worker left to get her I realized I’d mentioned only that Dad was in an accident. I feared that Mom would think he was seriously hurt or worse. Soon as she arrived, I burst out “He’s okay, Mom! He’s okay!” and the worker said, “I didn’t tell her anything.” Oh.

I gave her the details. The worker asked if Mom was going to stay, and she said quietly, “I probably…should.” Mom would be a big support for Grandma, and plus I could go to Dad. She was torn, but chose to stay. Clayton and I tried to imagine what it would be like to picture your spouse injured in a hospital for two hours without you there. But we felt she couldn’t have been in a more peaceful place to wait to see him than the temple.

At the Hospital

After wandering around lost among 2 buildings of the wrong hospital and 9 buildings of the right one (and I in my 3-inch heels), we finally found Dad. He called right before we found him, wondering if someone was coming to see him, and lit up when we stepped into his room. It was hard to miss the wide and bleeding laceration on his left ankle. His foot was covered in dry blood. We hugged and he told his tale, of how he took an exit from Salt Lake City onto I-15 that he’d never taken before on his bike. He was stopped at a red light before the on-ramp; then the light went green, he turned, and suddenly he and his bike went separate ways.

The first blessing in all this was that he wasn’t going very fast, maybe 10-15 mph, as he was informed from the second blessing in all this—the ambulance sitting across from him at the light who saw it all happen. They estimated his speed, and also said that he’d flown over his handlebars. He had no idea about that. When your body flies, there’s no up and down. Just adrenaline and a panicky sensation that comes from your body moving too fast in directions that your brain didn’t tell it to move. HazMat arrived quickly and speculated that it might be a diesel spill. Dad stood up, aware of a pain in his calf, and thought he’d be able to get his bike up. Of course the medics asked if he was alright. He was, until he noticed the blood seeping out of his shoe. Things got a little different after that.

What hit me the most was when my Daddy told us how it felt, the swinging of his motorcycle’s back end, the sudden launching of his body through the air. He was still shaken, and it brought tears to both our eyes. The left side of his helmet was scratched up. For a helmet, it didn’t look so bad. But then you have to imagine your head sliding on the ground fast enough for it to get that scratched, and that’s plum scary. Then you have to imagine psychos who ride motorcycles without helmets in the first place, whose faces would not have fared as well as the helmet when grated against the ground. Fortunately, Dad is no psycho. In fact, his feet were normally protected too with boots, but on this fateful ride, he wore his Sunday shoes instead.

All this…at no more than 15 mph. Makes it seem a little ridiculous that his ankle got so mangled, but that’s how it goes. Powerless against physics. My thoughts wandered to what might have happened if he was going faster, and I choked up. This was a time when I turned to my beliefs, my religion. Believing that when I lost a loved one, I would see them again when I died. The ultimate and only comfort when loved ones are lost.

A Side Note on Passing Out

I learned about myself that I don’t get queasy from the sight of blood. Or needles. Or needles with blood. If Dad was in pain, I would not have been able to watch. But laying there on his stomach, speaking with me calmly with his foot propped up, I was able to watch them pry the injury apart, clean it with saline, and sew the tendon up.

Clayton, however, had left long before then. After the needle took Dad’s blood, actually. Dad had borrowed my health insurance card, and as he was giving it back to me, I noticed that Clayton was leaned forward in the seat beside me, face in his hands. I was about to ask if he was alright, when his breathing changed, like he was snoring. I put my hands on his back and said his name, but no response. He’d passed out. The nurse guy came over, sat him up, and rubbed his chest, all the while saying his name until he woke up. Poor Clayton felt sick and clammy, and escaped to the lobby to sleep it off.

Apparently passing out is no fun, but I find it to be such a phenomenon. Such crazy physical changes that happen for no conscious reason. What a day to reflect on how special, and how fragile, our bodies are. Anyway, they stitched Dad up, bandaged him, and Mom took him home. He’s doing great. He feels sorest from the crutches.

No pictures for this post...not because none were taken, but because I’m sure not everyone wants to see what a bloodied, cut-open ankle looks like.