I awoke on Monday, Memorial Day, flat on my back. I felt remotely like I had been hit by a large Mac Truck and wondered how I was able to get myself safely home from the beach, the night before. I was a little relieved to have even made it through the night, since the thought occured to me that I could have had a concussion and not known it. You know, too tough to actually go to the ER or anything like that. In pain, yes, but in need of emergency care...not so much. And I did admit, at least to myself, that my head still felt a bit woozy, even as I carefully placed my aching body under the covers that night. So when the sun came up and I was still alive, I figured that meant I was safe from dying from an aneurysm or something of that nature. The possibility of dying from pain was still a viable option.
As I tried to get up, I cried in pain. My ribs, which I was positive were broken at this point, seemed to be splitting in half as I pulled myself up. Did I need to see a doctor? Or was I tough enough to handle the pain? I had done my own investigative research on the Internet the night before and read all about the symptoms of fractured and bruised ribs. They were the same. Sharp pains in your ribs, some swelling. Okay, I had that. The treatment for both were the same as well. None. So was there a reason to go see anyone? No one could do anything about it, so icing and resting seemed to be the way to go.
The pain was bad. Right up there with my worst labor pains I recalled having right before the nurse said, "start pushing". A pain that someone would experience as a nail was being jabbed into your chest. Sharp and searing. A pain that would actually bring tears to my eyes. But I was a triathlete. I was in training. And being on the injured list was not on my agenda right now, so I was not caving in. Yet. Instead, I would head out to take the dog for a long power walk. Carefully. That would be my version of resting. No running, biking or swimming today.
Next on the agenda was to go visit my boyfriend in the hospital. He too, that very same Sunday, flew over his handle bars, landed on his head and shoulder and was now recovering in the hospital with a fractured scapula. How does that happen to two people connected in spirit but in two different places? I didn't have that answer, and knew that him being more hurt, was the only other thing keeping me from caving into my own pain. I would not let it take over me.
Driving was horrific. No matter how I sat in my seat, I couldn't stop the pain of the nail that seemed wedged under my rib cage, but kept doing my deep breathing as if in labor. My focus was him...not me. He was in the hospital and needed someone to take care of him. It was my worst fear. The thought of being in the hospital with no significant other to come to my rescue. It was so overwhelming to me at times it kept me awake and I was not going to let that happen to him.
Once in his room, I forgot all about my pains and was amazed at how great he looked. Besides the very uncomfortable-looking neck brace, he didn't look hurt at all. I mean, still had his khaki shorts on, nice blue riding shirt and looked...well, great. It was crazy. I reached for his hand and thought: Why? Why were we both flown off our bikes that day, left with wounds, but lives still in tact? Why were we saved? I stared into his eyes and wondered what the message was that surrounded this whole event. I wondered if it were a sign of some sort. Something telling us to read all the signs. Proceed with caution. And for the first time that day, I had intention of doing just that.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Life's Pot Holes: Day One.
I had set out for a long ride on my road bike. Long, because that was what the triathlon training schedule reported was the workout. I do not think for myself while in training, I live by the small print on my schedule. Gospel. I don't bail out when tired, I don't do half, and I don't alter the workout. It was the training, and I just did it. Sometimes I was tired and sometimes I felt great, but either way, I did it. It was Sunday and it wasn't day one of training, but day one of what I would experience in the way of Pot Holes.
Since it was Memorial Day Weekend, and the skies were casting a beautiful and sunny weekend, it was the perfect time to get the long ride in. I had just the right oatmeal in me, outfit ready, sunglasses in tact and even a little suntan lotion. All that was missing was my son. I had promised he could ride with me, and was still sleeping peacefully with the other teenage cousins who were severely sleep-deprived. By 10am I was beginning to worry about the amount of traffic on the boulevard, though, so I woke him and by 10:30am we were on the road. As I gave him strict rules about being acutely aware of his surroundings, I realized I had more to think about than just my own safety, which I was very aware of always on the streets.
I played it safe while he was with me for the 45 minutes, not riding too quickly, staying off the main streets as much as possible and being extra cautious around all the side streets. Once I dropped him off, a sigh of relief came over me that he made it safely and I began my own ride, with another 45 minutes to go. The weather could not have been better. The overcast skies, 65 degree weather and the confidence that I had made the right choice about leaving my jacket behind...which was my son's idea. Or so I thought.
My cadence quickly picked up as I enjoyed the flat road of Long Beach Island and was anxious to get off the busy mainland and head towards the Lighthouse. 19, 20, 21, 22 miles per hour...perfect. The traffic was picking up, though and with each metal grate in the road, the more aware of the traffic I became. At the first grate I checked over my shoulder. Enough space to go left and into the lane, skirting around the grate. A few more blocks and I hit the second grate. I again peered over my shoulder, but seeing there with no way to sneak in, I prayed I could go to the right. I had about 7 inches of clearance and hoped I could quickly maneuver through it. I might have even closed my eyes. No, not the smartest of decisions, but made it through. The third grate came upon me and again, I glance to the left. This time there is a flood of traffic. I quickly look off to the right and my heart begins to race, panic in my chest. To the right of the grate is not the smooth patch of pavement I had previously rode through. No, in fact, there was a small pot hole to the right of it. Being new to my rode bike, I had no idea of how well my bike, nor my riding would fare, but was very clear that there were no other options.
I gripped my handle bars, wishing death on them and not me and braced myself. I remember hitting it and being lifted in the air. I remember thinking, can I recover from this? I did not know if me feet were clipped or not, I just knew the bike was not on the ground and I was no longer in control. The next thing I remember is the front end of my helmet slamming to the ground and me being crouched on the shoulder saying, oh f---k. I didn't know where my bike was, nor did I care. I didn't feel pain, but I was sure my world was somehow spinning.
An elderly couple came quickly to my rescue and while I didn't look up, I did hear them ask if they should call an ambulance and I thought, dear god, no...not going to the emergency room. It's a holiday. Am I okay? Am I? Body check. Am I hurt or just confused from being flipped upside down?
They offered to take me and my bike back to my house, and while I couldn't make much sense of what had happened or what state I was in, I knew that going home was a good idea. I even knew which direction to go in, so I figured I wasn't that bad off. Though as I stood up, something was definitely wrong.
Ow, ow...I yelped, holding my ribs. Pain was searing into my rib cage, yet all the rescue woman was talking about was a tiny scrape on my elbow. Was I internally bleeding? Or could I ride home by myself? i should have worn my jacket. I wouldn't be bleeding. I sat still in the mini-van as if there were no pain, as if I had not just come close to death, as if it didn't bother me that I wasn't going to get in my 45 more minutes of riding. Could I go out later and do it? Once I had recovered? But once in the door of my house, in the safe arms of my dad, I knew there would be no more riding for the day. I also knew how lucky I felt to be alive.
Since it was Memorial Day Weekend, and the skies were casting a beautiful and sunny weekend, it was the perfect time to get the long ride in. I had just the right oatmeal in me, outfit ready, sunglasses in tact and even a little suntan lotion. All that was missing was my son. I had promised he could ride with me, and was still sleeping peacefully with the other teenage cousins who were severely sleep-deprived. By 10am I was beginning to worry about the amount of traffic on the boulevard, though, so I woke him and by 10:30am we were on the road. As I gave him strict rules about being acutely aware of his surroundings, I realized I had more to think about than just my own safety, which I was very aware of always on the streets.
I played it safe while he was with me for the 45 minutes, not riding too quickly, staying off the main streets as much as possible and being extra cautious around all the side streets. Once I dropped him off, a sigh of relief came over me that he made it safely and I began my own ride, with another 45 minutes to go. The weather could not have been better. The overcast skies, 65 degree weather and the confidence that I had made the right choice about leaving my jacket behind...which was my son's idea. Or so I thought.
My cadence quickly picked up as I enjoyed the flat road of Long Beach Island and was anxious to get off the busy mainland and head towards the Lighthouse. 19, 20, 21, 22 miles per hour...perfect. The traffic was picking up, though and with each metal grate in the road, the more aware of the traffic I became. At the first grate I checked over my shoulder. Enough space to go left and into the lane, skirting around the grate. A few more blocks and I hit the second grate. I again peered over my shoulder, but seeing there with no way to sneak in, I prayed I could go to the right. I had about 7 inches of clearance and hoped I could quickly maneuver through it. I might have even closed my eyes. No, not the smartest of decisions, but made it through. The third grate came upon me and again, I glance to the left. This time there is a flood of traffic. I quickly look off to the right and my heart begins to race, panic in my chest. To the right of the grate is not the smooth patch of pavement I had previously rode through. No, in fact, there was a small pot hole to the right of it. Being new to my rode bike, I had no idea of how well my bike, nor my riding would fare, but was very clear that there were no other options.
I gripped my handle bars, wishing death on them and not me and braced myself. I remember hitting it and being lifted in the air. I remember thinking, can I recover from this? I did not know if me feet were clipped or not, I just knew the bike was not on the ground and I was no longer in control. The next thing I remember is the front end of my helmet slamming to the ground and me being crouched on the shoulder saying, oh f---k. I didn't know where my bike was, nor did I care. I didn't feel pain, but I was sure my world was somehow spinning.
An elderly couple came quickly to my rescue and while I didn't look up, I did hear them ask if they should call an ambulance and I thought, dear god, no...not going to the emergency room. It's a holiday. Am I okay? Am I? Body check. Am I hurt or just confused from being flipped upside down?
They offered to take me and my bike back to my house, and while I couldn't make much sense of what had happened or what state I was in, I knew that going home was a good idea. I even knew which direction to go in, so I figured I wasn't that bad off. Though as I stood up, something was definitely wrong.
Ow, ow...I yelped, holding my ribs. Pain was searing into my rib cage, yet all the rescue woman was talking about was a tiny scrape on my elbow. Was I internally bleeding? Or could I ride home by myself? i should have worn my jacket. I wouldn't be bleeding. I sat still in the mini-van as if there were no pain, as if I had not just come close to death, as if it didn't bother me that I wasn't going to get in my 45 more minutes of riding. Could I go out later and do it? Once I had recovered? But once in the door of my house, in the safe arms of my dad, I knew there would be no more riding for the day. I also knew how lucky I felt to be alive.
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