Did you know May 7 is Green Up Day? We want to help clean up our watershed and our sound, and we’re asking you to join us. Afterwards, we’ll have a clambake and beer at our house.
We printed about thirty invitations and put them in our neighbors’ mailboxes. On that day, about twelve neighbors showed up. We’d never met any of them before and most of them hadn’t met one another. We shook hands with everyone, handed out contractor bags and gloves, and headed out together to start picking up trash. It went so well that we basically had to tell everyone to go home at the end of the night because they were all still gabbing and drinking on the porch and we had to go to bed.
My biggest focus at that time was preparing for the bike tour Cycling for Peace, which was my harebrained fundraising idea. It was a huge ride through our northeast territory: starting in Connecticut, going up through Providence, Rhode Island; zigzagging through Massachusetts to Saratoga, New York; Brattleboro, Vermont; Merrimack, New Hampshire; Portsmouth, New Hampshire; and finalizing the trip in Portland, Maine. Sean would join me for the first leg, but then he would have to go back to work. My sister-in-law Kaori would make the whole trip with me, though.
Months of planning went into it. The purpose of the ride was to promote awareness about PeaceJam by doing public talks and community events and sending out press releases in the areas we cycled through. Along the way I would also give talks and interact with the PeaceJam youth in those areas, exploring what inspired them and how they were creating change within their communities. There seemed no better way to promote PeaceJam than by doing this endeavor on a bicycle, fueled only by my legs, lungs, and heart.
But I hadn’t counted on quite so much…weather.
We began at seven a.m. on September 19, 2011, riding for eight hours against strong headwinds. I struggled with the cold, buying warmer arm sleeves on our arrival at our first destination. Then there was lots of rain and fog, and steep climbs up mountain ranges. Every time we arrived at our next stop, we were wet, cold, muddy, and exhausted, yet every nightly event recharged us. It was inspiring to meet so many other adults and kids who were working toward the same goals, and to find out what they were doing to make an impact in their areas, like bringing Special Olympics to their county or helping a school reduce the amount of waste it generates. We drove back to Connecticut feeling totally spent and excited about what we had accomplished, in terms of raising both awareness and money. At the end of the ride, Kaori and I had biked close to six hundred miles in six days through six states. Not a single issue. It was such a blessing to visit all of these PeaceJam sites and speak across the region where I worked.
Little by little, I found my groove and my passion at PeaceJam Northeast, and I started organizing workshops and roundtable discussions on the issues that we needed to talk about—things like teen pregnancy and suicide. Eventually I realized that the issues may have been on different scales, but there was still so much that connects all of us.
Six months into my new life in Connecticut, I finally felt like I was getting my act together. Sean, who had struggled to find work, picked up a temporary job as a mail carrier, too. We got hooked on triathlons and trained together during our free time, planning for the next race and the next. I started feeling more like myself again. Maybe it wasn’t a bad decision to move here after all, I thought.
Chapter 8
Flatlining
NEARLY ONE YEAR TO the day after starting my new job, I left a package of turkey to defrost on the counter, gave Sean a kiss, and headed out for a work meeting. It was Saturday morning, and though my hours were normally Monday to Friday, this kind of job required flexibility—what we were doing with PeaceJam was important, and I didn’t mind putting in weekend and evening hours when we were preparing for conferences or planning special projects. I felt very lucky to do the kind of work I did.
There had been another good change, too—a few months back they’d moved my office out of Hartford and to the shoreline. In Hartford, there had been no way I could ride a bike to work, but now riding was possible, though not ideal. I’d hemmed and hawed about the idea.
“I don’t know,” I had said to Sean. “It’s still a pretty busy road.”
“Well, let’s scope it out and see.”
So we took the ride together probably twenty times, noting where there were possible hazards. The trip there and back was a straight shot on Boston Post Road—no turns or stop signs, just a few traffic lights. Even so, you don’t get to mentally check out when you’re a road cyclist. You have to be constantly vigilant, watching for the various things that could hurt you or your bike. Potholes, gravel, roadwork, traffic…I took bike safety seriously and stayed on guard.
By the day of this meeting, I’d been biking in most days for about two months. It was a twelve-mile commute to and from work, and I did it on my favorite bike—my Jamis Coda. We had been together for almost ten years. She was all steel with a carbon fiber fork. I had her converted to a touring bike with dropped handlebars, and she rode like warm butter on a skillet.
Planet Fitness was right next to my office, and I kept a membership there so I could take showers after my rides in to work. While I was there, I stopped to make a quick Facebook post:
Just finished biking to work, light jacket and leg warmers, sunny skies…I wonder how much longer I can get away with biking? Hoping for at least another month of this!
After a shower, I was refreshed and ready to meet with my supervisor. We were there to talk about my recent Cycling for Peace tour.
“Looks like you raised about three thousand dollars toward scholarships,” he said.
“And spoke to about a thousand people. Yes, it was a very successful ride.”
“I want you to know that I’ve gotten very positive feedback from both students and teachers about your talks, and it’s led to great press in several papers. Have you seen the articles yet?”
“Just one or two.”
“Well, there’s a lot more than that. Our division is doing well with your work and you’re due a raise soon…”
My ears perked up. I knew they did cost-of-living increases.
“Thank you. I still don’t have a new contract, though. Is that coming soon?”
My contract was for one year, and I’d been asking for weeks about when a new contract would be forthcoming.
“Yes, sorry for the delay. I’ll have the new contract for you within the week. Your job is secure here for the next three to four years.”
What a relief! I’d figured my job was safe, but it was nice to hear it said out loud.
Sean and I had just decided to start trying to have a baby, so it was even better to hear that I wasn’t going to have to figure out how to afford diapers when the time came. It was such an exciting time; I felt like I was finally where I wanted to be in life. In fact, I was hoping I was already pregnant and carrying our first baby! We had been trying that entire month and it felt like the time was right.
Two hours after the meeting started, I was back outside on my bike again, in my fluorescent gear: cycling shorts, a bright yellow Pearl Izumi top, and a highlighter-yellow cycling jacket. Even my bike panniers were bright yellow. I pulled on my Giro Livestrong helmet with its fluorescent streaks, clicked my cycling shoes into the pedals, pulled on my bike gloves, and headed off. I always made a point to dress as brightly and safely colored as possible.
October 8, 2011, could not have been a more perfect fall day in Connecticut. When I rode toward home at eleven a.m., the sun was brilliant in the blue sky, and a light breeze tickled my arms. The leaves were just starting to change colors and fall gracefully to the ground, peppering my view with gorgeous oranges, reds, and yellows. I pitied the car commuters a bit; they were completely missing out on the sea air, the chirping birds, the meditative feeling of pedaling on such a clear day. Fall has always been my favorite season. Pumpkins, pumpkin lattes, pumpkin cookies, pumpkin ale…what could be better?
I even liked the way fall was a harbinger of wint
er. The changing of the literal seasons made me think about the changing of the seasons in my own life. Riding past a stretch of beautiful historic homes and buildings and an old-timey general store, I had a sense of peace.
I settled into the side lane and imagined how excited my dog would be to see me when I got home. Sedona was already an old girl by then, but ever enthusiastic. She’d bark and wag her tail when I came through the door, then we’d hug and wrestle before I’d take her out for a walk. Sean was at work doing postal deliveries, so I’d made plans with a good friend for a nice, long ride later that afternoon.
But I would never make it there.
As I continued on my straight path, I saw a freight truck turning in my direction from a side street. He was just feet away from the stop sign, coming fast, and I briefly made eye contact with the driver. There wasn’t even time in my brain for me to put through the complete thought: Oh, God. He’s coming right at me. Stop!
He briefly slowed at the corner, but then the engine revved up again and he accelerated right through, right toward me.
It’s too fast. There is nothing I can do but scream as the giant truck knocks me down onto my left side, my legs momentarily tangled up with my bike. I hear snapping and grinding.
Why?
He runs over me with his front tires, rolling my body over and flipping me to the other side. I feel my insides cracking. Then he runs over me with his back tires. I’m rolled into the middle of the street and I’m pretty sure this could be my last moment on Earth. The shadow of the truck disappears.
Why did he kill me? He looked right at me.
My abdomen, my legs, the whole left side of my body…everything is on fire, everything is in desperate pain and so heavy. Blood gushes out from multiple wounds, and all I can do is scream and scream.
HELP!
I’m able to raise my head enough to see something bright white and yellow protruding from my leg. It’s bone, tendons, and fatty cells.
I hear the truck accelerate, like I’d been nothing more than a speed bump. The driver attempts to flee the scene, but someone stops him. It felt like just me and the leaves only a few moments earlier, but people come rushing from all directions now. I hear, “Oh my God, she’s alive.”
Am I? Alive, I realize, but barely. The skin has peeled right off most of the lower half of my body, along with my clothing—my shorts are shredded off and my shirt is shredded up to the sleeves and who cares? There isn’t any normal flesh to see. My abdomen has opened up and I’m bleeding out. It’s a scene from a horror movie. Suddenly I can’t feel my back or my pelvis anymore, and a strong chemical smell floods my nose—the asphalt? Truck fumes? The rubber tires that just ripped me apart?
I’m dying.
It feels like thousands of shards of burning glass are embedded in my skin, all over. I’m on fire, but I’m cold on the pavement. Nothing makes sense. My skin is so hot, but my core is cold, and I can’t stop shaking. I can see my intestines.
“Why did he do it? Why did he accelerate?” I ask everyone, a question that no one can answer. My mind tries to understand—did he intend to kill me? Did I do something wrong? He looked right in my eyes and then took his foot off the brake and shifted to accelerate.
I came here on a humanitarian mission, to be a peacemaker. Why did someone want to do this? It hurts emotionally as much as it hurts physically. Both types of pain are brutal.
This is going to be it, right here on the pavement. No! Fight harder. I can’t let myself pass out, or I might never wake up again. All I can think to do at that moment is to keep screaming—my EMT training kicks in and tells me that’s what to do to keep myself alert and keep my heart pumping. Stay in control. Don’t go into shock. Stay alive.
A woman with blond hair appears and sits in the road with me, holding my head. Her breath smells strongly of cigarettes.
“Hang in there. It’s going to be okay,” she says.
“Please don’t let me die! I just found my husband. We haven’t even met our child. I can’t die now. I can’t die!”
“You will make it.” She caresses my forehead amid the sounds of tires screeching and yelling all around us. It’s chaos. It’s chaos and I’m dying. “You will be a mommy. Hold on.”
Before long, she is gone, but there are others. Someone is always talking to me, tending to me. Another man runs over, screaming out orders and carrying an emergency heat blanket from a kit he had in his car—he’s a retired medic.
“YOU, STOP TRAFFIC. YOU, HOLD HER HEAD STILL. YOU, COVER HER ABDOMEN WITH THIS. Holy…God. Hang in there, girl. Hang in there.”
My blood is everywhere. People stop and stare, white-faced. I’m a scene out of a horror movie come to life, and everyone wants a glimpse. Some want so badly to help me live; some are there just to gawk. You could put your fist through the hole in my abdomen.
“Nasty!” one guy says. He is cursing as if I am no longer a person who can hear and feel, but just a spectacle, an object in the road. As if I’m choosing to bleed out here on the pavement, naked, with my open abdomen disgusting as many people as possible. As if I am not trying my hardest not to die at this moment.
Sirens…everywhere. People screaming.
“Call my husband,” I manage to choke out to one of the men. I can barely breathe or get a word out, and I keep coughing and gasping. “His name is Sean.” I recite the number slowly, barely audible. As the ambulance arrives in record time, this man reaches Sean at work to say that I’ve been in an accident and that I’m going to the hospital.
“My name is Patti and I’m here to take care of you,” the paramedic says.
“Please don’t let me die.” I say that again and again to anyone who will listen.
“You hold her leg together. You hold this on her abdomen.” The EMTs are not there to chitchat. They mean business, and they are moving with speed and purpose. It’s a team of three women, and they’re rolling my body onto a backboard, just like I learned in training. I was supposed to be one of them, not the one being loaded into an ambulance.
I hear Patti say to the young medic, Amanda, “I can’t believe she’s still conscious.”
Lying on the backboard stretches out my open wounds and feels like hell. The pain overwhelms me and I scream, but I picture Sean’s face and I fight. If he were here, he would put his hand on my heart and tell me that we’re in this together. And that’s what I need. I need…
“Would you—put your hand on my heart?” I ask Amanda, who is there to monitor my vital signs. It’s her first day on the job. In fact, I am her very first call. I don’t know that until later, of course. I just know I am dying and I need help.
“I’ve just been reconnected with my soul mate,” I tell her, every word labored between gasps. “We want to have a baby. I can’t die now. Please don’t let me die. Please pray that I don’t die.”
I am pleading for my life, begging total strangers to take control of my destiny. She puts her hand on my heart and promises that I will live. I’m bleeding internally even more than externally and yet I’m still conscious and aware of everything. My training is a blessing and a curse; I know more about what’s happening to me than most people would. I know that fecal matter is entering my bloodstream and that I’m quickly becoming toxic. This is one more way I can die.
They pump me full of morphine and Patti tells me, “You should feel a little relief soon. You don’t have to fight so hard.”
But I can’t accept that. I need to fight for my life. I’m woozy and dizzy, and it could be from the morphine, but more likely it’s from the trauma and pain and blood loss. To treat an unconscious patient is to work blindly, trying to guess what hurts the most, where the injuries are coming from. I am determined to stay lucid.
My left leg is unresponsive. I can’t feel or move it.
They’ll amputate it at the hospital, I acknowledge. Probably both legs. If I live, I won’t cycle again.
It’s a terrible thought, but under the circumstances, optimistic. My racing
heart strains to pump. The ride to the hospital takes about twenty minutes, and in that time the pain and the fear switch places. The morphine does its job so that the intensity of the pain lessens, but the fear is overwhelming. I may never see Sean again. My EMT Amanda has her hand on my heart and is praying out loud for me, “Dear God, give her grace and strength.”
Please, God, let me live.
It’s the simplest prayer, over and over, as I feel myself slipping away. I hang on to those last threads of consciousness with every bit of might I have.
We start crossing the Q Bridge to New Haven and the bumpy road surface reawakens my pain.
“We’re almost there. Hang in there,” calls the driver.
I will. I will. I will.
The ambulance stops. We are at the trauma bay. The double doors open to the sunlight, and my eyes shift away from the medic’s eyes over to the clouds, the bright blue sky overhead. I feel wrapped in love and safe, like I could just float off the table. I am invincible. I am happy. No, I’m beyond happy: I’m suddenly euphoric. I feel so good that I think I could get out of the ambulance and bike another hundred miles. There are hands all around me, reaching, touching, comforting me, and I know I’m all right.
The hands reaching toward me are the last sight I see. My world goes black.
I didn’t lose consciousness then, which I know only because of what other people have told me. I have no memory beyond those double doors—but apparently I was cussing up a storm while they were hooking up my IV and assessing my condition. Not exactly the serene state I had been in a few minutes earlier while looking at the clouds. There are stages of death, and I was cycling through them.
Embarrassing, really. Here these people were just trying to save my life and I was swearing and ranting about how the whole state sucked. Shock makes you do weird things.
Gratitude in Motion Page 7