Everything Changed In An Instant

Sometimes life asks us, without warning, to step forward.

Photo by Josh Nuttall on Unsplash

In the first moments, before I even see what’s happening, I hear the sounds, and I’m certain that a car’s heading straight for Eric and me on the walking path.

The unmistakable whiney screech of tires — followed immediately by the grinding scratch of metal on pavement — prompts Eric and me to look up and toward the road.

We’re just twenty minutes into our walk along Evanston’s lakefront path, just south of the curve where Sheridan Road rounds into Main Street. We’ve just returned home from our honeymoon, and this walk was my stupid idea.

The sounds aren’t coming from a car, though. They’re from the cyclist who’s just rounded the curve at full speed and is now skidding across the pavement in front of rush-hour drivers — and us.

Cars in both directions slow as the young man and his bike come to a stop in the middle of the road. Eric and I step off the path, crossing the street toward him. I hold one hand up, signaling cars to avoid the downed rider. With the other hand, I’m fumbling to dial 911.

The young man stands up quickly, ripping off his white helmet and whipping it onto the lawn.

“SHIT!” he cries. His bike is still in the street.

With his back to us, I can’t tell if he’s forty or fifteen. He’s slim, with white biking shoes, dark cycling pants, and a white cycling shirt with blue lettering. His hair is dark. Though I don’t know how old he is, I’m relieved he’s upright.

He’s bending down to pull his bike out of the street as we reach him.

“Hey,” I say as we approach. “Are you okay?”

I look down at my phone. Did my 911 call go through? “Hello?” I say, holding it up to my ear. “Hello?”

“911, where’s your emergency?”

I’m trying to get a look at the guy, and when he turns around to face us, there’s blood on his face, his wrists. He lifts a hand up to his face and opens his mouth. There’s blood. He’s repeatedly touching his teeth, which are covered in blue braces — the same shade of blue as the accent color on his racing shirt.

“Hey,” I say, “I’m calling an ambulance. Is that okay?”

“No, please don’t,” he says, looking down at his hands, then his legs, then his bike. As we stand with him, he picks up his helmet and his phone, then whips them both into the grass. “SHIT! SHIT!” he yells.

“Where’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asks.

I’m trying to decide who’s the more important person to talk to: the injured or the helper.

“I just witnessed a bike accident,” I say. “I’m on Sheridan south of the curve at Main Street. A biker went down on the road. He’s bleeding, but he’s talking… I’m not sure if he wants an ambulance. Can you hold on a second?”

I look to Eric, then to the cyclist. He must be in high school.

“Are you okay?” I ask. I want to hear his voice. I want to know he’s coherent. I want to know how hard he hit his head/face/mouth.

He’s covered in road rash — a term I picked up long ago when one of my sons was an avid longboard skater. This young man has skin missing from his face, his wrists, elbows. Through the torn fabric on both of his hips, blood oozes. My own skin contracts as I see this, imagining the burning pain he must be feeling.

He’s pacing now, constantly touching his teeth, his upper lip. All at once, he looks disoriented, angry, embarrassed, and scared.

Eric and I stand with him. “I think you should get looked at,” I say. “You’re bleeding in a bunch of spots.”

“I am?” he asks. As cars drive by, they slow to get a look at the three of us.

Pointing to his injuries, Eric and I say, “You’re bleeding here…” “And here…” “And here…”

He looks at me the way my kids used to look at me just after a fall… just before they’d burst into tears.

I hold the phone to my ear. “We’re at…”

“No,” the young man says. “I’m okay.”

I know better. My eyes see what they see. In my 57 years, I’ve seen too many injuries to think this is nothing.

“Is there someone you want us to call instead of an ambulance?” I offer.

“I can do it,” he says, picking up his phone. There’s now grass embedded in a corner of it. He picks at it as he dials a number, sweat now running down his cheeks and into his eyes.

To the 911 dispatcher I say, “He’s calling someone to come. Can I just stay on with you until he reaches them?”

“Sure,” she says calmly. “Or, you can call us back. We’ll be here. “

Duh.

“Yeah, okay,” I say. Hanging up, I look at Eric, and we exchange a silent glance. I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Why the hell does this seem to happen with such frequency? Why, when we go for random walks, do we stumble upon people in need?

The young man calls his sister; she’ll be here in ten minutes. We tell him we’ll stay with him until she arrives. I ask him what year it is. What his address is. What his phone number is. He answers them all.

“I think I took the brunt of the fall on my face,” he says, his voice still in a daze.

“And also on your left hip, your right hip, your arms…” I counter.

He’s concerned about his bike…and about the fact that he’d been in a recent collision on his bike — and that an ambulance had been called. “It was so expensive,” he says. “But that time, it wasn’t my fault. Someone ran right into me,” he says.

This time, he confesses, he’d been on his phone.

“I’m so stupid,” he says. I can see self-loathing surrounding him like a shroud, and I try to lighten his mood.

“We’ve never done anything stupid,” I say, chuckling as I point to myself and then Eric. “Am I right?”

“Never,” Eric says.

The kid looks at us, confused. We both smile.

“We’ve never made a bad decision in our lives,” I add, then wink at the kid. He fiddles with his front teeth, then smiles. I can’t help but notice the bleeding and swelling. I tell him to take a photo of his face. “It’s gonna blow up in the next hour,” I tell him. “Can you move your wrists?” He barely moves the right one. I urge him to get X-rays.

I try to keep the young man distracted. I tell him the story of my son the skateboarder…about how he had to pay a road rash tax before a skateboarding event… and how horrified I was at the idea that people knowingly do sports that result in tearing off layers of skin.

Eric compliments the kid on his racing shirt. Apparently, he’d recently won a cycling competition.

We pick up his helmet and his wallet and his water bottles, then prop his bike against a huge tree. It’s the kind that doesn’t have a kickstand. The kid inspects it, noting the areas where the gears are bent…where the paint’s slightly scratched. He clearly knows every inch of this bike, every curve that’s supposed to be there, every angle that looks slightly off. I stand in awe. This kid’s body is weeping blood as his hands run up and down the body of his bike. This is someone who’s clearly spent hours upon hours training and focusing on his passion, someone who made a bad choice and is now processing the fallout. It pains me to watch him go through this, and I don’t even know him.

I ask him his name and his number. I text him our names, just so he has them. I can’t imagine he will, but I’m trying to do what I can to keep him talking and engaged until his sister arrives.

“What year are you?” I ask.

“I’m a senior this year,” he says, adding, “WHOA. Weird to say that,” he says, bringing his hand to his mouth again. “Bad timing to begin the school year, I guess,” he says. “Is it bad?”

I look at his face. There isn’t a massive cut anywhere, I say. It’s more like a rash that covers the top lip and chin.

He lifts his top lip and flips it back, exposing his gums. “Do you see bleeding?” he asks.

I’m struck by how vulnerable this moment is. It feels like something I’d do with my sister, or my spouse, not a stranger. But here, standing on a corner with this young, injured man, I step closer for a better look and tell him my honest thoughts.

“I think you’re okay in there,” I say. “I don’t see blood on the inside. That’s a good sign.” His body and his bike are pretty messed up. It makes me feel good to give him a bit of good news.

I watch as he stops using his right arm. “I think you might want to keep that one elevated,” I say, “to keep the swelling down.”

When he lifts his arm, he winces. “Now it hurts even more,” he says, then adds, “Are you a doctor?”

Eric laughs. He knows how many injuries I’ve had, how many ER trips I’ve made with my kids.

“Nah,” I say. “I’m just a mom.”

When his sister arrives, we help her empty her trunk so we we can load the bike into the trunk. Their parents are on their way, and they’ll put the trunk stuff into their car. We say our goodbyes and give them our best wishes. Then, we step toward the sidewalk and continue our evening walk.

It’s 1 a.m. now, and I can’t stop thinking about that boy…about how lucky he was to be wearing a helmet, how lucky he was not to have hit the curb or veered into oncoming traffic or get run over by the car behind him.

I keep thinking about how much pain he must be in right now, trying to get comfortable, worrying about his senior photos and his bike and his parents (justifiable) admonishments for using his phone while on a bike.

I hope he’s okay. I hope his wrist isn’t broken — even though I told Eric I’m sure it is.

And I’m grateful that we got to be there for him when it happened. I’ve been the one who’s made mistakes, been knocked down, and had to get back up. I know what it’s like to feel raw, exposed, and scared. I’ve lived through those core memory moments of before and after “the fall” — and I’ve never forgotten those who’ve stepped toward me in those moments.

Today, being there with that young man, felt deeply meaningful and moving. Living through my own lowest moments has taught me how to be there for others during theirs.

Everything can change in an instant.

I try to remember this every damn day.

Thanks for letting me process that experience here. And now, I hope I can sleep!

YOUR TURN

Have you ever witnessed an accident and stepped toward the aftermath? What was the experience like for you?