Help appears when needed

A man who had identified himself as a postal carrier to those pedestrians gathering around told me to not to move.  I couldn't see him.  He was somewhere above my head, he said he was calling 911.  A fluffy haired perky young woman squatted in front of me saying something about being a medical student and wanted to know she was there to help.  I saw people standing on the curb as I lay in the middle of the intersection near the university at what was the beginning of rush hour.  By now there were sirens approaching and the voice of the postal worker had become my focal point.  He spoke with a voice of calm authority and told me I would be O.K. I guess I believed him, though I wanted to be O.K. right now and could hardly breath.

I didn't see the ambulance arrive as it was behind me.  I didn't see what the cars did to get out of its way in that intersection, I just heard the voices of two men on either side of me and the voice of the postal worker saying "They're going to take care of you. I'm going to leave now."  I saw his legs pass by in front of my face and as he stepped onto the curb I asked him, "What's your name?"  He turned and answered, "Santos." I automatically answered "Gracias."  I don't know if he heard me or not and I barely glimpsed his face, but as a Spanish speaker his name carried the Spanish meaning "Saints."  Yes, saints indeed, they are out there everywhere.

The man on my left asked me questions and they both moved me to a hard surface and then transferred me to another surface.  I couldn't see, I could only feel the agonizing pain that pierced my right side and hear my own growling groans. I kept my eyes closed while being moved to concentrate on breathing which was difficult.  In the ambulance the man to my left asked most of the questions, "Where does it hurt most?,  Are you allergic to any medicines?  Is there someone you want us to contact? I tried to focus on his face, but could not focus on anything but answering questions and breathing.  I asked them their names.  I answered questions.  I asked them not to cut off my favorite cycle shirt and cycle jacket, but they said it had to be done.

I heard them talking about things I only partially understood and telling me that they were "going to put a line in" and "it would pinch."  Pinch??!! Pinch?  A pinch was the least of my worries.  A pinch was nothing.  I just said "do what you have to do."  I was comforted by their quiet speech, or perhaps I just couldn't hear well.  The man to my left seemed to be in charge yet they always communicated what they were about to do and why they were doing it. They gave me pain meds and I don't remember being wheeled into the emergency room, it was as if I had been asleep.  On the bed in the emergency room other figures approached, with questions that I answered in a daze.  No my head didn't hurt too much, I couldn't breath, I hurt like hell under my right boob and all the way around under my arm. Yes, I was allergic to sulfa.  They put a panel in front of my chest, asked me to hold it and don't move. Like I was going to move!! They all retreated to a space just behind the spread curtains and  I saw them all at once for the first time.  It looked like they were on stage preparing for a performance.

I heard a man to my left say "I believe her."  It seemed like it was the man in the ambulance, but perhaps that was only because in my mind he was "the man on my left."  They then moved me to a large tube that I was told was a CAT scanner.  Weird,  I know it has nothing to do with cats, but since I felt like one that had been hit by a car, it seemed appropriate.  At one point they asked me my pain level and then they gave me morphine.  A bit later my pain level had gone from the original 8 to 2.  What a wonder pain killers! I felt numb everywhere, a welcome relief that allowed me to breath a little easier.

The people who filled the trauma center began to leave bit by bit until I was with only one person and then none.  I called my daughter, and then a friend to pick me up. Someone in the room came back to help me prepare to leave.  They gave me green socks with with grey rubber grips on the bottom and a soft green surgical type short sleeved top to leave in as my old fashioned cleats would have slid on the slick floors and my shirt and jacket had been destroyed. I wobbled out of the room with discharge papers and a paper that said I had  two broken ribs. I don't remember the ride home. 

The hospital doctor had given me oxycodone to take for pain when I got home and I slept for most of two days.  The itching it caused all over my body the first day wasn't so bad compared to the pain, so I kept taking it.  By the second day, the itching increased all over and the nausea set in pretty strong.  I switched to Aleve in the daytime and Advil PM in the evening.  With the pain sleep came and went at all times of day, but I started to get out of the house for walk to Starbucks, a cup of tea and a walk home.  It was the highlight of my day.  I couldn't read as my head hurt. Watching TV was ok for a period of time, but only with very low volumn. The Dr. in the hospital said I should take a week off work.  That was clearly a no brainer as I couldn't think clearly at all and hurt with every breath I took.  I went back to work the following week. 

I was determined to make as quick a comeback as possible since I wasn't willing to let go of my goal to ride from Tuscany to Paris with my Italian friends.  It had become something of greater import than just the trip by now.  It was a desire to be as strong as I had felt when I finished Cycle Oregon II.  I remember feeling as if I could leap over buildings. It was a strength I had never known before.  As tired as we all were when we finished zigzagging across Oregon through the Cascades from Portland to Ashland, we were all sad it had ended.  I could really feel the wonder of that trip again and was longing to repeat it. The tour from Tuscan to Paris and back would for me be like the climber who summits Mt. Rainier and then begins planning for K2.
I had begun training and as terrified as I felt about getting back on my bike, I rejected the thoughts of "It's too dangerous. There are more crazy drivers in Italy. There are easier ways to work on your Italian than riding with racer type Italians. Maybe you should just do Cycle Oregon. It's more realistic." Bing! Bing!

The negative thoughts just kept coming. I knew then that this much resistance was a certain sign that I was frightened and that I did indeed want to keep planning for this tour. "Yeah?? tour? hundred mile days?!"  "Grueling miserable task!" "Who'de want to do that?" "Remember last year when walking was miserable with 100% and 80% humidity?!" I knew these were the negative voices. Somewhat true perhaps, but I couldn't listen to them. I tried to visualize the ride, I couldn't.  Then I realized I didn't have to do that right away.  I could though visualize my increased strength after just two weeks of training.  I could see and even feel myself riding up to the Greensprings or the back road to the Siskiyou Summit. I had done that before. So what if it was 15 or 20 years ago.  I could feel it and it felt GOOD.  THAT, is what I need to do when the ugly negative voices come. I had already learned to use statements of gratitude to ward off depression in tough times, but it was the FEELING that I needed to get in touch with. The feeling of the process, not just the result.  The feel of the wind in my hair and strong easy movements.

Then as I would cross the street on my 15 minute walk to Starbucks, my stomach would tighten and I would feel tense as the cars raced by.  When I drove to school that following week I would tense and inhale, holding my breath momentarily as cars approached to closely or arrived at an intersection perpendicular to me.  I felt shaky in so many situations and only hoped that it would change and I would be able to return to my normal state of tension...this hyper vigilant state was exhausting.  The headaches wouldn't quit.  I went to Pilates the first day. I was so exhausted I just wanted to lay on the map, but did some low back work and some leg lifts and stretches.  I tried angry cat and old cow, that is on hands and knees, raising up the spine, then dropping it before I realized I was not going to be able to push the pain away or out of my mind. 

The classroom was just as challenging.  I tried to write on the board, but it hurt a lot to raise my arm.  I tried to write with my left hand but that didn't work.  When I looked from one side of the room to the other from one student to another my head felt like my brains were sloshing around. I spoke quietly and asked students to not chatter at all.  I wasn't sure what was going on but was determined if I just stuck it out, I would feel better.  After all, pushing through was often my only choice in the past and as miserable as it is, it worked. Day two was only a half day so I stopped at the coffee shop and found a book called Cycling Past 50.  It hurt my head and made me nauseous to scan the book titles and chapters at my normal rate so I just slowed it down.  One book was just about road cycling training.  I scanned the titles, "Training for a 40-60 mile ride," "Training for a Century", "Training for a week long ride" and as I continued to search there was nothing that dealt with training for a cross country ride.  I knew there was no reading that would take the place of being on the bike, but right now I just had the wind literally knocked out of me and I needed something to inspire, something to keep my mind on the goal. 

Day three at work was nearly impossible.  I was in tears by the end of the day and stayed an extra hour to work on handouts and a lesson plan for the sub who would come in the next day.  Two weeks of headache and exhaustion was enough to tell me that I needed to see my primary care physician who is a Nurse Practicioner. She also ordered a head MRI to make sure I didn't have any blood clots and said I needed to give myself some time to heal and that my symptoms were that of a concussion. She sent me home with a "lighter weight'' pain medicine, but I ended up having the same but less grave allergic reaction to that so I quit those too.

By this time, though I was able to rest and take naps, I still felt like I had water and cotton balls for a brain and that someone had been using it for soccer practice. I was beginning to feel depressed again. Hurting is insult enough, exhaustion is frustrating, but being home alone while feeling all of that for an active extrovert is adding insult to injury.  But once again, when we really need help it does arrive.  My soul sister arrived from Portland for a funeral of a friend and a great man and stayed with me for 5 days. She helped around the house, drove me to the Doctor's office and most importantly of all she provided the moral support of  another loving soul.  Sometimes just being there is enough.  "Santos", saints, yes we have them all around us.