THE ACCIDENT:
A BIKE, A TRUCK, AND A TRAIN
CHRIS DIKES
Copyright © 2012 Chris Dikes
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in any form or by any means without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.
The opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author. The names of some individuals in this book have been changed. The conversations and order of events depicted are as the author remembers them.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
For Angela, my wife, and Samuel, my son.
“Fear is not a bad place to start a spiritual journey. If you know what makes you afraid, you can see more clearly that the way out is through the fear.”
Kathleen Norris, Dakota
My eyes opened and I gazed up at a white, metal ceiling. Where was I? How did I get here, wherever here was? What day was it? What time was it? Unable to figure out the answers to these questions, panic ensued and my heart started pounding. I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. Both of my arms and legs had been strapped down to whatever I was laying on.
I noticed a woman in a blue uniform to my right.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You were in an accident.”
Those words, “You were in an accident,” released the pain from whatever gate had held it back. My face felt as if I’d been punched repeatedly, not that I’d ever been punched in the face multiple times, but this was what it must feel like. My chin throbbed. I tasted blood in my mouth and ran my tongue along my swollen lip. My neck had been placed in a brace to prevent me from moving my head in any direction. I couldn’t see my left leg, but it felt as if it were burning and being hit with a baseball bat at the same time. To my right, I saw a sea of blood that covered the entirety of my right arm.
I closed my eyes and tried to remember anything. What was the last thing I remembered doing? I waited, but nothing came to mind. My thoughts were a blank slate. I opened my eyes and saw a picture of myself on a bike. Had I been riding my bike?
Had I been in some sort of accident while riding my bike?
To ride a bike is to accept the fact that at some point an accident will occur. The severity may vary from person to person and incident to incident, but escaping accident-free is not an option. Our family photo album contains a picture of me at my sixth birthday party. I am standing next to my new bike, a Huffy 56, and there is a huge smile on across my face. Grandpa Elkins and Uncle John stand on either side of me. I wonder if they were the ones who’d purchased the bike or if they just happened to be standing next to me for the picture. Behind us in the picture, there are people eating my birthday cake. All I care about is the bike. I don’t remember the picture being taken, but I do remember taking that bike into the front of the house and trying to ride it in the street. I fell and scraped my elbows and knees. Welcome to the world of riding a bike.
A few years later, after my parent’s divorce and a series of moves, I moved with Mom to Seguin, Texas. During the summers, I rode my bike all over town. It was a different time in 1979, one where a fourth grader could disappear for the day on his bike. I used to ride my bike along the sidewalks of Texas Lutheran College. One afternoon, I thought I’d try to impress a couple of the college girls who were enrolled in summer school. After all, what nineteen-year-old girl wouldn’t be impressed by a fourth grader on a bike who could ride like the wind? I sped up, hopped off the sidewalk onto the grass, passed the young women, and then attempted to hop back on the sidewalk. Instead of a graceful reentry, my front tire hit the edge of the sidewalk and catapulted me forward over the handlebars. I flew across the sidewalk and slid across the grass, scraping the inside of my right wrist. How I didn’t injure myself further is beyond me. The girls walked by without even stopping to render aid. I guess we were not meant to be.
Two weeks later, not having learned my lesson, I attempted to impress another group of college coeds with the same maneuver. The results were the same, except that this time I scraped the inside of my left wrist. For years, I had identical scars on each wrist.
Throughout junior high, there would be more accidents and more scrapes, but once I turned sixteen and got a car, I left the bike in the garage. I took up biking in college, not so much for the exercise or the fun, but as a way to save money on gas. I rode to school and back, safely and without incident. Once my finances improved, I went back to the car.
In my mid-thirties, tired of running for exercise, I took up road cycling. Two weeks after the purchase of my first road bike, a red Trek 1200, and four weeks before the birth of my son, I sped away from a group of friends, hit a patch of gravel on a downhill turn, and sailed over the handlebars landing on my left shoulder in a patch of grass. I sat on the ground in a daze waiting for the others to catch up. Feeling okay, not seeing any bones sticking out through the skin or any blood on my body, I stood up and checked the bike for damages. It had survived as well. My shoulder felt stiff from landing on it and I noticed a slight bump that I didn’t recall feeling before. Since I could still move my arm, I hopped on the bike and kept riding. When I arrived back at the car, my shoulder had stiffened to the point where I could barely move my arm and the pain had increased substantially. One of the riders in the group was a chiropractor who bought me a sling at CVS to immobilize the arm. We later went to his office where he took an x-ray of my shoulder and then advised me to see an orthopedist.
I made an appointment with Dr. M, an orthopedist who specialized in sports medicine. In thirteen years of marriage, Angela, my very pregnant wife who tolerated my sports activities, had never been with me to a single doctor’s appointment. Four weeks from her due date, she went with me, worried that Dr. M might prescribe surgery and she’d be stuck taking care of our newborn son and me.
He diagnosed the injury as a grade three shoulder separation. “No surgery necessary, just physical therapy. He should be healed up in time for the birth of your son,” he told her.
I did everything the therapist told me to do and was back to normal by the time Samuel arrived.
Eighteen months later, riding into a cold headwind on a November morning, I rode up a hill on a deserted country road. A stray dog chased me up the hill and then lunged at my foot before I could escape. I thought the dog had missed biting me until I stopped to refill my water bottles ten miles later. The dog had nicked me just above my ankle, barely breaking the skin. There wasn’t even a trickle of blood. I was more upset that the dog had ripped a hole in my new leg warmers. When I arrived home, I showed the minuscule bite to Angela.
“What do you think about this?” I asked.
“It doesn’t look too bad.”
“I guess so. They can probably be patched.”
She looked at me with a furrowed brow. “I meant your leg.”
“Oh yeah. Do you think I should do anything about it?”
“I don’t know. Did the dog even break the skin?”
That night I decided to visit an emergency care clinic. I explained the injury to the attendant at the front counter, who took my name and handed me a stack of forms to fill out.
“All these?” I asked.
“Two are general client forms. The rest of that stack is for the dog bite. We’re required to report all animal bites to the Department of Health and Human Services.”
I should’ve stayed home, I thought. I found an empty seat and started filling out the forms. Twenty minutes later, a nurse called me back. She looked at the wound and asked how it had occurred. When the doctor arrived ten minutes later, he asked all the same questions.
“Well, the chances of you getting rabies from this are a million to one. You just need a tetanus shot,” the doctor said.
I nodded my head. He was the doctor.
The nurse returned after the doctor left, cleaned the wound, and gave me a tetanus shot. I went home and thought nothing more about the incident.
Until Monday afternoon.
I worked for an investment firm, Fortune Financial Services, in Dallas and at four o’clock I sat in front of a computer preparing reports for a meeting later that week. My cellphone rang, but I didn’t recognize the number on the caller id display. I considered ignoring the call, but then changed my mind and answered it.
“Chris Dikes?” the caller asked.
“Speaking.”
“This is Debbie with the Department of Health and Human Services. Have you found the dog that bit you?”
“Found it? I haven’t even looked for it. I don’t even know if I could find it. I was on a bike on some deserted county road outside of Mansfield or Lillian.”
“Do you know what happens if you do get rabies?”
“Not really, but I went to the doctor on Saturday night. He said not to worry about rabies. The dog barely broke the skin.”
“Do you know what happens if you do get rabies?”
I thought I’d already answered that question. Maybe she hadn’t heard me. “Not really.”
“You die.” She then explained in graphic detail how I would die if indeed this mangy mutt had transmitted rabies to me. “I don’t know what you’re doing at work and I don’t know what that quack of a doctor told you, but if you can’t find that dog, you’d better see your primary care physician and get a second opinion.”
I bolted out of the office, sped down the highway an hour south to Mansfield, driving up and down what I thought were the same roads I’d ridden on Saturday. Country roads all look alike. Ranch houses, trailer homes, and lots of flat land. While I drove, I called my doctor and scheduled an appointment for the following morning. After two hours, I called off the unsuccessful search.
The next morning, the doctor took one look at the wound and prescribed rabies shots. “Better safe than sorry.”
At least they didn’t give them in the stomach anymore. That’s the first question people ask when they find out I got rabies shots. On the first day, I was supposed to receive four injections but ended up getting eleven or so. I lost count. One shot was intended for the wound, but since there was no flesh above the ankle, she had to inject, withdraw, and re-inject multiple times. I returned to the doctor four more times over the next month for more shots.
Two years passed before the next accident. On a cold and wet December day, I went for a ride. On this particular road, there was a ninety-degree turn. One second I was sitting upright on the bike and the next I was sliding across the pavement disengaged from the bike. I came to a stop in the middle of the road while the bike continued across the street and into a ditch. I emerged with torn clothing and a bunch of cuts and abrasions, but no breaks or separations.
In each of these accidents, I knew every detail of what had happened. But looking up at the white ceiling of the ambulance, I had no idea what had taken place or how badly I might be injured.
ONE
THE ACCIDENT
August 11, 2009.
A Tuesday morning.
The alarm went off at six a.m. and I got out of bed. After I changed into my cycling clothes, I tiptoed downstairs, careful not to wake Samuel, our three-year-old son who awoke at the slightest noises. I filled up two water bottles and aired up the tires on my bike, a Trek Madone 5.1. Before leaving, I checked my rear jersey pockets to make sure I’d grabbed my wallet, cellphone, and keys.
Four weeks prior, Dr. M’s assistant had cleared me to resume riding a bike after a lengthy struggle with tendonitis. His instructions to me were, “Work back slowly. Don’t overdue the intensity or the duration of your rides.” I interpreted “work back slowly” as five one-hour rides per week, one two-hour ride on the weekend, and one day off. For those one-hour rides, I circled a five-mile loop around my neighborhood as fast as I could. “Intensity” could also be interpreted many different ways.
This loop took me past Young Junior High and Martin High School. The previous morning, I’d noticed an increase in the traffic around the high school. When I checked the district website that afternoon, I learned that school would be starting the following week. I decided that this would be my last week of early morning rides. I’d have to find another way or place to get in my time on the bike. Teenage drivers, late-for-work parents, and oh-no-this-school-zone-is-slowing-me-down drivers don’t make for the safest riding conditions.
I approached Martin High School as I completed the second loop that morning. I turned right on Pleasant Ridge, a four lane road, and after I turned I looked behind me to check the oncoming traffic. I saw a line of cars at the light so I turned into the student parking lot rather than continuing straight on the road.
In all the times I’d ridden by Martin High School, I’d never turned into the parking lot. Ever. But something in my gut made me uneasy about the traffic so I opted to trust my instincts and deviate from my normal routine. I pedaled in small circles while I watched the traffic. I congratulated myself on being safety conscious. For once, I’d not plowed ahead without consideration of the risks involved. I looked at the clock and calculated that if I pushed hard I could make one more loop before I needed to be home.
I re-entered Pleasant Ridge and turned right. Again, I looked back over my left shoulder at the oncoming traffic and counted three cars stopped at the light behind me, all of them in the right hand lane, the same lane as me. I placed my hands on the top of the handlebars and moved over to the far right side of the right lane. Each car sped up, moved over to the left lane, and passed me. I counted all three and then I relaxed as I concentrated on riding up the incline on Pleasant Ridge. I passed the entrance to my neighborhood and dismissed the idea of turning in. I could get one more loop in.
That is the last thing I remember.
The next memory I have is waking up in the back of an ambulance.
I don’t know what happened in those forty minutes. Anything I know has come from eyewitness accounts and police reports. From those, I learned the following; a man driving a Ford Ranger pickup truck hit me from behind. He told the police he never saw me until he hit me. I was not knocked unconscious, but I remember nothing of the accident or the aftermath.
Absolutely nothing.
Zip. Zilch. Nada.
“What if?” was one of my first thoughts. What if I hadn’t gone riding that morning? What if I’d left earlier or later? What if I hadn’t pulled into the student parking lot? I had never done that in all the times I’d ridden on Pleasant Ridge. What if I’d circled the parking lot fewer times or more times? What if when I passed my neighborhood, I’d opted to go home instead of trying to get one more loop in? What if this? What if that?
Why had my instincts led me astray? If I’d done what I always did and pressed on without going into the parking lot, I’d have been at home eating breakfast instead of lying in the back of an ambulance?
What if?
“What happened?” I asked.
“You’ve been in an accident,” the woman answered, “We’re taking you to the hospital.”
“Oh.” How badly had I been injured? Was I going to be okay? Was this woman not telling me things about the injuries or the accident? Why had they immobilized me? Was I paralyzed?
“Hello,” the woman said. I turned my eyes from the ceiling to the ambulance’s back door and saw Angela getting in.
How did she know I’d been in an accident?
Although I thought I’d just woken up, I later learned that I’d been awake the whole time. One of the witnesses called 911 and another retrieved my cellphone from my rear jersey pocket and called Angela. I was alert enough to give them the password to my phone and then tell them whom to call. But I don’t remember any of that. I remember passing the street into my neighborhood and then being in the ambulance.
Angela sat next to me on one of the benches while the EMS technician prepared to transport me to the hospital. Angela has a history of passing out at the sight of blood, no matter how small or great the quantity, but to her credit, at the sight of all my blood, she stayed upright.
“I dropped Samuel off at the neighbor’s. I’m parked across the street and I’ve already called...”
I faded out for a minute, struggling to concentrate on the blast of information she was giving me. I didn’t even know what street I was on.
“You’re taking him to Medical Center of Arlington, right?” Angela asked. Medical Center of Arlington was ten minutes from our house.
“No, JPS,” the technician replied, “All head traumas go to JPS.” JPS was located near downtown Fort Worth, thirty minutes from our house.
Head trauma? What did she mean by head trauma? I’d hit my head? Was that why they’d put me in this neck brace?
A fireman stepped into the crowded ambulance. “What would you like us to do with your bike?”
“Um.” Words were jumbled in my head and I couldn’t spit them out.
The fireman turned his gaze from me and looked to Angela. I suspect she might’ve had a few suggestions- burn it, trash it, destroy it, or somehow make it permanently disappear. She didn’t say anything either.
“How about we take it to the station?” he asked.
Angela nodded her head and I may have blinked twice. Either way, he jumped out of the ambulance to take care of my bike.
“Time to go,” the EMS technician declared.
Angela planned to follow the ambulance in her car, but the police had blocked traffic in both directions. Once the ambulance left, they began to unwind the traffic jam, but she was prevented from following the ambulance. Sitting in traffic, Angela called everyone she could think of to get directions to JPS.
On this day, I hoped she remembered the part of our marriage vows that said “for better or for worse.”
The technician slammed the doors shut and double-checked the gurney to make sure I was secured. “Can’t have you rolling around back here,” she said.
I guess it helped her to have a sense of humor.
The driver turned on the siren and sped off towards the hospital. As soon as we left, I started shivering.
“Are you cold?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I mumbled. Whatever had happened to my lip, talking made it hurt.
The technician covered me in blankets before she radioed the JPS ER to inform them that we were on our way. As she described my injuries, she mentioned “possible concussion.” She then inserted an IV into my left arm.
She moved around to my right side and sat next to me. “I need to cut off your clothes to check for any additional injuries. Is that okay with you?”
What could I say? No, I don’t want to know if anything else is wrong? I grunted an approval. She grabbed a pair of scissors and I resumed staring at the ceiling. I could feel tears welling up inside me. I was supposed to be at work by now, not lying in the back of an ambulance being stripped of my clothes. I was careful, how did I end up in an accident? This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. Tears eked out the side of my eyes and snot slid out of my nose. Since both my arms were strapped to the gurney I couldn’t wipe either away.
The technician noticed the tears sliding down my face. “Why are you crying?”
I want to believe that she meant well. Had she cut me with the scissors? Had the pain increased exponentially? Had something changed with my condition? But even though she probably meant well, her question infuriated me. Wasn’t I allowed to cry at a time like this? Wouldn’t she be crying if she were lying here, freezing, suffering in pain, and fearful of what the doctors might tell you?
But as much as I wanted to let out the anger that she’d triggered, as much as I wanted to yell at her, my busted lip made even whispering difficult. Besides, if I yelled at her, at some point in the drive to the ER, she might ask what I did for a living, and I’d have to tell her the truth, “I’m a pastor.”
I ignored her question and clenched my jaw. The tears dried and the snot mingled with the blood.
Trips to the emergency room were a rare occurrence for me. After my parents divorced, Mom and Dad moved to separate apartment complexes. We lived with Mom and visited Dad every other weekend. One Sunday afternoon, Jason, my younger brother, and I were playing football in the parking lot and the football sailed over the wooden privacy fence that separated the apartments from an abandoned field.
I noticed that someone had already knocked down one of the wooden planks. “Jason, I’ll go through the hole and get the ball.” I stepped through that hole onto a board in the overgrown grass, which obscured an erect nail. My foot landed directly on that nail. I screamed and then yelled for Jason to get Dad. He took me to the emergency room for my first tetanus shot.