Post-op perspective

My friend Mike O'Connor is fond of saying "if you get a choice between being really smart and really lucky, it's better to be really lucky."

Lucky, I am. Let me offer the following evidence:

1. I am en route to see Julie -- to "help" her move back to Minneapolis, and to begin our summer and the rest of our lives together. (There's at least a 10-week stint in the fall when she'll return to Columbus, but she assures me that this is going to be a piece o' cake for us.) If you'll forgive my pining, last night as I laid awake in bed, I was struck by how amazing it is to love someone so much that it hurts when they aren't near. I'm glad we'll both be spared that pain for the summer.

2. The surgery appears to have been very successful. Seeing the X-rays yesterday was awe-inducing (awe, possessing qualities of both appreciation and terror), there is simply so much metal in my left wrist now. (I was shocked that I didn't set off the airport metal detector, but perhaps they've calibrated it for those kinds of metals.) In any case, the plate, pins and screw appear to have done their job realigning the joint and organizing the chaos left after the accident as much as possible.

I'm not out of the woods yet, however: there are a number of bone fragments that were too finely pulverized for pins and screws to gain purchase. These are presently right where the should be, but there is little keeping them there, save my faithfully avoiding transferring any force through the joint, while also making progress on the physical therapy I've started. (I'm in a removable brace, rather than a cast, which is comparatively more comfortable and makes P.T. possible, but also makes walking around in public a little harrowing. I'm treating the damn arm like it's an infant with brittle bone disease who possesses the cure to cancer.) So far so good. My doc says that if it looks as good in two weeks he'll be happy, and if it looks this good in six weeks he'll be celebrating. (He's talking about the bones of course, not the scar or freakish yellow bruises.) I'll bring the champagne.

3. I had the great honor of meeting Kelly Andrews, her husband Collin and her absolutely amazing circle of friends and family. Kelly, a twenty-seven year old, vegetarian nonsmoker was diagnosed with lung cancer in November, and with love, humor and stunning courage, faced its invasive attack on her body and her life. Her youth notwithstanding, Kelly's made a big impact on efforts to end homelessness, through her infectious passion and evident skill connecting and inspiring people working to bring about its end. She's also an inspiration to me for the love of travel and its horizon-expanding effects that she and Collin shared. They made the trip of a lifetime to southeast Asia, photos capturing their joy and sense of wonder. After several years of being in love, on Monday afternoon, they wed.

Monday night, Kelly battle with cancer came to an end. At the memorial yesterday, so many people spoke of how radiantly full of love and life Kelly was, how she brought this out in others, and how deeply generous -- with her life, with her energy -- she was. I did not know Kelly well, only having met her a couple of times, but I know many people whose lives were enriched and changed by her presence. I count myself among the even greater number inspired by her example.

Apparently, helping people raise their expectations and pursue their aspirations was something Kelly did so often, Collin has a name for it. He calls it living to "the Kelly standard." May we all stretch ourselves and dream big enough to reach our own Kelly standard, whatever it might be.

I crashed in Mission

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I don't know if my fascination with the details of what happened in an accident that I don't remember is typical of folks in this situation -- all I know is that I have that feeling in a bad way.

I called the Crow Wing County Sheriff's office midweek to request a copy of the accident report, to help fill in missing details and also in the hopes of identifying the passing motorist who stopped, summoned help and reassured me in those first moments, so that I could thank her properly. (The woman at the Sheriff's office who helped me was about the kindest records keeper you could imagine picking up the receiver.)

Unfortunately, the motorist isn't identified in the report, so my next plan is to talk to the officer on the scene, who returns to work at the end of the week and hopefully knows the motorist or how to reach her. The report does provide some helpful details:

• First responders were on scene at 8:43 p.m. My loose reckoning places the crash at about 8:30 (based on when I left Crosslake), so thankfully, very little time seems to have passed between going down and getting help.
  
  
• The crash site is about halfway between Crosslake and Crosby, in the unincorporated township of Mission, Minnesota. Wow, there's an opening line, eh? "I'm Eric, survivor of the crash in Mission." (Friends, please rein me in, for I fear my potential to create all manner of horrible metaphor and saccharine symbolism.) Of course, if you zoom in on the crash site, you might notice that the adjacent body of water is (aptly?) named Fool Lake.
  
  
• There doesn't appear to be anything particularly treacherous (hairpin turns, etc.) with the road near the accident site, which keeps me wondering about animals leaping into the roadway or mechanical troubles with the bike. There's some kind of reassurance in this, since the aspect of this accident that most threatens to undermine my confidence in the saddle is not knowing whether I messed up a situation that I should have been able to handle. (Never messing up in the saddle isn't a realistic expectation of oneself, either, but some external impetus for the crash would be easier for me to accept. Alas, perfectionism has its downsides.)

The Rooster remains in storage in Deerwood, while the insurance folks figure out how to move it to Motoprimo in Lakeville, to estimate the damages. It's not yet clear whether the bike will be totaled.

In other respects, healing seems on track: I'm feeling pretty comfortable (apart from drowsiness brought on by my pain meds) and am very excited to see Julie a few days from now, and for the rest of the summer. Speaking of whom (and the stuff I put her through!), since the accident, I've had a particular track from the (Olympic) Hopefuls in my head. I hope you enjoy it.

Surgery went well

I am recovering from surgery, which appears to have gone well. I can't feel (nor control) my left arm, thanks to the nerve block they used with surgery. It also means I'm not taking pain meds yet, until feeling starts to return. I'm mostly comfortable, resting and enjoying the fruits of the care package Julie sent, including some über-tasty apple cinnamon bread. I will write more later this weekend.

Surgery tomorrow

Today's examination of the Franken-arm (okay, for you purists out there, the Frankenstein's monst-arm) confirmed that -- in addition to a serious application of DeBruisinator^® spray --- surgery will be needed to corral the cloud of bone fragments from the top side of my wrist joint into more appropriate locations, preventing the drifting that's occurred to a surprising degree just since Monday's x-rays. My surgeon, the capable, amiable Dr. Stephen Olmsted, said that on a scale of 1 to 10 for complexity of fractures, this was definitely a 10. Nothing if not a perfectionist, your humble narrator.

The surgery will involve installation of a plate attached to a series of pins, which resembles a dinner fork (but somehow tougher, more butch), sitting face-up, with its tines bent skyward. The tines, staggered in their angles of deflection, are the pins which will provide bracing for the bone shards. The handle of the fork is the plate, which once screwed into my arm bone, will offer strength to the pins and re-align my wrist joint (which, because of the sheering force of the impact, is out of alignment, with the base of my hand several centimeters higher than it should be when laid palm down).

The pins and plate will stay with me for the rest 'o this journey, causing hilarity to ensue at airports 'round the world for years to come. (No, really, it's inside my arm. Seriously!) And since, like brass knuckles, the authorities frown on contenders who are packing, thus ends my illustrious boxing career.

The upsides of the surgery likely include a much faster recovery time (with PT beginning a week or so after surgery), less time immobilized by a cast and my best shot at retaining strength, regaining the joint's natural alignment, and hopefully reducing future arthritis. On the downside, the injury has likely cost me some range of motion, though it's hard to say how much (c'mon, gimme a zero!) until after we spin the wheel and go through the procedure, since it depends a lot on what kind of joint surface the bone chips end up creating. Wish us luck tomorrow.

I also asked Dr. Olmsted if, while he was in there, he could also install some retractable claws, but he just laughed. Apparently they don't have all the bugs worked out of that yet.

I go under the knife at 8:30 tomorrow morning, and should be back home around noon.

You should see the other guy

Yesterday was spent tending to the immediate medical and financial issues: sutures in my nose out at 8:20; my arm and wrist evaluated at 10:30; lunch with my valet and companion for the day, my Dad; and then a long, recorded chat with a nice guy from Progressive Insurance.

Doubtless the most bizarre (and, save lunch, unwelcome) agenda I've had for a Monday in... well, in ever, probably.

The stitches came out without incident.

News from the orthepedic surgeon's office was mixed: surgery isn't called for at the moment, but x-rays and CT scans show that the top half of the recepticle part of the wrist joint is pulverized into a cloud of tiny bone fragments. Right now, the joint is really well aligned (thanks again to the expert care in the ER), but there's little to keep these fragments from moving. If they do, my best option may be to have pins, a plate, or some other immobilizer surgically installed so they fuse as optimally as possible. As the surgeon put it, "Right now, I'm not sure we could do better surgically, and there's always a chance we could do worse." But that could change. The doc called it an unstable fracture. While I don't normally associate fractures with stability, given the economy of medical lingo, if they're going to highlight its instability, it means something, right? So we'll be tracking this one closely.

I go back in on Thursday to have my cast removed, new x-rays to see how things are progressing, and a tighter fitting cast molded, after the swelling in my arm comes down.

And as for "the other guy," Matt from Progressive will be paying the Ducati a visit today. As he put it, "it doesn't take much to total a bike" like it, loaded with carbon fiber components and imported parts. I expect to hear from him later today with his appraisal of the Rooster's condition, and its future.

In the meantime, I'm home resting, building bones and giving my back (which feels like it's been used for a shot-putter's target practice) time to mend.

The rooster crows for thee

I have survived my first (and one hopes, last) serious motorcycle accident.

The past 40 hours have been a fugue of hazy images, awe at my good fortune, and overwhelming appreciation of how many people care about me and take care of me.

It began innocently enough, with a weekend plan that included seeing friends that I don't get to see enough, celebrating Tammy's marriage to her beau, Eric, and staying at my parent's cabin on Island Lake, about 20 minutes north of Duluth.

Julie and I have designs on some long rides this summer, culminating in a trip to Glacier National Park. As much fun as I've had riding the Ducati, including our trip to Red Lodge, Montana last August, I've felt ready to move to a bike better suited for such long rides, with a less aggressive riding posture, bigger bores and better touring accoutrements. I think I found just the bike, a BMW R1150R for sale in Cross Lake, MN, about two hours from Duluth.

The forecast called for beautiful riding weather for the trip up on Friday -- sunny, breezy, and warm with a chance of scattered showers -- and for the return trip on Sunday, so I decided to take the Iron Rooster. I left the office, after a unbelievably hectic but productive day, at 4:15. I had not taken Friday get-out-of-town traffic (with which I rarely contend) into account, and so I was a little surprised to find that it took me a full two hours to escape the metro. I called Keith, the gregarious, kind-hearted guy selling the bike, from Princeton at 6:15, with rain clouds on the horizon and another 100 miles to go, unsure whether I should press on. I decided while on the phone with him to continue, figuring that a little adventure was what I signed up for (and knowing that my rain gear was close at hand). I rolled out of the gas station in Princeton, pointing north. A few drops fell -- not even enough to warrant the rain gear -- but within minutes the clouds parted, and the most brilliant sun pierced through. I took it as immediate confirmation that I made the right decision.

Heading up Highway 169, Mille Lacs -- one of Minnesota's inland seas -- was sparkling under the sun, waves kicked up by the ample breeze. The Rooster and I were eating up the miles, and if we were starring in an animated cartoon, the bike would have had a smile across its front as big as my own. Curvy roads, little traffic and unbroken sunshine.

I reached Crosby, about 20 miles from my destination, stopped for gas, grabbed a gas station dinner of trail mix and some agua, and confirmed my directions. Rather than the path suggested by Google, a friendly customer suggested I take Highway 6 north to Crow Wing County Road 11, that to CR-3, north into Cross Lake, a route winding through the areas' lakes on little-trafficked two-laned roads with good, dry pavement. Twenty-five minutes later, I met up with Keith, and fifteen minutes after that, I'd given his bike a test ride, given it a once-over and settled on a price. Since I consider this a big purchase, and make such decisions cautiously, I told Keith I'd like to sleep on it and call him in the morning. It turns out that call would be delayed.

Setting out back toward Crosby, the plan was to hook up with Highway 210, which I'd follow all the way to Duluth, where I'd meet up with Keri, Andre, Max and Tracey for pre-wedding revelry. I'd hoped that I would not have to do much riding after sundown, since the potential for problems -- especially on isolated roads -- increases. The sun was still up, though not for long, and I was watchful for animals large and small, since dusk is such an active time for most.

The next moments are a hazy, fragmented montage:

A straight-away in which I remember thinking "this is fabulous..."

...my rear tire locked and fish-tailing...

...desperate to stop, remembering my training, and seeing the upcoming curve, I checked for oncoming traffic and seeing none, straightened the bike to vertical, to allow stronger braking, taking me into the oncoming lane of traffic...

...finding myself lying next to the Ducati, on its left side, idling, rear tire still spinning...

...reaching over to flip the kill switch, a motion that took incredible effort...

...flagging down an approaching car...

...discovering my left hand wasn't working, and reaching down to feel a right-angle in my left forearm...

...collapsing on my back, helmet against the pavement, and likely passing out...

...hearing a woman's voice comforting me, telling me help is on the way...

...giving my brother's phone number...

...the whip of helicopter blades overhead...

...the manipulations of the EMTs, whose expert handling of their industrial strength scissors I later discovered made short work of my clothes to help them assess the extent of my injuries, including slicing right through the beefy zippers of the heavy-duty leather jacket given to me by my brother...

...being loaded into the chopper...

...realizing I was being airlifted, the thrum of the rotors and engine, trying to turn my head to look out the window, to discover I had a neck brace on that precluded such movement...

...focusing on a tiny spot directly above me on the chopper's ceiling as I deliriously answered questions about allergies and today's date (the latter incorrectly)...

...feeling our descent and the chopper land, and being carted off into the ER, the air outside saturated with the smell of jet fuel...

...being so grateful to have all these people around me, coming to my rescue, saying "thank you, thank you, thank you"...

...talking to one of the ER docs, and somehow managing to establish that he was a classmate of my cousins from Two Harbors...

...until gradually time became linear again.

With help of the kind and patient ER nurses, I was able to call Julie, leave a message for my parents at home (not realizing that they, too, were at the cabin), and tried to get word to my friends expecting me in Duluth. My recall of phone numbers those first few hours was pretty limited, and the iPhone, although amazingly intact in an inside pocket of my jacket that somehow escaped the emergency scissors, remained with jacket and the bike. Left to my addled memory, I found myself transposing digits and or having a total blank with numbers that I dial regularly.

One of the ER docs used a fascinatingly old-world-meets-high-tech device resembling a hoist attached to two Chinese finger traps (the latter attached to fingers of my left hand) to re-set the bones in my forearm, which were dislocated and broken. The "clunk" sound as the bones slid into place may have only been psychological, but it was accompanied by immediate relief of pain that, thankfully, my body and the drugs I was given hadn't even allowed me to fully feel. He did so with such expertise that I may escape surgical installation of plates or screws to keep the bones in their proper places as they heal.

My brother arrived a few hours later, his the eyes on me for our entire family. What can you say in gratitude to a man who, although already sleep deprived from his newborn, will drive three hours in the middle of the night to make sure you are okay?

The next day, my parents made a marathon trek, first to retrieve my belongings from the bike, inspect its condition, and take photos (which I'll post soon), then drive to the hospital to fetch me and take me home. My family has made sure that my apartment is stocked with bone-building groceries and videos to pass the time. How do you say thank you for so much caring? For such an outpouring of love?

What do you say in thanks to the health care professionals who looked after every aspect of my care, from maximizing my chances of (at first) surviving and (later) having a speedy recovery, laughing with me at my rather anemic attempts at humor, making sure I left the hospital with everything I needed?

What do you say to the unknown Samaritan who pulled over -- perhaps herself in the midst of some important journey -- to stay with me, to offer me that most critical reassurance, that you are not alone, and whose speedy action might be the crucial factor that allows me to reflect back on this experience at all?

And what do you say to the love of your life, whose abiding concern, humor and love -- undimmed by the cruel miles that separate us -- has helped me face each wave of awareness that's passed over me since the accident, from "I'll need a new motorcycle," to "I guess I'll be okay," to "I very nearly wasn't?"

I'm sure I don't know, but I only hope that they all know how much it means to me, that it moves me to tears to consider their selflessness, their compassion and their care. I count myself among the luckiest guys on earth. (Today I absorbed the fact that I was apparently found only a few feet from a bridge embankment and a river. I am lucky indeed.)

---

The Rooster's riding days days may be over. From what I've been able to piece together so far, I left the road, augered into the ground on the left side of the bike, bending the handlebars, shattering the left mirror and damaging the tank, fender, seat and body. I likely flipped over the top of the handlebars when this happened (which is probably how I snapped my arm). My helmet took quite an impact, popping the visor off, leaving deep grooves on the top right side, and distorting its geometry enough to press my glasses across my face, bending the nose pads and gashing the bridge of my nose. I have an appointment with the insurance folks tomorrow, and am preparing myself for the scenario that the bike is totaled.

Harder still is preparing myself for the likely possibility that I will never know exactly what happened. There's a patch of blood on the top of my helmet. Is it mine? (I thank having good gear, including gloves, jacket, boots and helmet, for the fact that other than the gash from my glasses, I had hardly a scratch on me.) Did I hit an animal? Did a bird collide with my head? My dad noticed that the front brake cable was damaged, which is surprising, since that's on the right side of the bike, whereas the rest of the damage is on the left. Did my front brakes (which account for 75% of a motorcycle's stopping power) fail as I was approaching the curve? I doubt I'll ever have answers to these questions.

Although (and possibly to the consternation of many) this experience does not make me want to stop riding, to call it sobering is an enormous understatement.

I'm both glad and lucky to be alive, facts I will not soon forget. I am surrounded by people who love and take care of me, which I will never forget. I couldn't be more thankful to draw breath or more grateful for my friends and family.

Thank you, Moms

Buttons bursting, I am once again a proud uncle. On April 28, the clan happily welcomed it's newest member, Tobiah Rae, to the fold. She's just adorable, such an impossibly compact bundle of potential. I spent a big chunk of Friday night with her in my arms, and let me say what amazing respect I have for parents in general, and mothers in particular.

Toby is lucky to have devoted parents, a terrific older brother, dedicated grandparents and lots of other adults who are eager to see her discover this life. It's a fitting day -- every day! -- to give thanks to her mom, and my mom, and so many friends (Jessica, Jennifer, Jen, Betsy) who give so much of themselves every day to their children.

Mom and I had a chance to spend part of yesterday afternoon with my nephew, who is now a talkative, witty and playful 2 1/2 year old (where has the time gone?!). Being a brother has been such a crucial part of my identity, central to my development as a person and my notions of family, compassion, fairness and justice. I am elated that Asa will get to have this experience, that he has parents who are so attentive to what Toby's arrival means for him in their family, and that he and Toby will have each other as siblings.

The recent release of Save the Children's 2008 Mother's Day Report Card -- identifying the best and worst places in the world to be a mother -- highlights the gap between our frequently family-focused rhetoric and the completely avoidable challenges our social policies create for motherhood every day. The United States ranks only 27th among the 146 countries surveyed, and whether measured in access to health care, food, adequate housing, safety from domestic violence, child care or even potable water, locally and globally far too many mothers don't have what they need to give their children the kind of start in the world that we all deserve.

I have been reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, an alarming, thought-provoking analysis of modern, industrial food production. I have repeatedly been struck by the genius of this system, one of the primary strategies of which is to disconnect consumers from the direct consequences of production (whether farm bankrupcy, animal suffering, environmental devastation or the seeds of future health crises). Similarly, I suspect a key factor in the gap between pro-family rhetoric and our actual (poor) performance being a parent- and child-friendly global civilization is because so many connections between daily choices and these issues have been severed. People do not see how they have an opportunity to meaningfully improve their neighbor's lot, and so why not just remain focused on my daily distractions / toys / people / relationships?

I fear this sounds shrill and self-righteous, when the message I'm intending is sadder, more troubling, and one that implicates me as much as anyone. I believe -- and learned from my mother -- that most people do wish others well, that they do wish there were apparent ways they could help give every child the opportunities that those of us who live with lots of unearned privileges take for granted. But, lacking evident ways to contribute, the behaviors that those of us with such privileges often practice are ones that first inure us to others' needs, and may, if we're not careful, lead us into dangerous thinking: that we deserve our unearned privileges, while others do not; that we cannot help; that meeting everyone's basic needs and distributing opportunity equitably isn't possible.

I am so grateful that my mother, and the rest of my family, taught me differently. For that, and so much more, thank you, Mom. And thank you, mothers everywhere.

Destroyed, and loving it

Thanks to Perfect Duluth Day, a consistently good source of tips for music, internetivia and local haps, I've just been turned on to This Will Destroy You.



Such a hair-metal name, with a sound reminiscent of Do Make Say Think or Godspeed You! Black Emperor, they're my latest happy music find on the 'nets.

My first listen to the tracks on their MySpace page recalls my first listen to Tortoise's TNT: there's not a single note, not one wavelength out of place. Expansive, evocative and cinematic. Enjoy.