“Go limp!”
It was one of those orders that brooked no quarter, left no
room for debate. That, and the fact that the voice sounded suspiciously and
irrationally like my grandfather, compelled me to obey. So I went limp. To this
day, I’m not sure if that saved me, or caused more pain, but for the sake of
argument, we will go with saved.
A 1976 Chevrolet Suburban is two and a half
tons of steel, aluminum and plastic and when traveling at 35 miles per hour is
almost guaranteed to make short work of a scrawny, 130 pound fourteen year old,
and it did so to me.To be perfectly honest, I don’t remember the impact. I have
no recollection of the fender meeting my shin, or my face kissing the hood. I
don’t recall flopping across the front of the giant, rusted-tan beast or
skidding under it to be introduced to the black asphalt and tar beneath it. In
fact, my memory skips straight from a command that my grandfather couldn’t
possibly give to laying on my back and trying to make sense of the nearly white
gravel pebbles stuck in the deep treads of the rear wheel of a very large tire
mere inches from my nose.
It was several more seconds before the pain hit.
It came in waves, and was made all the more confusing by the
fact that my other senses were scrambled. I had a first person perspective of
what cartoon characters must see when the stars are floating around their
heads. The tire I was looking at was intermittently obscured by rapidly
flashing white light. The pungent odor of asphalt, old oil and burned rubber
was overpowering, but seemed more like someone else describing the smell than
me actually smelling it. I heard sounds, but in the same distant, echoing sense
I had experienced when I swam too deep at the pool and my eardrums popped. The
only thing I could taste was the salted copper that some distant part of my
mind associated with blood.
It was another, equally distant part of my brain that was
trying desperately to inform the rest of me that I was hurt. Bad. Unfortunately,
that distant part was being argued with by the much nearer knowledge that going
limp couldn’t possibly cause this much pain and therefor I was fine. So I
attempted to sit up. When nothing happened, I realized the right side of my
body wasn’t working. So I told the left side to sit up and was able to move my
arm enough to leverage my torso into a near vertical position. I regretted that
immediately.
Needles of pain rocketed up from my wrist to my shoulder.
The flashing lights were replaced by a piercing lance of pure white agony that
started, somehow, at the back of my skull. I felt bile rise to the back of my throat
and something in the base of my nasal cavity erupted into my mouth and out over
swollen lips. I tried to breath, and began choking as my lungs rebelled against
their only purpose. Each cough was accompanied by the white lance of pained
vision, and between those bursts I was able to see what had become of my right leg.
From the knee up, everything looked fine. About three inches
below the knee, though, the leg took a sudden and unnatural turn left. Through
the torn flesh, I could see the splintered white of bone that was my shin. I
looked at it with a sort of dazed detachment, as if it was some other
unfortunate boy’s leg. Somewhere in my chest, I could feel my heart thudding against
my ribs. The blood spurting from the slivers of bone was flowing in the same rhythm,
making it clear even to my disoriented consciousness that it was indeed my own
leg. That sight faded, and so did the white light. As inky blackness came in
from both sides, someone, somewhere, screamed.
“Do you know your name?”
If it hadn’t been for the seriousness of the man’s tone, I
would have thought he was joking. Of course I knew my name. It was Ben. So I
told him that. But somewhere between thinking and speaking, everything got weird
and even my ears heard the answer as “Vmphn.” I tried again, and felt something
in my teeth keeping me from forming the essential sounds of my own name.
Whatever it was felt like a cross between over-chewed bubblegum and the stringy
tendons you sometimes get in a steak. I felt almost triumphant when I figured
out that something was my lower lip, but then the awful implications of that
discovery sank in and I gave up on answering the man’s questions.
Time went all wonky from that point on. There were more
questions, more incoherent answers, and more pain as the paramedics maneuvered me
into the ambulance. I remember that same voice speaking to someone else and
hearing the phrases like “concussed, internal hemorrhaging, and possible
compound fracture.” That last one made me want to slap him. Even I knew that my
leg was well beyond “possible compound fracture.”
Our arrival at the hospital was accompanied by more voices,
more questions, and yes, more pain, as they rushed me from the ambulance and
into the sterile halls of Bate’s Memorial. At this point, I became distinctly
aware that I was not in me anymore. The pain was fading, and I was looking down
at someone that vaguely reminded me of me. I watched, fascinated, as they pried
my lower lip away from my teeth and began setting the bones in my right hand
and wrist. Then they moved to my leg, and I was me again; just in time to feel
bone scraping against bone as they snapped my shin back into a more natural
position. I heard that scream again, and it took a couple of seconds to realize
it was coming from my own throat.
Darkness again.
I woke to more questions. But this time, the questions were
being asked by familiar voices and the answers came from someone who sounded
calm, but in charge. I opened my eyes and saw a stranger with dark hair and
small, professor-looking glasses. He was looking over me and speaking to
someone behind me. Most of what he said didn’t make sense. Something about
craniums, and bruising and vegetables. There were some percentages thrown in
there, and something about wheelchairs, tibias, and rest of life. I heard
crying, and the realization that this squinty eyed stranger had just informed
my mother that I was probably going to be a vegetable, and if not, I would
never walk again without aid. I heard the desperation in her cries, and that
gave me the strength to recognize the lie being told. So I reached out and
grabbed her hand. Her eyes locked onto mine, and I concentrated to make sure
the words came out correctly.
“Mom, I’m gonna be okay.”
And I was right.
