I remember hitting the tree.
My motorcycle slammed along
the pavement as I flew.
“Mom’s going to be so mad.”
I landed on the back of
my right shoulder and head.
My helmet saved my life.
My sweatshirt saved my skin.
The wind was knocked out of me
as my body skipped along the road.
I thought for sure I would taste blood,
something must have ruptured.
As I struggled to remove my helmet,
a woman who witnessed the accident,
pleaded with me to leave my helmet on.
I had to take it off. Something was in my mouth.
I wanted it out. It didn’t take long to realize
my right arm didn’t work, and my right knee
wasn’t functioning. It took a few more days
to learn I had broken my tailbone. Too much swelling
had hid the break from the doctors.
The right side of my body shut down and I was bedridden.
They said three months of possible
bedtime and limited movement. I was up and hobbling around
with a crutch in roughly two weeks. Surgery and all.
I might not have been thinking when I was irresponsible
enough to hit a tree at 90 MPH, but I wasn’t about to let one
of my best failures get in the way of the rest of my life.