~happy anniversary to me and my old lefty~
August 4, 2011 seems like forever ago and only yesterday to me. Today 8 years later, I found the memories of it emerge on my FB page. I didn't really need to see the proof of it there because I carry the verification of it in the scars that run along the inside of my left arm and the ever withering left hand and wrist attached to it each day. Most people know my story but several do not, including my upcoming class of students at Liberty Elementary School here in Ponca City, Oklahoma. This blog post is definitely going to be utilized to teach them to express their thoughts as they write about a time that changed their lives in some way or another.
August 4th, 2011 changed mine, and it changed it for the good.
It was the end of the summer that year, one in which I had ridden my bicycle all over Hutchinson and Reno County in preparation for the Bike Across Kansas that June. In my mid 50's, I was in the best physical shape of my whole life. I had been in the habit of hopping on the bike each morning and taking a 10-mile ride around town and if there was time, I'd do it again in the evening. My first FB post of the morning on this date back in 2011 showed up in my memory feed a short while ago, and it looked like this.
Shortly after posting it on my page, I was at the door and ready to have a great ride.
Everything went smoothly, well at first that is. It was a beautifully cool morning for a change and after enduring several days of miserably hot Kansas weather, it was so nice to see people with smiles on their faces as I rode by them. I almost hated to stop riding but I knew I had to get back home. That's about the time the ride went that proverbial direction of south and before I knew it, I was in so much trouble.
When I turned the corner to go home on 14th Street I had just a little ways left to go. I looked down at my speedometer and realized that I was flying along about 10 mph. As I approached my house, I made the split second decision to not take my neighbor's driveway to go into my own yard. Rather, and here's where insanity became my new best friend, I made the choice to attempt to jump the curb instead.
The curb was poured in 1936 and stood firm.
The crazy person on the bicycle was the loser of that battle.
I don't remember much about some things in life, but I sure do remember that moment. It was a strange feeling to be suspended mid air for a while as my body went one way and the bicycle went the other. I landed hard on the southeast corner of my front yard and came down on my left arm and side. My son went back later to take a picture of the impression I made there.
Even 3 times of childbirth could not compare with the pain I felt when I hit the earth. At first my left arm went totally numb and I could feel nothing at all for about 20 seconds. Then that feeling went away, replaced by the most excruciating pain imaginable. I knew I had to get up but the problem was that my left hand made the decision that it wasn't going to come the rest of us. I literally had to reach down and scoop it up as I held it tight against my body. My son had witnessed this unfortunate last minute decision of his mother. I yelled at him to please get me to the ER as fast as he could.
I'm not proud of the language that I used in that 2-mile ride to the ER. It hurt so bad and that's all I have to say about that. By the time we got to the hospital, my pain level on a 1-10 scale was a hundred gazillion. From the looks on the faces of every medical person I encountered in the next 15 minutes, I knew I'd really messed my poor left arm up. There was so much to do in order to determine the extent of my injuries. They couldn't even dream of taking off my shirt in order to put a gown on me. I remember exactly what I told them when that moment happened.
Months afterward I went back to find the x-ray technicians whose horrible assignment it was that morning to take the x-rays of a Kansas schoolteacher who decided to ride like a 10-year old that morning. Once again, I regret the language that I used during that whole procedure. They had to turn that ridiculously broken appendage of mine in all sorts of ways in order to get a good picture of what I had indeed done. When it was all over, I'm sure that I forgot to say "thank you". The x-ray told the story that day much better than I could have ever done.
It's a rather unsettling moment in time when the very best orthopedic surgeon in town stands at your bedside and tells you there's not much that he can do to help the situation, but that's exactly what the good doctor told me that day. Had I not just eaten breakfast, I'd have went to surgery immediately. Shortly before noontime they took me and did whatever they could with an arm that looked as if a bomb had went off inside of it. 3 days later I came home with an external fixator device that would hold what was left of it together until I could see a surgeon in Wichita early the next week.
I have always said and shall forever proclaim that the worst thing that ever happened to me in my life ended up being the very best thing that ever happened to me in my life. It might sound strange to hear someone say that, but in my case it is most certainly a fact. I came to that conclusion after the first surgery in Wichita that very next week on August 10, 2011.
In the accident I had broken those lovely long arm bones that we all carry inside of us. I have to say that I had never given much thought to my ulna and radius before that day. Those were the least of the doctors' worries that day and would be dealt with in surgeries later on down that long road. What they were there to repair was my shattered wrist, a sad reminder of my last minute decision that August morning. The doctor had one question for me before he began surgery, one that put all of this into a somber perspective.
So I went into surgery fully aware of how desperate my own personal situation was. What I didn't know was that they were going to rebuild my wrist with bone segments that had been donated by a cadaver.
I'm actually typing these words with a lump in my throat right now, remembering the manner in which my poor old lefty received the chance of its lifetime from an unknown person who in his own untimely death became the donor for the segments of bone that were used to put my shattered wrist back together. His name was Darryl, a 45-year old man from Missouri who died of a heart attack one morning on his way to work. In his own death, Darryl's family decided that it would be the best thing to donate any part of him that after harvesting could help others in need of assistance. One of those people was a Kansas school teacher who truly regretted her fateful decision that day.
If you have ever been the recipient of another person's body parts then you know the feeling that I have this day. It is to me the most humbling of all experiences and one that changed my life for the good. No longer do I take this life for granted and no longer do I sit back and complacently wait these days. There's no time for that. Darryl's life was cut short and now at age nearly 64, I've had 19 more years than he was afforded. I live for myself and I live for Darryl who gave me the gift of a lifetime, which actually was his lifetime.
This time in my life will always be with me and how much gratitude I feel even now in the years that followed. After it was all over and my arm and wrist healed up well, I made a decision to get a tattoo, one that honors the sacrifice of not only Darryl but the thousands of others who remember to check the box that says they are an organ donor. I always keep my tattoo covered at school out of respect for those who do not like them. But if you happen to see it on the inside lower part of my right leg and ask me about it, I will gladly tell you the story of how it came to be. I always said that I would only get a tattoo if it could be used to promote a good cause in this life of ours. I believe this one does.
The most important part of that tattoo is the bottom line, a verse from the "Good Book" that is found in John 15:13.
"Greater love hath no man than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends."
These are the words that Jesus spoke.
I survived the ordeal. My left hand is noticeably smaller and more withered than the right one is. I don't have as much feeling in it due to nerve damage that couldn't seem to be fixed. The scars, although faded a bit, are still quite noticeable but that's ok. There was one more surgery that the doctors wanted to do, but I declined as I decided that enough was enough. I'm so thankful to have a semi-working wrist that is attached to an arm that I've grown quite of fond of now.
This ordeal has provided the fodder for many a lesson to students I have had since 2011. I preach to them the importance of wearing a helmet and riding safely. I hate to admit it because it shows how stupid I was that day. I had a perfectly good helmet sitting on the dining room table that morning. I chose not to wear it.
What was I thinking?
I wasn't.
You know, I had the best of intentions that summer. Sometimes life doesn't turn out exactly like you plan it to be.
August 4th, 2011 changed mine, and it changed it for the good.
It was the end of the summer that year, one in which I had ridden my bicycle all over Hutchinson and Reno County in preparation for the Bike Across Kansas that June. In my mid 50's, I was in the best physical shape of my whole life. I had been in the habit of hopping on the bike each morning and taking a 10-mile ride around town and if there was time, I'd do it again in the evening. My first FB post of the morning on this date back in 2011 showed up in my memory feed a short while ago, and it looked like this.
Everything went smoothly, well at first that is. It was a beautifully cool morning for a change and after enduring several days of miserably hot Kansas weather, it was so nice to see people with smiles on their faces as I rode by them. I almost hated to stop riding but I knew I had to get back home. That's about the time the ride went that proverbial direction of south and before I knew it, I was in so much trouble.
When I turned the corner to go home on 14th Street I had just a little ways left to go. I looked down at my speedometer and realized that I was flying along about 10 mph. As I approached my house, I made the split second decision to not take my neighbor's driveway to go into my own yard. Rather, and here's where insanity became my new best friend, I made the choice to attempt to jump the curb instead.
The curb was poured in 1936 and stood firm.
The crazy person on the bicycle was the loser of that battle.
I don't remember much about some things in life, but I sure do remember that moment. It was a strange feeling to be suspended mid air for a while as my body went one way and the bicycle went the other. I landed hard on the southeast corner of my front yard and came down on my left arm and side. My son went back later to take a picture of the impression I made there.
I'm not proud of the language that I used in that 2-mile ride to the ER. It hurt so bad and that's all I have to say about that. By the time we got to the hospital, my pain level on a 1-10 scale was a hundred gazillion. From the looks on the faces of every medical person I encountered in the next 15 minutes, I knew I'd really messed my poor left arm up. There was so much to do in order to determine the extent of my injuries. They couldn't even dream of taking off my shirt in order to put a gown on me. I remember exactly what I told them when that moment happened.
"Just cut everything off of me! I don't care! Just don't move this arm!"Of course as all good nurses do, they asked me if I was allergic to any medicines and in particular they asked if I was able to take morphine.
"I'm not allergic to morphine so please get me some right now!"At least I remembered to yell the word "please".
Months afterward I went back to find the x-ray technicians whose horrible assignment it was that morning to take the x-rays of a Kansas schoolteacher who decided to ride like a 10-year old that morning. Once again, I regret the language that I used during that whole procedure. They had to turn that ridiculously broken appendage of mine in all sorts of ways in order to get a good picture of what I had indeed done. When it was all over, I'm sure that I forgot to say "thank you". The x-ray told the story that day much better than I could have ever done.
It's a rather unsettling moment in time when the very best orthopedic surgeon in town stands at your bedside and tells you there's not much that he can do to help the situation, but that's exactly what the good doctor told me that day. Had I not just eaten breakfast, I'd have went to surgery immediately. Shortly before noontime they took me and did whatever they could with an arm that looked as if a bomb had went off inside of it. 3 days later I came home with an external fixator device that would hold what was left of it together until I could see a surgeon in Wichita early the next week.
At least it makes for an interesting story.I remember foolishly thinking that it would all be over and my arm would heal nicely in a few weeks or certainly no longer than a couple of months. My middle name might as well have been "Foolish" because it would take much, much longer than that. From start to finish, 9 long months would pass with a series of 4 surgeries and more long arm casts than I could ever remember to count. I started school that year wearing a surgical cast after the doctors in Wichita began the first in a series of surgeries that rebuilt and repaired my arm and wrist.
In the accident I had broken those lovely long arm bones that we all carry inside of us. I have to say that I had never given much thought to my ulna and radius before that day. Those were the least of the doctors' worries that day and would be dealt with in surgeries later on down that long road. What they were there to repair was my shattered wrist, a sad reminder of my last minute decision that August morning. The doctor had one question for me before he began surgery, one that put all of this into a somber perspective.
"You know of course Peggy that your wrist is never going to be normal again, right? It's too far gone for that. I'm going to do the best I can but I cannot promise you anything."Sadly I told him that I understood.
So I went into surgery fully aware of how desperate my own personal situation was. What I didn't know was that they were going to rebuild my wrist with bone segments that had been donated by a cadaver.
I'm actually typing these words with a lump in my throat right now, remembering the manner in which my poor old lefty received the chance of its lifetime from an unknown person who in his own untimely death became the donor for the segments of bone that were used to put my shattered wrist back together. His name was Darryl, a 45-year old man from Missouri who died of a heart attack one morning on his way to work. In his own death, Darryl's family decided that it would be the best thing to donate any part of him that after harvesting could help others in need of assistance. One of those people was a Kansas school teacher who truly regretted her fateful decision that day.
If you have ever been the recipient of another person's body parts then you know the feeling that I have this day. It is to me the most humbling of all experiences and one that changed my life for the good. No longer do I take this life for granted and no longer do I sit back and complacently wait these days. There's no time for that. Darryl's life was cut short and now at age nearly 64, I've had 19 more years than he was afforded. I live for myself and I live for Darryl who gave me the gift of a lifetime, which actually was his lifetime.
This time in my life will always be with me and how much gratitude I feel even now in the years that followed. After it was all over and my arm and wrist healed up well, I made a decision to get a tattoo, one that honors the sacrifice of not only Darryl but the thousands of others who remember to check the box that says they are an organ donor. I always keep my tattoo covered at school out of respect for those who do not like them. But if you happen to see it on the inside lower part of my right leg and ask me about it, I will gladly tell you the story of how it came to be. I always said that I would only get a tattoo if it could be used to promote a good cause in this life of ours. I believe this one does.
The most important part of that tattoo is the bottom line, a verse from the "Good Book" that is found in John 15:13.
"Greater love hath no man than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends."
These are the words that Jesus spoke.
I survived the ordeal. My left hand is noticeably smaller and more withered than the right one is. I don't have as much feeling in it due to nerve damage that couldn't seem to be fixed. The scars, although faded a bit, are still quite noticeable but that's ok. There was one more surgery that the doctors wanted to do, but I declined as I decided that enough was enough. I'm so thankful to have a semi-working wrist that is attached to an arm that I've grown quite of fond of now.
This ordeal has provided the fodder for many a lesson to students I have had since 2011. I preach to them the importance of wearing a helmet and riding safely. I hate to admit it because it shows how stupid I was that day. I had a perfectly good helmet sitting on the dining room table that morning. I chose not to wear it.
What was I thinking?
I wasn't.
I visited the scene of the crime when I came home from my first hospital stay on August 8th, 2011. It was the beginning of a long road to recovery and a very changed life for me.
You know, I had the best of intentions that summer. Sometimes life doesn't turn out exactly like you plan it to be.
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