WRECKED
Cindy Maddera
I’m not even sure I know where to start. Sometime around 4:30 Friday afternoon, Michael brought me a glass of wine while I was attending our weekly Friday Science talks. He told me he was leaving to get our dinner and I said ‘okay’. He had decided to ride his bicycle to pick up our food. We had ordered from a nearby Thai place, not really close, but a nice bike ride distance away. Near the end of the second talk, I noticed a missed call on my phone. I didn’t recognize the number. My phone showed that it was an Ogden, Utah number. The caller didn’t leave a message. At first I thought, “That’s weird. The only people I know in Ogden are Scott and Shelly and I don’t think they have my number.” I am also pretty sure they would have left a message. Then my phone started ringing and I could see that it was Micheal calling.
“I’ve had an accident. I need you come get my bike.”
I quickly typed “Michael’s had an accident. I gotta go.” into the chat window I had open for chatting with my co-workers during seminars. I slammed my computer shut, grabbed my keys and ran out the door. As I neared the intersection where Michael told me he would be, I started scanning the area. I expected to see him standing next to his bicycle. Instead, I saw a firetruck and an ambulance with their lights flashing and I started shaking as I pulled into the closest driveway. I hopped out of the car and said “I’m with the bicycle guy.” The firemen asked me a few questions and told me I could open the door and talk to him. They carried Michael’s bike to my car, as I yanked open the back door of the ambulance. An EMT was in the middle of putting in an IV. Michael was laid out on the stretcher with his head wrapped up and he was covered in blood. The first thing he said was “I’m OKAY!” I tilted my head slightly to one side and thought “really?” but I said nothing. Michael and the firemen told me to take pictures of the road. The EMT told me where they were taking him and then everyone left me there to salvage our dinner and cram Michael’s bike into my car.
When I finally made it to the ER, Michael was back being examined. The desk attendant said they’d probably let me back there in fifteen minutes or so. I went and sat in their make-shift lobby nestled in a vestibule with three other people. Any time one of moved, the automatic doors would open. A woman wearing pink house shoes and her mask under her chin came out and said something about getting home to paint so-and-so’s toenails. “She’s only got three toes, but she’d be real upset if I wasn’t there to paint them.” Pink house shoe lady stood outside yelling/talking to people for a few minutes. Then she came back into the vestibule and took the seat right next to me. “Is it okay if I sit here?” she asked. I nodded my head yes as I stood up. The woman gave me confused look. I politely told her that we need to social distance because of the virus and that I was perfectly okay with waiting outside. She looked like I had hurt her feelings, but said ‘okay’ as I stepped outside.
I paced the outside area. No one came to get me. Michael had his phone and he was texted updates as best as he could. He told me that nothing was broken, but he needed stitches in his left forehead. It was clear that they were never going to let me go back there. So finally I told him that I was going home to feed the dog and eat some crab Rangoon. He agreed that this was probably the best plan and that he’d text me when they did the stitches. Then I went home to wait. And wait. And wait. I went back to get him at 9:00 PM. He walked out of the ER at 9:30, a little weepy and starving. They had given him a paper shirt to wear and his shorts were covered in blood. I got him home and fed. Then we carefully got him showered and cleaned up. His clothes are trash. The front wheel of his bike is trash. Half of the noodles in my dinner fell out of the carton and is trash. Basically, our Friday night was trash.
So, here’s what happened. The city puts steel plates down on the road when they are working on large holes. The plates are supposed to be bolted down so that people can still drive in that lane when construction crews are not there working. There were four of these plates on the road, none of them bolted down, with a sizable gap between the two middle plates. When his front wheel hit that gap, the bike stopped moving, but Michael did not. This gap is what the first responders wanted me to be sure to photograph. It was large enough that they were concerned that the ambulance wheel would get stuck in it. There was no warning sign for the plates in the street when Michael got to that area and he could not see the gap from his angle of approach. The warning sign was put in place the next day. The crash was not Michael’s fault and the important thing is, he’s fine. Sure, he’s a little scrapped up and has eleven stitches in his forehead. His left arm hurts but is not broken. He’s going to heal.
Later that evening, when we were finally home, Michael told me that two young Middle Eastern men stopped to help him. They gave him tissues to press against his gushing head wound and they waited until the first responders showed up. They were my missed call from Ogden. When Michael told me this, I sent a text to that number. I told them that Michael was fine, that he had to get stitches, but no broken bones. I ended my message with a profusion of gratitude. I still don’t know their names. They are just a number from Ogden, Utah. But it is a number I’ll never delete.