14 August 2011

Motorcycle NDE

Today's story was generously given to me by Andrea from life is a science experiment. She was in a horrific motorcycle accident and has now began to write a novel about her experience. The novel is titled Jerod's America, and this is an excerpt from Chapter 7.

The front of Jerod’s bike was no longer in the shape of a motorcycle and Jerod’s body was no longer on the bike.
All he saw was a combination of sky and concrete.  He could hear expounded noises as his breath was being violently beaten out of him as he rolled over the car.
He wasn’t quite sure what was happening next, because he was neither rolling nor stopping.  He was restrained in a strangle hold of air.
There was a long time before he actually landed.  During this time it almost felt beautiful to be suspended in air with not a thought on his mind.  Absolutely empty.
Until it ended.
He landed on his head under a parked car.  His body wanted to continue sliding, but his helmet stopped him by way of the chinstrap, which was now robbing his breath.
It was surreal.  Once he landed the beauty was stripped away and all he could see was the underbelly of a car.
Jerod took stock of the unusual situation, and tried to make sense of what was happening in this nightmare.
He wiggled his toes and his fingers.
And now he decided to stay put until someone else moved him.  Judging from the pain he felt in his neck, he knew better than to move himself in any way.
From the bottom of the car, all he could see now were feet.  Big, small, running, stopping, shifting, leaving, more coming…
His world was now reduced to the mechanics daily eye view of a vehicle and curious feet coming to see the train wreck.
An angel appeared.  She stroked his back.  She told him to keep breathing and that help was on its way.
“Help is coming,” she reconfirmed.  “If you can just keep breathing you’re going to do well.  Here, I’ll open the front of your helmet to give you more air.”
An overwhelming muscle spasm began to take over.  Every muscle in his body began to convulse.  He had no control over it.
The angel stroked his back, “Keep breathing you’re doing good.  I can hear the sirens coming now.”
Jerod could also hear another voice, and it was obviously the woman who hit him.
“Oh my God,” Jerod heard through his muted helmet and from her sobbing, shaky tears, “I just didn’t see him there!  I’m just so sorry!  Oh God help him!”
Some of the feet ran to her.  He could hear muffled voices; “You’re not going to help him by being hysterical.  It’s only going to scare him.”
His angel said, “They’re here now buddy.  You’re doing really well.  I’m going to let them take over now ok?”
Jerod wanted to say thank you and hold his angel, but she left.  She was gone.  His fear became even more impassioned.
Some very large voice came from behind him, “Sir, we’re here to help you, please don’t move.  You’ve been thrown 15 feet and you have landed on your head.”  That was all it took for Jerod to officially go into shock.  “Sir can you tell me where you hurt?”
Through his shaking voice and short breath, he tried to say, “My neck!”  The chinstrap would not allow him to talk.  The paramedics began to speak about removing his helmet.
“Sir, we need you to stay very still and we’re going to remove your helmet.”
Jerod did his best to stay still, but his convulsing muscles were just too strong to take charge of.  He couldn’t stop it.
When they finally removed his helmet, they asked again, “Sir can you tell me what hurts?”
Stifled through his shaking jaw, Jared jerked out, “M-m-my n-n-neck, m-m-my wrist…”
“Ok.  We’re going to move you on to a board, but we need you to be very still and let us do all the work.  Are you ready?”
From behind him he could hear more than one take-charge voice. One voice asked him many questions and he knew it was to find out if he was still using his mind to it’s full potential, but it seemed almost annoying.  He just wanted the shaking to stop and really, he felt he was fine.  There was a lot of talking about who gets to watch the left arm with the damaged wrist, counting to roll him over on to the backboard, somebody holding his neck, head and all kinds of previously practiced routines that these professionals went through on a daily basis, making it really feel like just another day on the job.
As he was rolled, he could see four faces peering down at him with restrained panic in their eyes.  From that point forth it was a blur of scissors cutting his double layer of jackets off, including that brand new heated one he just bought.  They cut his gloves, cut up his shirt left shirtsleeve and began to lift him up onto the stretcher.
Oh, the loss of his brand new jacket.  Now his gloves.  Gone.  And what about his bike?  Where is his bike?
No more feet.  Now it was all faces.  Strangely enough, there was no sound amongst the chatter.
Deafeningly loud silence.
When he was moving and rolling, he wanted to just tell everyone he was fine I can just walk to the ambulance.  I’m fine.  You’re really all making way too much of this.
There was a dark part of him that knew he wasn’t fine.
This was the part where his neck shot bullets through his head.  The part where his limbs were numb.  The part where his muscles were convulsing and his lungs were hyperventilating.
But otherwise, “You’re all making too much of a fuss over this,” was all he wanted to say.


Big a said...

oh sigi ... thank you for finding the right spot in the trauma to get the sense of it.

thank you for having me as a guest writer xo

Anonymous said...

oh wow, Andrea.....made me cry -(