it's a worthwhile exercise to draw a line somewhere: to analyze the before and after. in my case, there's a milestone that feels as good as any. five years ago, I was hit by a car while on a scooter, metal on metal, then rapid flight. my scooter lodged under what I remember as a gold KIA mini-van as it pulled through a turn, unsuccessfully made. but it wasn't a van that made the misjudgment, was it? it was a human driving it, a human who was talking on a cellphone (we would later know because of pulled phone records), misjudging my distance (if I was seen at all), gunning it to make a left turn, hurrying through, failing to yield.

it was a little after 6pm on the saturday of winter solstice. it was clear; it wasn't raining. it would be documented that I was wearing a bright orange jacket, that my scooter was lime green, and that my lights were in working order.

phone calls are seldom good news, I've learned. we text first when we have the clarity to do so. in my case, a bodega clerk out for a smoke witnessed the crash and rushed to my aid. he called 911 from his cell phone, and then I asked him to help me retrieve mine. he had never used an iPhone before, so I laid on the pavement (oddly I was on the sidewalk; I'd later learn I was propelled 10 feet, and that this was lucky, because I'd have otherwise gone under the belly of the car) and gave him tech support on how to use an iPhone. I then made a couple calls. adrenaline is a wild drug.

I remember only a few things between the asphalt and the hospital: getting transferred to a stretcher and neck brace; my pants cut urgently with scissors; fat-lip pouting/waving goodbye as I was loaded into the ambulance; the motorcycle cop that was brought to the scene, the same one who I'd later see in court; how the ambulance kept me in the back on my stretcher without pain-management drugs for so long before driving towards an emergency room.

arriving in the hospital was a surreal, painful blur, and the gaps in my memory grow wider as the adrenaline retreated and pain meds (which, for the record, I hate) took over. I asked for a Diet Coke and somehow had one in hand for a selfie in an all-mirrored hospital elevator with my loved ones. I asked my surgeon, how can we be lovers if we can't be friends? I requested an ice cream sandwich. I had a lot of ideas and made a lot of jokes.

my leg was broken in two places. my entire left side, from hip to toe, was badly bruised.

that first night, they knocked me out for 30 minutes to reset the bone temporarily. the next day, they would put me under again to literally hammer a metal rod (called intramedullary rod) through the tibia and support surrounding bones and joints with a series of pins; they would let the fibula heal naturally with the weight-baring support of the tibia.

I stayed in the hospital a few days.
I was bedridden, mostly high or sleeping, always in severe pain for a couple weeks that followed. visitors came that I hardly remember.
I started going to physical therapy to learn how to walk again (weeks of which were spent gaining the strength to stand--to weight-bear).
I continued to use a wheelchair for about a month.

I stubbornly took myself to Sundance one month after the wreck, volunteering while in a wheelchair. by the end of the second week, I was getting around more and more on crutches.

being out in the world (portland, park city) in a wheelchair was socially illuminating. though those first few weeks were painful and a blur, folks experienced me as a disabled person, and that gamut of experience was downright shocking: I was equally invisible and gawked at. women in particular, changed their cadence and tone to talk slowly and sing-songy to me, like they were speaking to a small child. one women touched my hair and pet me like a dog to tell me she liked the color. men, on the other hand, mostly avoided eye contact (interestingly, when just on crutches, it was the men who wanted to small talk with me, to find out what trauma I survived, imaging a badass skiing accident, often showing me scars in unrequested solidarity). but in a wheelchair, I was invisible waiting for buses, cut in front of by able-bodied people rushing to their next screening. once, a row of seats collapsed in a theatre during a film, and pandemonium broke out (shouting and running; some folks thought there was an open shooter, first). I transferred myself quickly back to my chair to wheel out, only to have a man use me as a shield by pushing my chair through the crowed towards the exit, then rushing past me.

but there was some positives in this perspective shift, too. as an able-bodied staff member returning to a place I knew well and loved, I was pretty surprised to experience first-hand what the festival would be like for others with disabilities: lack of ramps, signage, training, cooperation to say the least. so I documented everything. the letters I sent with ADA requirements cited supported the voice of others living with disabilities. I had the privilege to escalate them through the higher-ups at Sundance based on my connections. by the following year, Sundance made considerable improvements for accessibility, and i continue to see more and more folks in wheelchairs and more accessible options, year after year.

--

learning to walk again felt like a grueling boot camp of pain and hopelessness. retrospectively, this phase was 4 months of constant training. so I spent December in bed, January in a wheelchair, February on crutches, March on one crutch, April walking slowly with a limp, and the next two years with limited mobility and low-grade pain.

going to PT was a highlight. my physical therapist was a total beacon of light and progress and yet, I can't even remember what she looked like. I remember coming in, how part of her job (in those beginning weeks) was to unwrap bandages and massage around trauma sites. my leg was disgusting and I remember being embarrassed; I couldn't even imagine ever walking again, goth drama queen that I am in times of trouble. but of course, we worked together, baby steps twice a week. gaining strength and mobility felt like a rocky movie montage when I think back on it. she measured the radius of my ankle every visit, and I learned about hypermobility, which would impact my outcome considerably: most peoples' ankle has approximately a 90-degree range of motion (mine was 113, due to undiagnosed hypermobility). when I arrived at PT, it was permanently twisted, dangling from the ankle bone, and the range of motion was 30 degrees. her job was to help me make progress to bridge that gap, though she knew that my bad leg would never be able to match the range of motion of my other. one day, I was finally able to take a single stair. sessions later, a couple more. (i still take most steep stairs down by walking backwards--holding the railing and stepping down, heel settling down first.) in the end, I "graduated" from physical therapy (let's also be real, that's what my insurance instructed; they cap out after X number of hours, and providers retrofit your paperwork accordingly.).

during all this physical progress there was a lot of pain and paperwork. I started seeing a therapist for the first time, to discuss the obvious trauma and PTSD, which opened doors for me to talk about anxiety and chronic illness. I also started to piece together that I had brain damage from the wreck, which had somehow been overlooked by the countless specialists and doctors I was seeing weekly. no one had ever checked my brain function because I didn't exhibit obvious signs. I've also come to terms with the fact I'm missing 25% of the 12-15 months before flying across an intersection. I use the "swiss cheese" analogy from quantum leap because it's the most apt: there are glaring holes in what I remember (finishing grad school?), things that only ground into reality with a photo or a calendar event to validate their existence. for years after getting hit, my short-term memory also suffered (so I started writing everything down). I also made a lot spelling mistakes, mostly using the complete wrong word (so spellcheck wasn't reliable), but also just embarrassing misspellings overall. I had (have) flashbacks. i still have PTSD, which is at its worst in winter and at night, when i can sometimes hear the noise metal on metal makes and imagine myself briefly, airbound. my moods changed, too. in particular, nearly dying made me fucking angry. I suddenly had a really nasty temper, and 5 years later, well, it's still here.

I also got a lawyer. after 16 months of fighting, he won a settlement in 2015. for me, it was a consolation prize; I would have pain and complications forever, but I was alive, and I had a little bit of cash I could say softened the blow a little. i used part of it to take my sister to iceland. I bought another scooter and some new shoes that wouldn't trouble me. I put the rest into savings, for the eventual medical bills I'll have to take care of on my own, things like getting the pins taken out of my leg and ankle, follow up x-rays, which won't be covered by insurance.

--

I acknolwedge the ways that the wreck altered me. it changed my relationship to my body and my mind. it changed how i commuted. it changed whether or not (or when) i felt safe. it gave me a view of life as a disabled person. it gave me too much insight on our very flawed medical system, insurance system, and how things go down. my hair went more grey. I gained weight. i had to throw out every pair of heels i owned, and started wearing shoes with lifts. one leg is bigger than the other. I experience a lot of pain in the cold (I seem to forget I have metal hardware inside of me until, well, it very much reminds me that it is there).

here's what's wild: ​the spring after the wreck was action-packed full of other major life events, including applying for multiple jobs, landing a new one, closing on a new house, and moving. i had to hire movers (something I'll probably always do, tbh) because I couldn't even lift a small box. I went on interviews with crutches (not surprisingly, I was not offered either of those jobs). I got a job in tech that was toxic and terrible, and then I got a new and better job exactly one year later. and then life went on. so it goes.


--

fun facts I learned from this process that I kind of wish I didn't know:
-ambulance companies are private contractors, thus not covered by insurance, and set their own rate by time and mileage (my ride was $2,000 to go 1.7 miles).
-equipment rentals are also private institutions. I had to coordinate a pickup and drop-off of my wheelchair after leaving the hospital (the cost per month was about a car note). insurance did not cover this either.
-instead! insurance companies use their money to pay for lawyers to defend their customers who do something wrong so that they don't have to pay for the repairs and medical bills. sometimes, you have to go to court to hear horrible people victim-blaming to get out of paying for things. I showed up in crutches and watched the motorcycle cop I met describe my wreck like he was playing with tiny toy airplanes.
-emergency rooms put "temporary" liens on your owned property before they validate your insurance coverage. oopsies, sometimes they just forget to remove them and you find out you have a 100k lien on your credit report for bills you paid in full for a multiple-day hospital stay.
-if you are involved in an auto-related incident and work with a lawyer for compensation of any kind (even just to cover medical bills), your personal health insurance--that would cover you normally if said incident was just, say, a tumble down the stairs--rescind their benefits and coverage of you, and require that you reimburse them with settlement money for anything they have co-paid.


--

in the end, there was michael bolton, PT and PTSD, the loss of memory and time and mobility. i remember a little what it felt like to not be able to take a weight-bearing step up a single stair, and then i remember a few months later not being able to balance on a bike yet and feeling like recovery was so long. but in retrospect, the bad parts were 6 months of my life. five years has passed. I'm so fucking grateful to be here, and I'm so grateful to know all of you. thank you for reading.

xo
rhienna

a friend wrote about her 10-year anniversary of a bike wreck, and it is so thoughtful and eloquent and also necessary, so sharing it here. <3

p.s. stay off your phones when you're driving yr big metal weapons, okay?