Rules of the road

Mickey knew the rules of the road. He followed them every night on his way home from work on his bicycle. He would sit on the yellow line waiting to cross to the left, onto the adjacent street, readying to cross traffic as soon as it settled down.

That evening his routine was no different. He was following the rules of the road. However, someone was speeding onto the scene who was not following the rules of the road. They would in moments, assume the role of the main character in a tragic cautionary tale. This was the Ides of March, a date we will never forget. Mickey's 40th birthday occurring on the 23rd would not be celebrated until the following year.


The oncoming driver traveling at 30 mi an hour must have known the rules of the road. He had his mind on other issues, shoving any alertness aside. A pastor, he deemed something else more important. He was scheduled to give a talk to a group of young people. I think he may have been studying the directions to his destination, memorizing the schedule, or refreshing himself with the familiarity of his talk.

The truth all too soon spewed out revealing the bitter fact that the driver was looking down at something on the passenger's seat and giving no attention to where he was driving, a major rule of the road. He did not see Mickey who had lights on the back of his bicycle and reflectors on the pedals, also a rule of the road.

This was previous to any regulations regarding bicycle helmets. Ironically Mickey would not mount his motorcycle without a regulation helmet, however, the urgency for bicycle helmets was a thing of the future.

The force of the impact of a car flying at 30 miles an hour colliding with a young fellow coming home from work on his well-reflected bicycle, waiting to cross the road was so severe it flipped Mickey over the back of his bicycle slamming the front and side of his head onto the windshield of the car.

He was immediately transported to the local hospital where he began his arduous journey to recovery. I was at a meeting for my workplace, the battered women's shelter, when I received the startling, shocking, traumatizing news. A friend from work sat with me for a while until they had to leave.

As I sat there alone, listening to the silence and as an empath, absorbing everyone's emotions, I knew I had to get out of there as soon as possible. I was panicking. I didn't want to be there, I didn't want to be facing the reality of what was happening. We didn't know if he would live or die.

He lay there in his secured bed lifeless and motionless. With chaos and medical technology beeping away. Everyone who went to visit him attempted to rouse him by saying something such as, "Remember when..." from the desperate past or anything that was going to inspire him and perk him up. We each longingly hoped it would be us who brought him around.

How uncanny the dynamics, when a loved one is in critical condition. Everyone reviews how significant their relationship is to the victim, as if it were a contest. Who is the more important one?

A loving wife who had spent 14 years of her life with him? A mother who bore him and had worried him into adulthood. Or a sister who believed since they could recognize each other as siblings she was responsible for keeping him from all harm. She messed this one up.


There would be no joy served until he had progressed through several more stages. Hope was spurned when the realization struck us, one by one. Though he was reacting to people squeezing his hand by squeezing their's back, that pretty well meant nothing.

It was merely part of the second stage for him to respond to a hand squeeze. He was at no point along the stages of recovery to become aware of people squeezing his hand or talking to him. He was in a coma which would last months. We will follow those stages as he progresses.

In the third stage he became very agitated and continuously moved around in his bed still located in the emergency room department. This behavior ripped at our hearts. It was obvious he was not in any position to be listening to anything or anyone.

There was no room for, "Remember when you had that motorcycle?" or "Remember when you worked for CVPS?" Then it got to questions that tore our guts away, "Do you remember your kids?" "Do you remember me?" It would be a long while before he would recognize who we were.

When he became more placid and seemed to be moving onto the next stage, the doctors deemed it safe to move him to his own hospital room. There we could have many people sitting in his room giving him support. This was the progress he was making within stage three.

I was there for a bizarre event. His wife was feeding him. His eyes suddenly popped open. It was very creepy because he was like a baby with eyes open and was unseeing, unresponding. Once again hopes fluttered and crashed within the room. He would soon be transported to a recovery center in Lewis Bay on Cape Cod. We would no longer see him for nearly 8 months.

When he reached the recovery hospital on Cape Cod, he sky-rocketed Into stage 4, the violent reactive stage. It's good he was down there and we were up here. The staff knew how to deal with him. He was physically and medically restrained in a wheelchair. He had not yet relearned to walk.

The hospital was attached to a nursing home. Mickey escaped the supervision of the staff. He stealthily maneuvered next door and managed to communicate with one of the residents.

He asked her, "Do you have any cutters?" He wanted to get out of his restraints. The two of them made plans to get away from it all. Fortunately, he was found and returned to his area.

Another time he wanted to find where his wife was sleeping and headed out to find the building. He never did find the building housing his wife. When he turned around to head back to the hospital building he found the entrance. The first responders seeing him, yelled, "We found you, we found you." Mickey said,"No I found you."