The Catalyst

I was contemplating starting a blog earlier this week when staring in horror at a magazine ad. But this afternoon's adventure wins the the prize for Catalyst that Got Lizzie Blogging. Never fear, I will share the appalling details of the magazine in a later post. Onto today:

My dear boys and I were travelling along a winding road on our way to a fourth birthday party. It is a gorgeous day to be a Kansan and everyone with a motorcycle knows it. While driving along our well-worn path many a bike passes us; one yahoo from behind, the rest on the other side of the road. A group of roaring Harleys came zooming so quickly that they shook our SUV when they passed us. My husband remarked on their speed being dangerous. I agreed. He then made a little comment about me being surprisingly agreeable. (I had only been awake 20 minutes)

We came over a slight hill in the road. I saw a piece of wood in the middle of our lane. Then my husband said, "Did he just go down?" Before my eyes could fully focus on the biker on the side of the road I was declaring a strong, "Yes!" Yes, as in: Stop right now, yes, this is bad, yes, we need to help him. My husband pulled over and I jumped from the car.

The air was warm, and very quiet. It was so still. The dear biker's Harley didn't make a purr. All I could hear was my pink trimmed flip flops hitting the ground as I ran to him. How many times do they have to hit before I reach him?

Dear Biker was standing on his own, leaning on a fence post. Ugh. A barbed-wire fence. I can't remember exactly what I said to Dear Biker first: either it was "Hold on" or "Are you okay?" or "Did you just go down?" Though the fence separating us and the bleeding injuries and dazed countenance told me the answers were: "Ok. Where am I going?" and "No." and "Yes."

My next words (not to Dear Biker) were, "Jesus, why a barbed wire fence?" I flipped off the top line of wire and placed it on the ground. My husband asked if he should call 911. YES!!! Then I set about dismantling the rest of the fence. Dear Biker couldn't get across it, so I had to drop it down for him. "Jesus, please help me get this fence down so I can get this man supine" Turns out Jesus knows a thing or two about fences. I pulled apart the wires that were holding the other lines up then jumped on the wires. I jumped a number of times until the lines slid down the pole enough for Dear Biker to get over them. Yes, still in my pink flip flops.

The next twenty minutes merge together: I discovered Dear Biker's name. Assess his injuries: BAD. I quoted my Daddy. (There are two types of bikers - those who have gone down and those who will go down) Other motorists began pulling over. Take his sunglasses off to assess his pupils: ok. One motorist  insisted on finding his cell phone and calling someone Dear Biker knew. He said there was no one to call. Other bikers pulled over to help Dear Biker and give brotherly support. The first motorist managed to call someone. Dear Biker said the sun was killing his eyes, especially his right eye. I looked at pupils again before giving back his sunglasses: not dilated. Bikers and I helped Dear Biker cross the road to mowed grass to lie down. I held his neck in a neutral position. The fire fighters, paramedics and police all arrived. I told Dear Biker good-bye. A paramedic took over the neck-stabilizing position. The police officer said she didn't need me. I asked for alcohol pads to clean Dear Biker's blood off my hands and arms. Using my beloved alcohol pads, (nurses grow fond of certain equipment) I cleaned up. I walked toward my car. My husband was holding my son on the side of the road. We got in our SUV and continued on to celebrate a little boy turning four.

Four hours later, my jeans sit in a sink upstairs. Water is trying to loosen another person's blood from my denim. I am trying to loosen these memories from my mind. That is the main point of this post: a little Lizzie therapy. Here are my doubts, my rage, the haunting questions:

-The dudes he was riding with never came back. They left their buddy bleeding, gravely injured, his motorcycle crushed unto death. Daddy said, "Those aren't bikers. Those are a**holes with motorcycles." Twenty minutes later, they still hadn't come back. It make me so sad for Dear Biker. Were those his only friends? Does he have anyone who will stand by him? He had no one to call. Did he drive faster than he knew he could just to keep up with a bunch of idiots who won't even watch his back?  IT makes my heart ache for him.

-Should I have prayed more? Once Jesus helped me dismantle a barbed wire fence with my bare hands in under two minutes, I quit talking to Him. Should I have prayed with Dear Biker? In hind site I wish I would have prayed that God would give him caring nurses after me who would talk to him. I've been in enough traumas and codes to know that most people talk over the patient, not to the patient.

-Did I miss my chance to tell Dear Biker he does have someone to call? He thanked me for being so nice to him. It made me choke because it was so sadly genuine. Is anyone ever nice to him? Does he know that Jesus is nice? That he can always call Jesus?

I don't want anyone to fix or comfort me. (you know, the three of you that I'm going to tell I started a blog) I can't fix the past. I trust God to help Dear Biker through the rough days ahead. I will continue to pray for him.

I just wonder. . .

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