This Life
Husband, father, writer… infrequent and at least 55% impaired. Impaired as in injured, damaged, diminished, less than whole. Please be patient, I’m still getting used to my new brain. I have no answers, no advice, no guidance. All I have is a story. A story about the one reason I’m so damaged; three why I’m still alive. A story of catastrophe, fear, love and Triumph. Three acts, a thousand words at a time, a month at a time. Oh, and there’s a pretty girl and a dog, so read on…
I don’t know who I am.
On the morning of July 28, 2018, I knew who I was. I began that day like any other, morning coffee with my wife Lesley. The house was quiet – teenage boys don’t get up that early. Indie, a yellow lab and perhaps the sweetest dog ever, idled in the spot where the morning sun shone through our back window. ‘Who I was’ was a husband, father, friend – a writer by trade and by practice, a creative director in an agency, a spoken-word performer and an enthusiastic but mediocre beer-league athlete…
And I rode – ‘who I was’ included a motorcycle. Not just any motorcycle, my Triumph Bonneville… a contemporary café-racer in the style made world-famous by Steve McQueen, and famous to me by my cousin Peter.
Grumbly baritone voiced, beefed-up, blacked-out, and naked – she was beautiful.
This is the world Lesley and I… dur, I haven’t really told you about Lesley. I’ve told you more about my bike than my wife of 27 years… If this story was a movie, I would not be the star of it. Lesley is my heroine, my alpha and omega. I was smitten with her at first sight, she had shiny hair and she smelled nice, which is high praise from a boy in grade six. Lesley has been the star of my story for three-quarters of my life, and never more than in the last few years. My role in this story was like Kevin Costner’s in The Big Chill – present, credited, but… peripheral.
And she loves to dance.
Lesley loves to dance, and I do not. Now, I cannot. What I’d give…
It reminds me of the story behind a famous song by The Drifters, as I heard told by Lou Reed. The lyrics were written by Doc Pomus; he wrote them on his on his wedding day. Pomus, confined to a wheelchair by polio, married a beautiful Broadway actress who loved to dance. And he loved her, so…
“…don’t forget who’s taking you home, and in whose arms you’re gonna be…”.
Lesley, my darling, save the last dance for me.
The last thing I remember is kissing Lesley goodbye – I can’t imagine how many times I told this lie. As the fog of delusion and paranoia lifted, it seems my brain manufactured memories to fill gaps – nature abhors a vacuum. Truth be told, I don’t remember much from that summer, let alone that day.
I woke up in hospital, emerging from a three-week coma; escaping vivid, persistent and terrifying coma-dreams I wouldn’t acknowledge for months. I remember most of them; I’ve documented some of them. I’ve considered including them in these articles but am wary of triggers – we’ll see. Newly awake in a hospital bed, I didn’t question why I was there.
Or how I got there. Or why I was in such pain. I didn’t question the tubes, wires, the machines that go ‘ping!’ I didn’t question the casts, the erector-sets screwed into my pelvis, hips and arms. Or the suspicious absence on one half of the bed. I didn’t ask… nor did I not know.
I didn’t remember, but I knew. It’s as though I knew before I knew. I knew I was catastrophic.
There was a constant stream of people in my room – I recognized some but didn’t know who they were or why they were there. I didn’t let on; I smiled, nodded… alone in a room full of people. There was one, though. She was there all the time. She had shiny hair and she smelled nice… and she put a hand-drawn sign on a drab, otherwise empty wall in my room.
“The key is this: Meet today’s problems with today’s strength. Don’t start tackling tomorrow’s problems until tomorrow.
You do not have tomorrow’s strength yet.
You simply have enough for today.” (credit – Max Lucado)
The police call it car v motorcycle. Spoiler alert, the car wins. Every time. I set out to get an oil change, cruising on a surface road 60kmh throughout on a motorcycle. Heading in the opposite direction was a jacked-up, dropped-down, loud-mufflered, slick-tired idiot-mobile – a security cam captured video of it just meters before it spun out of control – it was travelling at 120kmh. One-hundred-and-twenty. In a 60. Noon, on a Saturday. Too much speed, too little tire, too little ability, too little sense. Dreams of being Fast and Furious. The reality of being Dumb and Dangerous. I never had a chance. Couldn’t even react.
The impact was so violent the motorcycle and car actually melded at points – embracing both myself and the bike in an ungainly, ruinous waltz, before launching both unexpected dance partners back into oncoming traffic. The witnesses knew it was bad. The firefighters, then police, then EMT’s knew it was bad. Bad enough to close the road for investigation. As they do with all anticipated fatalities…
I was a seasoned rider, but no amount of experience or training could have prevented what happened. Just the year before, my friends pooled their pennies for a 50th birthday gift. Their directions were clear – I was to spend it all on a helmet – all of it. From then on, I rode with a helmet that was more expensive than my first car. Little did we know…
This is the first of three reasons why I am still alive.
And a reasonable place to pause.
Until next time.
Submitted by Andrew Lawlor
Andrew Lawlor is a motorcycle crash survivor. Since July, 2018 he has drawn on the love and support of his family and his community, working to repair body, mind and soul. Andrew knows everyone’s journey is unique, and hopes that fellow survivors might find a new perspective, or encouragement in the stories he tells. The Crash Support Network is thrilled to announce a collaboration with Andrew as he shares his journey through ongoing contributions to our Crash Survivor Blog.
This article is also featured in our 2021 Summer Issue of Sharing our Recovery
