Guest Blogger – The ‘Catastrophe’ Was Not the Fault of the Motorcycle

It was a cold, rainy night, at least it sounded of rain.

I was trapped, laying on my back in a box car of a train.

Pinned down on my back, unable to get up.

I couldn’t see the restraints, like a turtle on its back – straining but never getting up.

There were breaks in the wall of the boxcar.

 I could see we were stopped at a railroad crossing, but there were no flashing lights or ringing bells.

Voices… outside the car.

My people, they were looking for me, asking someone if they had seen me.

My captors lied, they answered no.

 I tried to call out, tried to yell, but nothing, and the train pulled away.

 I now know these were the dreams of my coma.

But at the time, they were as real as anything I have ever felt.

 

Words matter.  Collision, mishap, smash, MVA, wreck, shunt, car v motorcycle? What do I call the event that caused all of this?

The event that changed my life and the life of others…

Disaster, crash, misadventure, fender-bender…?

I know what not to call it. I bristle every time I hear the word ” Accident”.

An accident is “an unfortunate incident that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally.” Accidents happen. But this didn’t just happen, it was the only logical conclusion of a series of stupid and selfish decisions.

So not an accident, then what?

Catastrophic is the label I’ve lived with for three years now.

So, if I’m catastrophic, I guess the event itself was the catastrophe.

Yup, catastrophe works.

 

I can see the streetlights reflect on the interior of the car.

 I see them blip by in rapid sequence

 The car smells, that smell of sweat that builds up in winter overcoat.

A smell that is only set free by heat.

 I am in the back seat, but not on the back seat.

I am on the floor, laying on my back, again.

Trapped on my back. Again.

 The back seat is full of people.

 It’s one of those wide sedans from the 70’s, like my father’s Caprice Classic.

Big, long, wide, and a floor in the back with a hump in the middle.

The people in the back seat all have their feet, their boots, on me.

 It’s cold outside, I can feel the cold air invading the heat of the car.

 My people were outside the car, asking if anyone had seen me.

No, they lied, we’ve not seen him at all.

 

The ‘catastrophe’ was not the fault of the motorcycle.  Nor was it caused by the weather, traffic, alignment of zodiac signs or feng shui.

It wasn’t even caused by the other vehicle (though the Honda S-2000 is a symptom).

There is only one person responsible for this collision.

One person responsible for:

• the injuries
• the pain
• the expense
• the thousands of man-hours spent in hospital waiting rooms
• the physical therapy, gait therapy, psychological therapy
• my inability to work, to drive, to play sports, to travel, to dance
• lost memories
• 45 fractures
• 6 months in hospital
• 3 months of dialysis
• 21 surgeries after the initial critical care
• countless plates and screws
• hundreds of staples
• transplants
• transfusions
• tendon transfers
• skin grafts
• the functional loss of one hand and one foot
• the actual loss of one eye and one leg…

One person is responsible for all of this. Vin Diesel…

I can sense your uncertainty.

I do not believe Tarantino films incite violence; or that video games make people buy and use guns. I do not believe song lyrics inspire anti-social behaviour or that Breaking Bad inspired anyone to become meth cooks.

I do, however, believe that the (horrible) Fast and Furious movies have spawned a generation of kids with too much time on their hands, access to daddy’s credit card, and a sense of entitlement on the road. I’m only half joking when I say I would like to file suit against the stars and producers of the whole suite of F+F movies, all 14 or whatever of them, for irresponsibly spawning an entitled, over-horsepowered and under-talented generation of spoiled brats.

No, driving cars fast is not new. They say the first auto race took place when the second car was built. But this phenomenon is new, believing they can weave in and out of regular traffic – people transporting their families, commuting to work, going for an oil change….

Ironically, I love auto racing – Formula One, IndyCar/Cart when it was good, NASCAR before it became WWE on wheels…. Racing comes with risks – I have watched heroes die on the track – Villeneuve, Senna, Moore, Earnhardt. These were tragic events, and tragedies by the true sense of the word. However, they all signed up for the risks – risks that belong on the track, not on our roads.

Go to the track – sign the waiver – have at it.

Go ahead and take risks, just don’t take innocent with you.

 

Lying in bed in an abandoned hospital.

I’m alone, but I hear groans and moans from creatures unseen.

I can’t see them, but they are here. I am on a gurney, flat on my back.

The hospital is in complete disrepair.

It resembles the opening scenes of the Walking Dead.

There is sound coming through the PA system, not music exactly…

More like an old, warped LP played at a fraction of normal rpm.

It drones on and on, and on.

I don’t know what the sound is, but I know why the sound is.

Mind control.

I am trapped on my back, again, turtled.

The mind-control noises are keeping me trapped on my back.

I can’t sit up; I can’t look around.

I can’t get away; I try to call out.

I have no voice.

 

I have vivid memories of laying facedown, in the middle of the road, in the pouring rain.

Nope. It didn’t happen that way, just one of many false memories I have, my brain’s way of filling in the blanks.

Fire, then ambulance, then police arrived – (as stated in the report) I was awake but going into shock. Among a few other bumps and bruises, I had severed the femoral artery in my left leg – I was bleeding out, my bp was bottoming out, I lost consciousness and I was in trouble.

There are at least five hospitals close to the collision scene, one less than 5km away. Five state-of-the-art facilities filled with nurses, doctors, medicine, equipment – all ready and waiting for a case like mine. We bypassed them all.

Sunnybrook Health Sciences Centre is the first and busiest (and best) trauma centre in Canada. Equipped and trained for everything from large-scale disasters to complex and life-threatening mva injuries, it is the best of the best, and would become my home for the next 6 months.

Full sirens and lights, we travelled 28km to Sunnybrook as I clung to life. We bypassed multiple hospitals in favour of the only one they knew had a shot at pulling me through. This is the second of three reasons why I am still alive, and as logical a place as any to take a break.

To be continued.

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 Fall Issue of Sharing our Recovery