MY STORY, MY WORDS

My Story, My Words..
On February 11, 2007 my life as I knew it, forever changed. Who would have thought? No one would, until it happens to them. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Visibility..clear. Temperature..cold. I work for an accountant. During tax season, I have one day a week off. You guessed it..Sunday. My day to lay around, relax. Around 2 p.m., I decided it would be a good idea to take a nap. I spoke with my husband, and he said he would be on his way home shortly. He was at Mike's Famous in New Castle. Although, his motorcycle was still fairly new, he had been eyeing something more 'touring' oriented. He wanted to take long trips, just him and me. We had not even been married a year. Before his trip to Mike's, he woke at the crack of dawn, to bundle up and prepare for a charity run for Kids. Which is quite common in the motorcycle world. He had only been on a few, and this would be his last, for a long time to come...


Around 4 p.m., mid nap, I was startled when the phone rang. I had just missed the call. Thinking nothing of it, I lay back down. After a minute, it hit me. Mike was not home. I spoke with him 2 hours prior. Fear struck my heart immediately. I knew before I even looked at the caller ID. Christiana Hospital. There was a message. Mrs. K, we have your husband here in the Emergency Department of Christiana Hospital. He is fine, but we need for you to come. The doctor is working on him. That was it. I tried returning the call. In a panicked state, I desperately asked for someone to tell me what had happened. Nothing. They could not locate him in the data base. Next, I called my mother. I needed someone to drive me. I was a mess. I did not know whether to cry, call his parents, pray. All logical thought escapes you, when the sense of potential loss is looming. My mother was ill. My little sister, and nursing student, would be the one to transport me and my sea of emotions to the hospital, to either hug me when I was told he was alright, or hold me if my worst fears came true.



After what seemed like an eternity, we arrived and were told we would have to wait. The nurse would be out momentarily. Great, more waiting. I just needed to see my husband...ALIVE. Finally, a nurse came out to bring me to my husband. First question out of my mouth? Was he wearing a helmet. Yes, he was. Thank God above. Is he OK? Not sure. We are going to let you see him and talk to the Trauma team. Trauma? This was really bad, I thought. And it was. I approached the room he was being treated in. I took a deep breath and prayed for strength to handle the situation without falling completely apart. I had to be strong. I rushed to his bedside. A team of doctors were scurrying about. Some were looking at X-rays, others were busy hooking my husband up to machines. I looked down at him. He was alive. His eyes were dancing around the room. He looked confused, upset. The next thing I remember is the smell. The overwhelming smell of blood and flesh. The smell of death still lingers when I look back on it. Here lay my husband, blood covering his face, dripping from his ears. On his neck, a brace. Was his neck broken? No, just a precaution. Again, thank God above. I inspected him further. Where was all this blood coming from? There was a huge gash along his jawline, so much blood pouring from it, that there was no way to tell an untrained eye that it was the source of the blood. Skin was missing from his hands and his feet. More blood. Upon first glance you could not tell if his teeth were intact. His lips so dry, from breathing what could have been his last breath, he could barely speak. The first words he said to me? I am dying aren't I? No. I will be here every step of the way. You will fight, and when you can't, I will. I would have given my soul if someone would just tell me that he was going to make it. I did not want to lie to him. I smelled the death in the room. But, again, I had to be strong for him. Don't give up. Never give up. I pushed my sister. Please, call his parents. I cannot leave him. Not even for one minute. I looked at him again and thought to myself. You cannot die. We do not have children together. Crazy? Yes. But, that is what ran through my head.



I turned to the doctors and nurses. Anyone who would answer the crazed thoughts running through my head. Internal injuries? Yes. He was bleeding internally. Grade four liver laceration. He was waiting for a Radiologist to get him. They had to look inside. See how severe the laceration was. Surgery? Possibility. Depends. When they took him to the Radiology Department, they allowed me to go as far as the surgical doors. Then the wait. I went back to the ER. My heart so heavy I could barely breathe. I prayed. Please, God, don't take him from me. We just started our life together.



More waiting. I had to gather up enough strength to sit with his parents. To look at his mother. This, her oldest son. Her baby. Being a mother myself, I could not even begin to pretend that I knew what she was going through. I was just the wife. My emotions were quite different. This woman brought him into this world. Watched his first steps. Heard his first word. Bandaged his first scrape. And now, he was on a hospital gurney at the age of 36, hoping that a bandage was all it would take. His father, being so strong for his wife and for me, the new daughter. We are a family now, and we will do whatever it takes to see him through this.



Two hours later, the doctor came to tell us that Mike would not need surgery. The liver had embolized itself. The bleeding had stopped.



Mike would be admitted to the SICU for further observation. How long must he stay? No way to tell. It is up to him. Will he make it? Yes. He should do just fine.



Our prayers had been answered. For now.



He was diagnosed with a small hemorrhage in the frontal lobe of his brain. A concussion. Grade 4 liver laceration. Multiple facial fractures. Multiple rib fractures. Grade 2 splenic laceration. Facial lacerations. But, he would live.



After 2 days in the SICU, the doctors decided he was well enough to be moved to a transitional unit. He would still be watched, but not as closely as he would in the SICU. His parents and I wanted to celebrate. Things were progressing slowly, but he was improving.



On February 19, 2007, I decided to take a break from the hospital. His mother was more than willing to sit with him for the duration of visiting hours so that I could try to get some rest. I was going to need it. They moved him to a new room. This meant he would possibly be coming home soon. As I was leaving, I passed his mother on my way out. He does not seem to be improving to me. He seems to be getting worse. He is yellow. His mother and I agreed that the following day, I would ask for a consult with the Trauma team to get a complete update on his condition. I went home. I slept for the first time in days. Until the phone rang at 3:30 a.m. My husband went into a rage. Pulled all of his tubes out. His IV. It took five people to get him down to sedate him. My God. What is happening? I immediately called his parents, relayed the news and rushed back to the hospital. My husband had been placed back into SICU. The doctors were running more tests. They had no idea what happened. He got up, walked twenty feet down the hall, began removing the chest tube (placed earlier that day, due to an pneumonia he acquired in the hospital). Pulled out every IV he had in place. More waiting. After several hours, the doctor finally came to us. That night, when my husband arose from the bed, he suffered a pulmonary embolism. A clot had broke lose from the laceration in his liver and traveled to his lungs. It began to suffocate him. He turned blue. He coded. He flat lined. Last Rites were read that night. Twice. The doctor could not tell us if he would make it. They placed him on blood thinners to help dissolve the clot. But, because the liver laceration was so severe, it was a catch 22 situation. If they had to perform surgery, they needed his blood to be able to clot. If they wanted to dissolve the embolism, his blood needed to be able to not clot. I just wanted to see him. His mother and I went in together. The smell of death again clouded the room. He looked so pale. So weak. The neck brace was placed back on him. He was tied to the bed, hands and feet, for fear that he would get out of bed and hurt himself. The worst site of all? He was intabated. A tube down his throat. He was not able to fully breathe on his own. More IV's. More medications. Chest tube re inserted. Fresh bruises on his hands and feet during the struggle to get him sedated. More prayers for his life. More prayers for strength. More prayers for competence and skill for the Trauma Team. With all this a sense of relief that for the time, he was still here. He could not speak. He could not breathe. When he arose that night, he knew in his mind he was dying and that if he did not get up he would. Sounds crazy, but true. He fought for his life. He fought for our life.







My husband survived. He fought. We fought. He lived. So have others. But there are many who lose their lives due to carelessness. Why? Because they did not see them. No, we cannot make drivers pay attention always. Accidents do happen. But, they can be avoided.

We need awareness. Not targeting. I could go on and on. I think I may have already.



I do not need to use statistics. I am speaking from someone who almost lost my husband due to lack of attention. I will be damned if I want him in the 'target aggressive motorcyclist' campaign. We need to stop inventing campaigns and spend the funds on things such as awareness. Road signs. Tougher penalties. I, for one, am not happy that my tax money is being spent on this ridiculous campaign.



In closing, I just want to say that driving a motorcycle is no longer a stereotype. Riders are not just 'Pagans' anymore. They are your doctors, lawyers, government officials, salesman, blue collared workers. But, most importantly, they are someone's father, mother, sister or brother. In short, someone loves that motorcyclist, the same way someone loves the driver of a car.





Proud wife of a survivor.