My first thought is... I don't know where I am.

 And beyond that, I have no recollection. I don't remember anything.

I can see, a little, but not much. I'm limited to looking at the inside of my helmet visor, which is still snapped shut, but I can't see through it. What I do see are red smears. So thick in some places, it's almost black. In other places, it simply looks like crumpled red cellophane, but nowhere can I see out.

Neither can I move my arms to open my visor. I try...try to move my arms, but they don't move. I don't know why. I can't even feel them, my arms, but I know they are there.

Somehow, I know.

I just want to see something – ANYTHING!. Anything but red! The only thing I can see is differences in the light shining through the visor, like shadows moving. Like, maybe someone - or some thing - blocking the light at times.

Ordinarily, I would be scared - not being able to see, not knowing, but right now, at this moment, I’m more concerned than anything. I’m concerned because I don't know what I've gotten myself into. Not this time, but maybe if I could see, I would know more. I could figure it all out. But as it stands, I don't remember anything.

And I don't know where I am.

And I can't see.

So, I'm concerned.

And maybe a little worried.

OK, maybe more than a little. I’m very worried.

And I hear things. Voices, maybe. And noises. Noises like things being moved or torn, dropped or opened, but I don't know what any of it means.

And, yes. It's voices. I know that now. But they’re low and muffled, and I can't make out what they’re saying. Not the exact words, anyway. The helmet is heavy and thick, and designed to be quiet even at high speeds, so it’s like wearing earplugs, in a way, making it almost impossible to tell what the voices are saying.

And maybe that's a good thing.

Maybe I don’t want to know what the voices have to say.

Not right now, because frankly, I'm worried enough as it is without adding to that problem, so maybe I'm better off not knowing. Not now, anyway. So, without being able to listen to what’s being said and finding out where I am, and what’s happened to me, I do the only thing I can do: lie here still and unmoving.

…and not knowing.

And in a way, not wanting to know.

---------------------------

I don't know where I am, not for sure, and I don't know where I've been, or how I got here, even, wherever 'here' is. And even though there is much I don't know, there is one thing I am certain of: I'm not alone. There are people around me, and I get the sense that they are here because of me. I know they are here because I can hear them.

And I can feel them.

I feel someone tugging on my pants, while at the same time, someone is doing something with my arm, my right arm, but I'm not sure what.

And through all of this, something—something deep inside—keeps telling me just to lie still; to let them do whatever it is they are doing, because they are doing it with authority. Like, maybe they’ve done this before. A lot. Like maybe it's their job, and I'm their latest task; their latest chore, assignment…something. The next thing on their 'to-do' list, maybe.

And that worries me even more.

And now I'm more worried than I am concerned.

Mainly because I think I know where I am now.

…I think

I hope I'm wrong, but probably not. And if I'm right about where I am, I know why, the reason I'm here - or there, or wherever. And it's not good. It's bad. How bad, I don't know. All I know is that it's not good.

But if I'm right about where I'm at, what I can say is this: I've been here before, a few times, but never like this.

Never.

And that's what worries me. To the point that the worry has now turned into fear, so on top of everything else, I’m scared.

---------------------------

I hear a new noise. Maybe mechanical, maybe something else, I'm not sure. And the voices... They never stop. They‘re continuous. Two people, at least, talking to one another.  And while I can't make out the individual words, I can make out the tones and inflections, and from that, I understand that the communication is urgent. Urgent, but not panicked. Just calm and precise. Almost practiced, in a way. It's easy to tell that whoever it is has done this before, and now they are doing it to me - because of me.

And I see them, these people, pass between the visor and the light source. It’s the moving shadows I noticed earlier, the obscured blurs constantly moving around me. Moving their arms, their heads... Moving this way and that, from one side of me to the other… Never stopping or pausing. Just one continuous motion. Motion that is hurried and deliberate, but at the same time, never clumsy or panicked.

All very precise.

All very practiced.

And I know - somehow, I know - that I'm in good hands; that these people - these EMTs, ambulance attendants, nurses…whoever, are here to help me. Helping me because I'm their current task, the next action item on their to-do list.

And I want to thank them, but I can't.

Not yet.

So instead, I lie here and let them do whatever it is they are doing, because it's a given that whatever they’re doing is necessary. Otherwise, why would they be doing it?

I try to find a spot in the visor, even a small one, to peer through so I can see, but I don’t find any. Not even one. Just smears and crumpled red cellophane.  And then something occurs to me: at least my eyes are working. I can see, so certainly that's a good sign.

Yeah. A good sign. One that lets me know everything’s going to be alright, that I’m going to be OK.

---------------------------

At this point, I feel nothing. Well, no pain, that is, and I'm grateful for at least that much. What I do feel is wetness. Maybe warm, maybe cold, maybe both. I don't know. I can’t really tell. And it's sticky, whatever it is, and thick, and my body's covered in it head to toe. No doubt blood. A lot of it.

I feel something around my arm now, and it's squeezing. Someone’s taking my blood pressure. I know this because it's what they did the last time, only then, I could see them do it. Still, I remember how it felt.

After a short while, the squeezing stops and the pressure band is removed. Once the band is gone, I begin to feel something else, like a different kind of pressure on the inside of my arm near the elbow joint. Whatever it is, it's hard, and it's pressing against my skin, but only for a moment, and then I suddenly feel it inside, inside my arm, like an intrusion of some sort.

The person tending to my arm then lifts it and begins wrapping something around it at the point of the intrusion. It's tape. I know because I hear it, sort of, as it's peeled from the roll. And now I know what the intrusion is. It's an IV needle, and the tape is there to hold it in place, just like last time.

Whoever it is finishes with the right arm and then moves to the other arm, my left, and repeats the process, leaving me with two IVs, one in each arm. Once the attendant - or whoever it is - finishes taping the current arm, they lay it back on the table, and do so in an ever so careful and gentle way. The way a woman would do.

The way my mother would do.

But I don't feel my arm, either one, just dull sensations at best, just like the rest of me. I can feel my pants being removed, but I can't feel my legs.

About this time, someone begins tugging on my riding jacket. I hear a faint noise as they slowly remove it from my body one piece at a time. First one sleeve and then the other, and then the front, followed by the back. I can only imagine that the faint noise I’m hearing is a pair of scissors cutting the jacket apart. The sound has the same rhythm. After a while, the sound stops, and I feel the last of the jacket, the backside, being pulled out from under me. After that, my shirt’s removed in pretty much the same manner, leaving me, as best as I can tell, naked except for my underwear. I think I still have my underwear on, but I could be wrong.

 Once the jacket and shirt are removed, a pair of hands begins wiping spots clean on my torso as if to make big polka dots, and once they’re complete, the dots, I feel something being applied to each one. EKG sensors, probably, but I'm not sure.

But I am pretty sure I know where I’m at now. I'm in a hospital. It could be an ambulance, but I doubt it. The light’s too bright, and there’s no movement or siren. There's no traffic noise,  at least that I can make out, but maybe I just don't hear it. Still, I would feel some type of movement, even if only the shifting of weight by the people attending me. I would feel them moving about, but I don't.

No.

I'm in a hospital.

I'm sure of it.

And that's a good thing, in a sad way. Because obviously I'm hurt, and if that's the case, then this is where I need to be, the hospital. I wish to God that I wasn't hurt at all, to begin with, but it's a little too late now for wishful thinking because it's all too apparent that I'm injured, injured bad enough to be brought here, a hospital.

And now I'm even more scared.

I know it's bad, but I don't know how bad, and I can't stop thinking the same thing over and over...

...if only I could see.

#

I feel tired, sleepy. I want to close my eyes, but I can't. I'm too alert, so I lie here, instead, tired, sleepy, and alert all at the same time.

And I'm worried. Very worried. I'm worried because maybe this time it's really bad. But maybe not. Maybe it's not as bad as what I'm fearing. I remind myself that people tend to assume the worst, so I keep telling myself that it's OK, that it's not that bad. I don't know this for a fact, but it's what I keep telling myself - that everything will be OK. You'll see.

And all the attention I'm getting makes me feel better about things. Mainly because I'm in a hospital and there are people here helping me. I'm not alone. And I know that whoever it is helping me knows what they are doing, that I'm in good hands.

This I'm sure of: that I'm in good hands.

And hearing their muffled voices makes me feel better, as well, even though I still don't know what they are saying. They are here with me, doing what they are trained to do, and that's what matters. There's no panic. There's no yelling, no barking orders, just deliberate, dutiful communication. Business as usual. Another task on their to-do list: something that needs to be done and finished so that they can move on to the next thing, the next important task.

And all of this lets me know that I'm going to be OK. A mess, but OK. I know because I've been through it all before. It's not the first time, and probably won't be the last. I'll get through this OK, I will. I always do. But even still, I know there will be a cost to it all, a cost beyond the road rash; a cost beyond the broken bones, the scars, the doctor bills…a more personal cost.  Namely, the hell I will catch later from my dad and Cindy, my girlfriend. Because make no mistake, they'll have plenty to say.

They always do.

My mom? Well (sigh), she’s mom. She’ll just hug me and tell me how much she loves me. My brother and sister? They won't say a word. They'll just be glad that I'm OK.  But even though they won’t say anything, this will still be very upsetting to them. It will upset them because they love me. They all do. They all love me, but really, enough is enough, and I understand this, I do. I know I’m in the wrong here, so I'll simply take whatever it is I have coming to me; take whatever they - dad, and Cindy – dump on me. I deserve it, I know. Just like I know that I only have myself to blame.

They know it, and I know it.

But no, none of them needed this to happen, and I'm sorry. I fully understand that I'm not the only one paying the price for this. They pay it too, just in a different way. Whereas I will eventually heal, and then afterwards, live with the reminders, the scars, they too will live with their own reminders, their own permanent scars, namely, the bad memories.  Memories they never asked for or ever wanted, but ones they now have to live with thanks to me.  So yeah, we all pay the price.

But we'll get through this.

We will.

We always do.

We'll get through this, all of us, and in time, all will be forgiven. Dad and Cindy will be angry with me, the way they always are, but they won’t say anything until later, once I've healed, and that's when the windy speeches and lectures will come, once I’m well again.

But I'll worry about that later when the time comes. Right now, more than anything, I just wish I could see. I wish I could hear what the voices are saying, but I can't. I can’t see, and I can’t hear what’s being said, so for now I just lie here, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, motionless and devoid of movement. Because that’s what my body is telling me to do. It's telling me that things are bad, and I believe it, but I'm already worried and scared enough to lie still on my own without it telling me to.

---------------------------

I hear a noise.

Something new, a new noise, one I haven't heard before. It sounds mechanical and close. Very close, and near my head. And I hear it distinctly. A whirring sound. Spinning, maybe. And then it changes, like maybe it's speeding up or slowing down, but always changing.

And it's close, real close, and it's moving slowly and with purpose. It started above my head and is slowly making its way down the right side.

They're cutting my helmet off, the one that took me three years to buy, my most prized possession.

But I guess that doesn't matter now, my helmet, because if they are cutting it off, it means that it was ruined anyway. And that's OK. It's OK because I'm still alive, which means that it did its job. It saved my life.

The good news is, is that once the helmet is off, I will finally be able to see again. See what, I don't know, but for sure, more than I can see now. In the meantime, I simply lie here and listen to this…this…thing. This machine. This cutter, or saw...whatever it is.  I listen to it whir and spin as it cuts, and I wait.

I wait.