The Concussion

When I was about 9 or so, we were racing down the hill on Patricia Street, north of Ross. My sister was there, my neighbor Dave was there, I’m not sure who else. I was riding my green CCM Mustang, the sort with a banana seat. I loved that bike; I still love its memory. Anyway, we were racing, crouched down, streamlining for greater speed.

Then a station wagon rounded the corner onto Patricia from Brousseau. We weaved left and right to avoid it. I went right, but there were a couple others crowding that edge, and it felt a little less roomy than I liked. It was tight, that much is sure in my mind. Too tight. Too tight to manoeuver. Worse still, once I’d committed to going right and discovered the lack of room there, there was no time to change my mind. That’s when I noticed that there was a rock on the road directly in my path. It wasn’t enormous, certainly not a boulder, but it wasn’t a pebble either. It was big, though, surprisingly big.

I felt trapped, unable to edge left or right owing to the bikes to the right and the car to the front that would be to my left in a moment.

I hit the rock and found myself flying over the handlebars. I reached out ahead and tried to ward off the onrushing ground at the same time.

I remember hitting, hearing my head bounce off the asphalt ... and then nothing until I was on a gurney at St. Mary’s Hospital. I’m told that I was awake after wiping out, that I never lost consciousness, that I was sitting up and responsive the whole time. I just have no memory of it. I remember waking up for about thirty seconds in the hospital, unable to see but aware of my mother next to me. Frightened, I tearfully told my mother I couldn’t see, and then I heard a nurse complain, “He watches too much TV.”

I was pissed at that. I still am, whenever I recall it. Then I was out again. I woke up again in the middle of the night in a panic, not knowing where I was. Not to worry, I wasn’t awake for long then, either, no more than a couple minutes before crying myself to sleep.

When I woke in the morning, I was asked by a nurse (maybe she was kitchen staff; I wouldn’t have known the difference then) to fill out my preferences for a meal plan, for some reason. Was I to be there long enough to require a meal plan? I didn’t like the thought of that. I wanted my mother. I wanted to go home. I didn’t like any of the choices given me; what I wanted was spaghetti and meatballs. Doesn’t matter; I only ate breakfast. I was released from hospital that morning, if I remember properly.