As I sit here, listening to Beyonce and Jack White’s Don’t Hurt Yourself, I’m thinking, sorry Bey, I didn’t listen, I hurt myself real bad. The Region of Waterloo didn’t give me lemons so I couldn’t make Beyonce’s Lemonade; the Region of Waterloo gave me fucked up train tracks and I made what looks like barbecued cherry tomatoes on my right hand.
The train tracks at Weber and Wilhelm run almost parallel to Weber as they cross the road. Now, I’m not a city planner, but my layman logic tells me that a perpendicular crossing would be much safer – especially near the entrance to a new bicycle path close to a growing urban core. The reckless tracks were unprotected, lacking any rubber to provide me with a safe ride, and they grabbed my bicycle tire, twisting it into the wide slit, wrenching my handlebars to the side and smashing me down. My right hand dragged across the asphalt, acting as a flesh break to my speeding body and bike.
I stood up, looking like a villain from Kill Bill the way my hand was spurting blood.
Shock does strange things to one’s mental state of mind. I remembered the last time my flesh was stolen from me without my permission; this chicken on a farm pecked me, eating my skin and I cried so hard, demanding that the chicken give me back what was mine. We eventually ate that chicken for dinner so I guess I ended up getting back what was mine by eating myself twice-removed. I wrapped my hand in my tank top and then proceeded to wipe all the blood off my bike and saddlebags thinking, Oh I’m fine, I can bike the rest of the way home. When I realized my chain had come apart, that was when I decided that I needed help. I couldn’t get my clothes dirty with grease, obviously. Tales had lost his phone so I called my loving and dependable Mom to come and pick me up. Side note: not one vehicle, fellow cyclist or pedestrian stopped to see if I was okay. In fact, they gave me dirty looks. My friends did see me getting into my Mom’s car and they messaged right away – thank you Connor and Elvira!
Upon unwrapping my hand in my parents’ bathroom, with nurse Dad swabbing my wounds, I realized that my throbbing blood holes should probably have the road cleaned out of them. Getting to the hospital was an interesting algorithm to solve considering all the road construction in the Region.
The nurses and the doctor (who happened to be a client of mine) were all fantastic.
“Dick,” the doctor said, “you realize it’s much better when I come see you?” He proceeded to stick a needle multiple times into my gaping wounds and I more than agreed with him. Once my hand was numb, he scrubbed out the gravel and asphalt and stitched me up. The holes went deep into my joint sockets, making me look like Wolverine with his claws ripped out, making me wish I could heal like Wolverine with his mutant power.
I went pee on the way out of the hospital and realized how interesting it would be to do things with only my left hand. The paper towel dispenser told me to pull with both hands. Fuck you paper towel dispenser. Naomi started calling me Poo-Hand thinking my poo wipes wouldn’t be nearly as precise lefthanded. Tales has already started researching how I can work out with only one hand; he now has to wash my left pit and deodorize it, much to his dismay. I’ve decided to wrap my hand up in gold fabric in honour of Games of Thrones this season; Jaime Lannister, I feel you bro. But unlike Jamie, I should regain the use of my hand; I will be having hand-surgery soon to make sure all my tendons are attached and in working order.
When I came home from the hospital, Tales had dinner and all manner of snacks spread out on the table. Beyonce was singing (not in person to my disappointment), but her new visual album was playing on loop because he knows me too well. Beyonce also knows me too well…