On August 30, 2024, my life was about to change. I was starting a new job at my old elementary school, and I had just begun a masters’ program. This was my last Friday before the freedom of summer ended and school began.
It was a beautiful day and so I got on my bike (regular bike NOT motorcycle, I can’t count the amount of times people asked me to clarify that) and went for a ride.
On Friday’s my dad and I usually go out to dinner, and that Friday we were going to Texas Roadhouse which is just as unhealthy as it is delicious. I figured that since I was headed for a big fat steak, warm rolls, grilled shrimp and fries, because why the hell not?, I should make the best of the ride.
Although I do sometimes take my bike on the path near my house, it can also be way too congested. So, if I felt the urge to live a little more adventurously, I would ride on the street.
My late nana’s old house, which was practically my second home as a kid, seemed like a good place to ride to. By car, the trip took about 10 minutes, and by bike it was probably more like 30. She lived on N. Jerusalem Rd. on the Wantagh and Levittown border. N. Jerusalem is a main road infamous for collisions with bikes and cars. Still though, I had done it before so I wasn’t worried.
Riding to her house was easy. Once I got there, I stopped at a park only two houses away, took a drink of my water, and got back on the bike. All I could think about during that ride was all the food I was going to be eating that night. The road was always busy, but this time was worse because of the construction they were doing on Wantagh Avenue.
Everything was normal as I rode up the hill on the overpass bridge over the Southern State Parkway. As I came down I started to lose control of the bike. I grabbed my handlebars tight as I could, my feet shot to the ground (which yes I know you’re not supposed to do but I panicked). The bike then stopped dead, and I did a Superman over the handlebars.
Fortunately for me, I landed far enough away from the highway that I was clear of any cars. Also fortunately for me, I didn’t land on my head or neck possibly killing or paralyzing me. What I did land on were my hands that instinctively went in front of me bracing the impact.
My left hand slid on the gravel, only giving it some minor cuts to my palm, not enough to bleed, but enough to hurt and make a mark. On the other hand, PUN MOST CERTAINLY INTENDED, I wasn’t so lucky.
My right hand landed straight down, which stopped the rest of my body from going any further. It also snapped my radius and ulna bones like sticks. When I looked down and saw my hand, the first thing I noticed was how small it looked, and once I was able to completely register what had just happened, I noticed it was only still attached by skin and muscle. As bad as it looked it didn't hurt so I tried to convince myself it was nothing serious.
I called my dad, and told him what had happened. He rushed over and raced me to the emergency room. All I could think to ask him in that moment was the most vital question of the day, “Does this mean we can't go to the Roadhouse?”
When we finally got to the emergency room, the woman behind the counter looked at me and said, “Oh my God, you're deformed.” At the time, all I could do was chuckle, but after she repeated that about three more times, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start to get a little scared.
They took some X-Rays, attempted to reduce the fracture (which is such a lovely experience I recommend you all give it a try sometime), and wrapped it up. They said I would need surgery and to call an orthopedic surgeon as soon as I could. Unfortunately, this was the Friday before Labor Day weekend, so I didn’t get an appointment until that Tuesday, which was originally supposed to be my first day at my new job.
When I finally got to see the doctor, he walked in looking confused and said, “Did they actually fix this break? Because it doesn’t look any better.” The break was so bad that the doctors from the emergency room weren’t able to fix it and had my forearm not swelled up as much as it did, it would have become a compound fracture.
He sent me to the emergency room at NYU Langone two blocks over, and gave me the name of a doctor to go see. Before I saw him, a girl gave me a shot that made me feel like I was flying. Then two guys came in, and for the next half hour attempted to snap my arm back into its proper place. They tied my index and middle finger to a machine that looked like Chinese handcuffs to keep my arm up. At one point the doctor put his leg around my arm and tried to use his whole body to get the bones back. Although I was still flying with Major Tom, ground control eventually called me back and when I saw my index and middle finger were now as purple as Barney, the pain came back and pushed the relaxation out. This experience caused my index and middle fingers to be numb for about another five weeks.
The plan was that once they had reset my arm, I would come back in a week for surgery. But, they couldn’t reset it and instead I was admitted that day.
Langone was the same the hospital I was born in (back when it was Winthrop), so the thought that this would be the same hospital I die in crossed my mind once or twice.
The nurses were great, and I ended up becoming very friendly with the cleaning woman. Since I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything the day of the surgery I decided to go nuts the night before. I ordered chicken fingers, rice crispies, juice and a brownie. Tasted good going in, and let’s just say, allowed my body the chance to get empty too.
I spent that whole night, and next day watching Seinfeld on the I-Pad next to my bed. Despite the circumstances, it wasn’t all that bad... then my roommate woke up.
One of my nurses, a sweet woman named Cindy, told me to watch out for him and that he wouldn’t be easy. This was an understatement because between his constant yelling for the nurses, banging on the walls with his cane, coughing fits, clearing his throat sometimes followed by the sounds of what I can only assume was vomit, threatening to sue the staff, blasting his TV at full volume and calling out his ex-wife and daughter for not coming to see him, all I could do was wait for them to cut me open so I could get the hell out of there. At least three times in the early morning hours, the lights would flip on and the nurses would have to yell out his name in order to wake him up.
Once they did come in to take me for the surgery, I was placed on a bed and was taken through the hospital. Every floor and corner getting quieter and colder.
I met the anesthesiologist, who spent most of the time talking to my dad about their mutual love of hiking. Normally I wouldn’t have minded, but I did have to give a little nod to say, ‘uh yeah remember me?’
They brought me into a room with about eight people, who were all wearing surgical masks. I looked to my left and saw a table with all sorts of tools, including a retractor and a hacksaw. I pulled myself onto the table and was asked what kind of music I liked. I didn’t know what to say, so I just randomly said rock. They chuckled but said they would do it anyway because they wanted me to be comfortable. As I laid there, I couldn’t actually believe it was happening. All I wanted to do was have a steak and I instead ended up in the emergency room, which usually happens after the steak.
Next thing I remember was them dragging me down a hallway with a woman telling me how good I did. I had an oxygen tube around my nose, and I could barely talk. My dad came over and told me he was proud of me. I think I mumbled something, but I my brain and mouth weren’t exactly working at the same time.
They brought me back to my room as I started to become more coherent. My roommate friend was still there, still alive, and “pleasant” as ever.
The next morning, they brought me eggs and potatoes for breakfast. The eggs were dry and I could barely swallow the potatoes, but I didn't care. I was just happy to be eating. They told me that I was cleared to leave, so I called my parents and they came to pick me up.
I spent the next eight weeks in a cast, and then another six weeks in a removable brace. I now have my arm back, I’ve started OT and am healing up nicely.
The whole experience changed me in a lot ways. Mostly it’s giving me reason to be more appreciative of what I have and of life in general. None of us are immortal, and all of what happens is so random, but sometimes through the worst of situations, we can come out stronger.
During my recovery I watched a documentary about Christopher Reeve, I guess to see how much worse it can all be, and he talked about being grateful for life despite its most intense challenges.
On Friday, December 13, fifteen weeks later it all came full circle when I finally got to dine at Texas Roadhouse for a fat steak, warm rolls, grilled shrimp and fries, because why the hell not?