Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Leg Man
True story: March 2, 2004
It’s hard to write about it; it doesn’t lend itself to my literary conventions. I was preoccupied with petty grousing, trying to scurry home in time to get in a little exercise. I’d had a long full day, another in a seemingly endless series. Dusk was falling and I’d just trotted across five lanes of Beale Street to the Trans-Bay Terminal on a flashing red hand, defying a wall of vehicles that surged and rumbled at the stoplight. It’s a high-intensity traffic zone - the terminal disgorges Muni and SamTrans busses onto Beale just south of the intersection with Mission at an ancillary stoplight, and both Beale and Mission are heavily used thoroughfares. I know the area so well now that when I heard the brakes squeal, it barely registered. I continued on my way up the ramp to the bus landings, but glanced automatically over my shoulder with a commuter’s curiosity to the source of the sound.
Traffic was very dense, naturally, but cars were suddenly moving in unusual patterns, letting a sharp new black 5-series over to the curb on my side of the street. A big pickup behind it had stoped with its hazards on, and in front of it a woman lay on the street, leaning back on her elbows. People started shouting back and forth: Oh my god. Are you okay? No. Are you okay? No, my ankle’s broken. Don’t move. My ankle’s broken. Call 911. It really hurts. I’m calling, I’m on the phone to them now. Is it bad? Don’t move. Yes, it’s bad, it’s broken.
The woman was young, slim, with auburn hair and a velour lounge suit like the cool kids wear. She had a small backpack over both shoulders and one knee was propped up, with the other leg laid out before her, slightly bent. She was not going to get up anytime soon and the buzz was clear: she should not be moved. I looked around - four people on the sidewalk with cellphones, including both of the women who’d been in the beemer and a couple of pedestrians. The woman lay alone in the street. I was digging in my pocket for my phone too but realized that other tasks were both more pressing and entirely unattended.
I walked out amidst the traffic that crawled around and past her and dropped to my knees beside her, told her I would help her take off her backpack. She let me, leaning against my legs for support. Do you want to lie down? No. Okay then, let me help you sit here. I hunkered down behind her and made myself her chaise lounge so she wouldn’t have to support her weight on her arms. She said it was her fault; I told her to look forward, not back. She said she was stupid; I told her to join the club. She sid her insurance had just started the day before; I told her she was lucky. She told me it hurt, it hurt a lot, she was a baby, she wanted her mother - we got one of the cellphone folk to call her parents and she told them what was going on. She said she wanted this to be not true, not to have happened. She wanted it to stop. “Make it stop.” I told her that her body was going to take over for a while now; it would protect her and help her start to heal but it would feel strange; she had to relax and let it happen. Let the body do what the body needs to do.
I could sense she was going vagal - her breathing was getting shallow, I felt her getting damp and clammy under the velour top, so I spoke low and softly, told her to breathe deep, keep breathing, concentrate on the breath. If it hurts, let yourself shout - shout it out, it’s okay, it’s good for you. The pain was getting worse, she felt something happening in her leg. I explained the mechanism - her muscles were locking up, protecting her till she could be treated by a doctor. She was starting to slip away so I asked her where she worked, what she’d been doing that day. Through gritted teeth she told me, and told me also that the pain was rising, that she wanted them to put her to sleep so she couldn’t feel it, she didn’t want anyone to touch her leg. I held her against me, my arms cradling her slender torso as she shuddered with discomfort. Would they be able to fix her? Oh certainly, yes, they fixed me and I was really badly broken, I’m better than ever now. She was stupid, walked in front of a car. Yes, I crashed my bike into a post, I was barely moving and had to wear a cast for two months, they fixed me up great, I’m an expert in stupid injuries, these things happen, just keep breathing, fill those lungs, gently, deeply.
Eventually we heard sirens - a pumper and an ambulence. I don’t need all of that. Yes, but a car was involved, it’s standard procedure - when I crashed my bike on a path they sent a fire truck and no cars were anywhere near me. She almost laughed. The ambulence worked its way against traffic to the curb opposite us and a paramedic hopped out who looked surprisingly like a muscular, long-haired Benjamin Bratt. I told him what I knew: no loss of consciousness or obvious bleeding, responsive x 3, no evident head trauma, apparent fracture of left shin… He started cutting off her shoes as other crewmen slipped a collar around her neck, threading it between her head and my knees behind her. The backboard came out and I had to get out of the way to let them position it. As they lifted her from where she leaned on my legs she howled with pain, but soon they had her secured.
I stood around for a few more minutes as they slipped the aircast onto her leg; she whimpered with tears but really she’d been very brave and strong despite her protestations to the contrary. I made sure a fireman on site knew to grab her backpack. He said he would. I told him I was a fifth wheel now, I’d get out of the way. He asked me something; I didn’t understand him. He repeated: Are you an EMT? I had to smile: “No, I’m just a guy who rides Muni.”
I never learned her name. Stephanie? Stacy? Sheila? She’d said it but I forgot it. The bus ride home was jerky and bumpy and it nauseated me, but I really couldn’t feel too sorry for myself. This morning I got up and ran my regular route into the park and out to Stanyan and back as dawn broke, shaving a full minute off my last record time. I’m really really glad my legs are working for me, and for others who sometimes need them.
True story.
