St. Jerome once said the scars of others should teach us caution; this is the lesson I have to pass on. I had aged seventeen years; my Ford Mustang had aged eight. She was white and wine red in color and I found driving her intoxicating. I could see my reflection in her glass T-bar tops, as the sky began to darken. The night crept on, much more swift and stealth than it had a month prior. It was nearly the end of October; the twenty-second in the year 1993 to be exact. Burnt colored leaves were dangling from the branches of trees, and the smells of fall invaded my senses. The crisp air, the rain that had fallen earlier that day and the burning of the farmer’s crops in the distance; all these invading my senses as my left arm draped outside my open driver’s side window. I was well aware that winter would approach more swiftly than autumn did. I had wanted to enjoy the taste of fresh cool air, for as long as I could. Although the chilled air wasn’t enough for me to roll up my window, it had been enough to transform the rain that had fallen earlier that day into a sheet of black ice. The black ice blanketed a patch of Main Street, yet to me, it was invisible.
My mustang’s five-litre engine purred as its tires galloped beneath me. I had been returning from a visit with my younger sister, she lived with our mom. I had my own apartment on the corner of Main Street and Cathedral Avenue; which is where I was headed. I had been living there just under a year; it was where the path of a broken home and a series of unfortunate events had led me. I had learned at an early age that nothing is certain, and one never knows what is around the bend; and that bend that Main Street took at Rupertsland Avenue was no exception.
As the road took its turn, my white and wine red beauty began to swerve. I palmed the steering wheel with my right hand trying to regain control but my Mustang remained as stubborn as a mule. Her right rear tire got stuck and caused me to spin out; it took me milliseconds to swing like a pendulum to the median. The combined velocity and momentum allowed me one quick kiss on the median before overturning and thrusting me across the street in a rolling motion, not once but three times. It all happened so fast, I never had the chance to pull my arm in.
The glass that had recently given me a glimpse of my reflection and the looming dusk had shattered around my face. It was now replaced with concrete seeping through the mangled roof, as my arm lay pinned under it. I remember evanescent thoughts skipping like a stone through my mind as I slipped in and out of consciousness, not fully aware of the severity of what had just transpired. Thumps of my car stereo chimed in spasmodically, or perhaps it was me that chimed out that way. I remember hearing a man’s voice outside my car but his words seemed muffled and jumbled together. My eyes began to flutter and then close. The nebulous voices were now accompanied with a wailing siren, but I was only able to tune in fleetingly. My blue eyes revealed themselves for another brief moment, this time to see a Paramedic hovered over me like a vulture. I couldn’t move, my neck was in a splint and I was being pushed through two big doors. I remember hearing the sound of my mother’s voice, getting a glimpse of her panicked face and then darkness.
Light, doctors, adrenaline, it took a couple of nurses to hold me down as I came to again, this time in a state of hysteria. They held me down and injected me with a needle, then again, darkness. My state of darkness had surpassed. I awoke in a hospital bed; to see a sight I hadn’t seen in six years, my parents together in the same room and trying their best to be cordial for my benefit. They tried to keep it light, holding up the copy of The Winnipeg Sun where my Mustang was seen on the front page, looking as helpless as a turtle on its back. She had lived fast, died young, and left a good-looking corpse. This was my James Dean moment, but with a happier ending.
My arm was bandaged up, immobile, and idle. My left bicep had been completely removed in order to save my arm. My arm had been without pulse and blood flow and was nearly amputated until someone at the Health Sciences Centre thought this might be a viable option. I was grateful for their decision. Their decision left me with thirty-six stitches, a scar that looked like a crooked railroad track, and an indication that my surgeon either had the last name Frankenstein or was under the influence at the time of my surgery. Sometimes I like to picture the moment this mystery surgeon gets a pulse in my arm. Looking a little crazy, and a hint sinister while saying the phrase “It’s alive, It’s alive!” while then proceeding to sew back up his hack job.
I remained in the hospital for a few more weeks and was given rigorous physiotherapy. By the end of my stay, I had sensation back in my fingertips and could begin to wiggle them, but my arm was still locked in an immovable position and it needed to stay in a sling to protect it for quite some time. Up to that point I was pretty stubborn and set on doing as much myself as possible, right down to eating the mediocre meals the nurses brought me. I would hold down my meat with a fork clenched in my teeth, while I cut it with my right hand. I knew I would have to do it on my own when they released me anyway, since neither parent had offered to take me in. When that day came, I was advised I didn’t have to return to school anytime too soon but I went back right away anyway. I was received well, as many students who knew my car had seen the newspaper the day after my accident, and assumed I was dead. Day to day tasks weren’t so easy, as can be expected with the usage loss of an arm and hand but can’t be fully realized, until you are left there in the moment struggling with everyday menial things. In fact I ended up in the hospital again shortly after when trying to open one of my stiff wooden framed windows in my apartment and my right hand went through the pane of glass. In hindsight, maybe I didn’t need the fresh air that bad after all.
I had hoped it was true what was said about girls digging scars because they had been appearing hand over fist, literally. Today my scars are still visible and my bicep is not. Sadly, I have never been lucky in love or even strong like for that matter. In the society that we live in, so much is focused on personal appearance and for guys that means being in being in shape and being strong. That has been hard on me, because I constantly learn the hard way that being a nice guy isn’t enough for a majority of the women out there today. Being a hopeful hopeless romantic that is literally hopeless is right up there with being a sad clown. Often my mind desires to move mountains, yet my body is defeated by its physical limitations. I need to be more creative with keeping in shape as I can’t lift weights like I could when I was a teenager or would like to. After my bicep was evicted from my left arm, a family of tremors moved in. I try to conceal them as much as possible, but to the untrained eye it looks as though I’m either extremely nervous, had one too many cups of coffee, or have a drug problem and a case of the shakes. Again not the most desirable trait to be branded with, it limited my career aspirations and I don’t know many girls that yearn to have their faces caressed by a guy with shaky hands.
Hanging in my front hallway is picture featuring three black and white poses of James Dean, the quote underneath it reads; “Only the gentle, are ever really strong.” I take a moment and look at it anytime I am about to walk out into the world. It reminds me of how lucky I am. James Dean was only seven years older than I was, when he left this world far too soon; due to the fatal crash in his 1955 Porsche Spyder. I realize on a daily basis, that even though my physical brawn may be that of a more gentle nature, my character is stronger for it.
There are days that I wish my frame were more proportioned, and that my right side didn’t take the brunt for all my physical activity; filling my lower back with pain and sending me to the chiropractor on a regular basis, but it is my frame of mind that tells me; my greatest strength comes from within. With that strength I can accomplish anything. These words comfort me as I set out on a new road, a road where I can begin a new journey, drive forth and follow my dreams. As a man I look forward to the surprise of the lesson I learnt as a boy; the uncertainty of what lies around the bend. I know my battle in life has just begun and that I am not alone, no one goes through life without a scar.
Wallace Stegner once said; “Most things break, including hearts. The lessons of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus.”
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