A Short Ride – A Long Journey

John 13:5

February 14, 2003 was warm and sunny. It was a beautiful day for a Friday evening ride with my beautiful redhead. We donned our leather jackets, put on our helmets, and mounted the bike for our Valentine’s Day date. All started well as we turned onto Hewitt Drive and headed for our favorite steak house.

About a mile from the house, we found ourselves surrounded by the five o’ clock traffic. I wasn’t worried at all, since I was a seasoned rider. I had almost forty years experience, and my only spill had been on the first day I learned to ride. (I still have the scar on my leg.) We had just come through a traffic signal, and we were passing the local HEB grocery store when a young teenage girl couldn’t put her phone down long enough to check traffic. She plowed into the rear wheel, and set us spinning in the middle of four lanes of traffic. I was thrown off and rolled about fifty feet down the road into oncoming cars. As soon as I stopped rolling, I scrambled to my feet and ran back to the bike. Kimberly was sitting on the gas tank looking down at her foot.  A piece of the plastic bumper from the car had broken off and gashed her foot open. It could have been much worse, of course. She might just as easily have lost her foot.

As traffic ground to a halt, other drivers stopped to render aid. I was wrapping some cloth around the bleeding wound. Shortly afterward, the firetrucks, police, and ambulance showed up. I noticed a woman walking toward me. I didn’t know her. She introduced herself, “I’m the mother.” I assumed she meant the mother of the young driver. I simply  nodded my head and turned back to my wife and her foot.

Once the EMTs had her loaded into the ambulance, I quickly pushed my bike over to an adjacent parking lot, then got in the back of the vehicle with her. Shortly after we arrived at the emergency room, the doctor began to wash the gash on her foot with pressurized water. He explained that the pressure was necessary to clean out any sand, dirt, or gravel that might be lodged in the wound. It was very painful for her. He then stitched up and bandaged the foot. All I could do was hold her hand and tell her how sorry I was.

Once things began to settle down, some friends from our neighborhood showed up. I was surprised and asked how they knew about the wreck. It turned out that the young girl was their son’s girlfriend. They assured me that she felt terrible about the accident. Again, I just nodded my head. A minute or two later, I walked down the hall for the men’s room. I reached for my wallet in my back pocket; I don’t remember why. At that moment, I realized I had no back pocket. In fact, I had no jeans back there. Apparently, the pavement had torn a piece of my pants off. I had been mooning the whole ER staff, and no one bothered to tell me.

The neighbors stayed to give us a ride home. The doctor had given instructions for antibiotics, cleansing the wound, and purchasing a walking boot once the swelling subsided. She was also prescribed physical therapy to ensure she properly regained full use of her foot. For the next six weeks, she needed assistance with most motion-related tasks. She especially needed assistance with putting the boot on, taking it off, and keeping the wound clean. It was then I learned to wash her feet, and I found it to be a true act of love.  I would gently wash her foot with warm soapy water, pat it dry, then apply some medical creme. To be truthful, I was a little sad when she no longer needed me to do that for her.


Published in: on May 15, 2019 at 10:58 am  Leave a Comment  

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