Update for Week July 3

Although I have recently added a bike bell to it, I am already over my wheelchair. It is my most over-worn accessory. Last year, amid my geographic re-positionings, I wrote a brief note on my blog UpStreamRose. about the importance of remembering gratitude during difficult times. In this week’s  Substack update, I take my own advice by using this countdown to help me keep an eye on the prize. I am focusing my thoughts on a close, yet far goal. The current prize is beckoning me from the other side of my patio. The green field across the way is continuously asking for me to run barefoot on it. I do not entertain such frivolities while I can engage in them. Now that my desk faces that way, that patch of grass looks so inviting and toasty in the sun.

Until then, in this countdown, I recount some of the lucky graces in my current life. The first and biggest grace is that days after my May 15 injury, the various medical staff informed me that I have the potential for a 100% recovery. With a sincere effort and the best healing possible, I should eventually regain full physical mobility in my right leg and hand. In non-medical terms, this bitch will dance again! That is a great prospect. Follow along for a few additional countdown positives.

10. I am only ten days away from my Monday the 17^th appointment for the cast on my right leg. The clinic, on the 7^th floor of the Correll Pavilion, is just across from Grady Memorial Hospital. I will direct another amigo to the parking garage that morning and then up the ramp to the second floor. On our way to the elevator, a guard will give us a half-assed search us for weapons (or…stolen oxy??). While we wait for the x-ray tech and surgeon, respectively, we will see Atlanta’s iconic Corey Tower from the wall-to-wall south-facing windows.

9. I found a physical therapist who broke his foot, thanks to YouTube University. This PT created a video of nine exercises I can do while wearing my current cast. Fortunately for me, this therapist injured his right foot, so his boot and my cast are doing a little trauma-twinning (again! Who remembers Lola?) Also, Dr. PT has made an advice video on the best footwear post-glittery blue cast.  

8. I can count eight nights that I did not sleep at my house since my accident. There were the 4 nights at the hospital. But I find myself most grateful for the other four nights, two nights in Asheville and two other nights of crashing at a friend’s place in town. Incidentally, eight is the number of times I have run over my left toe with my wheelchair. The silver lining is that I have a cast-free left foot with toes on it!

7. I am in week 7 since my injury. Time healing is a slow-moving and, fortunately, progressive path. Thanks to good care, I have no re-injury to my right leg or right arm. That is a real risk and is often the first question that I am asked in my appointments. As of now, I am within the initially reported 6-8 weeks of cast-wearing time. Technically, I have not been misled.

6. I have a follow-up appointment at Emory Ortho for my right wrist in six days. The clinic is close to my home, and I will likely go there with my first Atlanta bike buddy. The Emory clinic has no security guard. All signs suggest that I shall get permission from the fly-fishing surgeon to remove the brace on my hand.

5. I felt the five fingers from my right hand touch my face this morning as I washed. It may not sound like much, but I feel a singular joy as I soap up my face in the morning and cup water in my own two hands to splash at my face. For weeks, I had not felt my own two hands caress my face. Also, earlier today, I used the fingers on my injured right hand to write two pages of a card to a dear friend. While I cannot yet carry my big water bottle (when it is full) with my right hand, I am happy about these five fingers scooping water and writing.

4. In my home right now, there are four different varieties of blooming flowers. I have an orchid, alstroemeria, stargazer lilies, and kalanchoes blooming. Also, four is the average number of books I browse on any given day.

 3. I am potentially just three weekends away from doing water activities. With the cast and open wounds, water fun is not a possibility. The odds are pretty good that this activity restriction will change. I definitely want to get splash time in the world’s hottest summer (yet).

2. Earlier this week, I went back upstairs in my two-story townhome for the second time since I was injured. I feel grateful that my home has worked out for my condition. In each flight up, I was looking for books and earrings. I also don’t even mind skipping out on showers to make my house work for me.   

1. I have only had to go to the grocery store once since my accident. I went just last week, mainly for joy,  to Your Dekalb Farmer’s Market. Even before the accident, this is one of my happy places. I came back from there with flowers, fruits, and sweets.

I do not love driving. Since I have been injured, I have been driven around! I owe many friends and family gratitude for the errands, rides, and adventures this wheelchair has provided. As I wean off pharmaceuticals, I hope to kindly kick this wheelchair to the curb. In the meanwhile, I glance up to hear the call of the green grass. It asks that I run wild and free on a turf of grass which has never been attractive and where dogs run drunkenly as the sun beams down. This verdant patch is tantalizingly domestic and wild as I look up through the sliding glass door past my novel sleeve.

Updates for the Week of June 26

I could finally see my whole right wrist at my appointment this past Wednesday, June 28th. The physician’s assistant removed the bandage that had covered the surgical incision for my metal parts. The scar goes from my palm and travels in a jagged, thick red line down past my wrist and into my forearm. It feels at least a foot long, but as measured was only three inches in length. The scar itches sometimes. It looks scary and tells many possible stories. The permanent changes to my body are re-introducing me to the movements and shape of grief.

            As an avid globetrotter, I am accustomed to sticking out in my surroundings. I was still unprepared for the comments hurled at me last weekend when I was rolling around downtown Asheville, NC, just a few hours north of Atlanta. Many people stared as I rolled by. In a thick southern drawl, one woman exclaimed, `I am so sorry. ` I responded, `For what? ` She pointed to my chair in response. In a clothing store, the proprietor asked if I had fun doing whatever it was that put me in my wheelchair.  One man wearing a baseball cap announcing that he was a veteran gawked at me and then tried to give me a high-five. These strange encounters brought up a new form of grief about my condition. 

I have already faced the fact that I cannot ride bicycles (for another month or two…?). Recently I acknowledged that I cannot stroll around the city alone. Then, I confronted that I could not hike, camp, or kayak. I cannot socialize as I am used to. Now, I am in a new wave of grief about my physical scars. My face, teeth, wrist, and ankle will never look the same. In some ways, I am grieving the loss of my old body and the changes in my day-to-day life. 

Lis, one of my wisest friends, pointed out that grief has no pattern. She says that it shows up whenever it wants to. Indeed, the Stages of Grief Model was coined by a psychologist in the late 1960s.  It describes a non-linear process after an individual suffers a great loss or trauma. The stages include denial, shock, depression, and anger, ideally ending in acceptance. Lately, the hardest has been dealing with ANGER. For example, how do I deal with the fact that my face will never look the same? I am angry about that. Through a series of lotions and potions, I can try to lessen the scars on my skin. However, I know that some marks will remain. Who can I yell at about this?  I have always seen anger as a negative emotion. It is a place I wouldn’t say I like to dwell. Yet, in my wheelchair, I know it sits in some pockets. The anger lurks around, just waiting to launch into another mental fit. 

            Over the last decade, I have gifted multiple copies of The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment. Through trauma, PTSD, and disappointments in the past, The Power of Now has been a spiritual salve. To deal with my current anger, I have turned again to the wisdom of Tolle. He writes that consciousness is the way out of pain. `The greater part of human pain is unnecessary. … The pain that you create now is always some form of nonacceptance, some form of unconscious resistance to what is.`   As I ponder this, I can see the truth in this perspective. My denial (or disdain) about this new condition fuels the anger. The anger is a rejection of this `new me.` This angst could become a tough fight if I do not begin to accept my current condition. I may be able to dissolve the anger if I can come to accept that the `new me` is still ME. 

 It will take time to integrate the knowledge of grief patterns and the wisdom of acceptance. Until then, I will harness my energies to keep moving through the anger. My next strategy for social situations is to make humor a form of defense. For the next person that wants to comment on my condition, I will hurl a series of dark humor.

I can turn to jokes to shake up the conversation. As my friends check in on me, the best way to describe my recovery might be like sitting at the ocean shore. I watch the waves roll in. Then, out of nowhere, sometimes a wall of water, a tsunami, slaps me in the face. In response, I shake off the water, stand back up, and do a rain dance. Bring me all of it so that I can perhaps see the end. Or maybe I can explain to movie-watching friends that I went from being the star in a Disney movie to being the villain. I went from being the Beauty to becoming the Beast. In either case, I am still me. I am me in a new form.

Updates from Week of June 19: Japanese Wisdom for an American Life

Last Saturday, when finally my fridge ran out of prepared meals, a sweet member of my Boo-Boo crew made an original pasta dish with the ingredients I had at home. We were enjoying his cooking when I casually glanced at my phone and saw a message that my Aunt Sheru was in the hospital with a stroke. She is the beloved aunt who came to my rescue from Toronto and cared for me in my first few days out of the hospital. Sheru Aunty is like my second mother and, hands-down, my favorite family member. Though I could sit up and slowly use a fork with my right hand, I could not help her while she was slightly incoherent at the ICU that night.

Shortly after we got the news, my mother flew to Toronto. I saw my aunt improve over our WhatsApp calls. Talking to her children, my closest cousins, was a jarring experience. I know how devastating it is to see a family member in that condition. On this date last year, I wrote about how this side of the family lost another aunt, my maternal grandmother’s oldest child, Mohabbat Ben. Over the week, my mother became the main news source for my aunt’s condition while I also followed up with Sherr and her kids over video calls. Fortunately, my aunt is improving because she received good medical care right after her husband called for an ambulance. Nonetheless, I found myself hoping for faster relief for my aunt’s body and my sibling-like cousins’ spirits. 

The overall experience has me thinking about health and life and the precarious nature of our existence. It’s so easy to take our health for granted. I remember the Japanese phrase, `Pin-pin karori,` which roughly means to live long and fully, then die quickly. During the years of my ramblings around Tokyo, I could see elderly Japanese living up to this expression. Watching a white-haired senior citizen cycling to the neighborhood vegetable or seafood market was routine. The Japanese elderly would even gather in public parks in the AM to do exercises broadcasted over the radio. The world’s largest senior population suggested there were health lessons right there.

I am the only member of my immediate family who did not enter the healthcare profession. My father was a physician. My mother has run a family medicine practice in Atlanta for nearly 20 years. Her desire to work in the profession drove her back to school while she was a recent immigrant (who was raising two young kids in America). My parent’s ambition for doctors in the family found its fruition in my sister, who sought an education in the Caribbean and later went on to practice at Emory and other hospitals. My other sister Masha works in a busy pharmacy and regularly deals with pharmaceuticals, sick people, and their insurance companies. Our family meals were a great place to glean the bumps and bruises of the American healthcare system. My recent experience as a patient at Grady Hospital sheds plenty of color on the stories around the dinner table. For even deeper insight, just less than two months ago, I attended a board hearing on the finances of the Fulton-Grady health systems as a Documenter.

Thanks to the insights of my experience, I purchased health insurance before I started riding bicycles in Atlanta. The traumas after my accident were partially lighter because I had the money to get health insurance before I purchased Luna (on credit!). In retrospect, next to the purchase of my red Prius, this was the second-best idea I had since returning to America. Modern medicine has revolutionized the way we live. The fact that I was able to get an entirely dislocated foot attached and have the hope for a 100% recovery is a testament to all the advances in trauma care. At the same time, modern medicine fails us in some places and ways. My situation now is a funny reminder of how I joked in at a few nights of standup comedy and moved to Japan to get great health coverage while working as a teacher in Tokyo. Of course, there are many other ways the American healthcare system fails. It disappoints the sick and those working inside of that system.

The news is full of commentary on American health care. Nearly one out of three bankruptcies in the United States result from the medical bills incurred over an unexpected injury. Our litigious culture and the back-breaking cost of American healthcare may be why several recent healthcare providers suggested I sue the guy who lost control of his bike on May 15. In our American system, many believe he should be financially responsible for the medical costs (and even the pain or suffering) I may endure. Away from fault and shoulds, there are other ways to become whole; some countries operate on the premise of universal healthcare. The externalities of an accident are born by a stronger social safety net. The money and profit side of American healthcare may rear up to explain why many doctors are unhappy or suffering a moral crisis (as the New York Times puts it). The criticisms are not new. Though it was years ago, I remember watching the Michael Moore documentary Sicko comparing American healthcare with the economically impoverished Cuba. I wonder: is an ideal healthcare system at odds with capitalism?

In the Japanese concept Pin Pin Karori, there is a recognition that quality of health is tied to lifestyle. In some contexts, these include what are called social determinants of health. Those elements include sanitary and safe housing, strong social networks, and preventive care. In America, while we boast a big flashy GDP, we have shifted away from providing these essential public good elements. That is, where people access care, have resources to enrich life, and are economically stable. I know that education and my background gave me privilege through my trauma. As an early career, I wondered what the global dichotomies in medicine and care. Life experiences and the anecdotes of my immigrant family show me the wonders doctors can do with minimal resources. In my brief brush with global health policy, I considered private companies’ incentives to study diseases not prevalent in the rich first world. As a world traveler, I quickly noticed lifestyle-related health problems, including obesity, diabetes, and heart disease. Yet, my connection and work in indigent legal defense have also shown me the American poor’s inability to access preventive health care. For example, I have heard that the American Veterans Affairs system has considered sending its patients abroad for essential, expensive operations because those same procedures were cost-prohibitive in America. 

After my wrist surgery, my friends joked that I could be a cyborg Spiderwoman. Actually, Wonder Woman is my kind of hero. Seductive, voluptuous, and demanding, she throws the lasso of truth around villains and gets accountability. I would tie the lasso around the members of the Atlanta City Council who voted to fund Cop City.

I wish to ask why the Well Star hospital system was shut down in the City, but a privatized military training zone is being financed with public tax dollars. This question is particularly poignant for anyone who travels to downtown Atlanta. For the nearly three decades that my family has lived here, as you approach the City, Atlanta’s neediest people sleep in tents, strung up underneath the roaring highways overhead. The spillover effect of our broken system is evident everywhere. It is enough to make you wonder what strange America my family worked so hard to join. People experiencing poverty are routinely ignored, untreated, and criminalized. Meanwhile, those who went down to speak their minds at City Hall can spread hammocks between trees and choose to sleep under the stars with goose feather sleeping bags along a lake or in the mountains.

AKA feelings

Two days after my somber June 12th birthday, I was reunited with my cycling family in an epic parade. Though I am mobility-limited, I had the best birthday celebration ever. My friend Buddy, biker, burner, and human extraordinaire, arranged an artistic disco bike carriage to cycle me along on a special edition MidWeek Roll. An enormous effort was made to keep the arrangements secret, and the results were amazing. I was astonished. That night, I saw many familiar faces on the ride and replenished my spirit with plenty of hugs at Estoria. I was constantly asked these two questions in conversation: `How is your recovery going?` followed by `How is the pain?` Every day of recovery cannot be a disco ride and parade. It has now been a full month since my accident. I am, indeed, confronting tough pains. 

The nerves in my wrist, ankle, and jaw tingle sporadically. When it is awful, I pop a powerful pharmaceutical in my face, and after some time, that pain dissipates. The physical pain is manageable. The biggest pangs of pain have been harder to pinpoint. I feel a messy ball of painful emotions between my heart and spirit. There are no pills for that hurt.  Some feelings have familiar names: grief, sadness, longing, and anger. Within them, I feel all sorts of other unnamed knots. I grew up chastised for being too sensitive.  My sensitivity demanded a defensive push away from others who could be carelessly callous or cruel. For much of my childhood, I played alone. I would trespass neighbors’ yards and follow creeks and ponds across subdivisions. In nature, I found peace. My other solace was diaries. I managed big emotions early by writing, scribbling, and doodling. Since my accident, getting into nature and manually writing has been difficult. With my usual coping mechanisms harder to access, I am seeking new relief. 

In my first post, I alluded to flashbacks to my 2008 trauma. [TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide.] That was the other moment in my history when I was sideswiped by life. I was away at a hard-won internship at the World Health Organization in Geneva, Switzerland working on my dreams when I learned my father had passed away. I immediately returned to Atlanta for his funeral and discovered that my father had taken his own life. The emotional whiplash I had was called PTSD by my therapist.  Around the decade anniversary of my father’s death, I finally mustered the courage to try living abroad again. It was there, in Tokyo, that I first publicly shared the story of my father’s death. It took courage to talk about such delicate matters in public. Doing so opened the door for many others to share with me. I found many other ex-pats dealt with PTSD, depression, anxiety, and turbulent emotions. From their experience and mine, I learned the importance of proactively seeking help and developing healthy coping mechanisms. (Surviving that trauma also gave me faith in my inner strength. I have the emotional resources to live through anything else life throws at me). 

With this knowledge, and after a deep conversation with an emotionally intelligent cyclist in my midst, I started looking for a therapist soon after returning from the hospital. The hurdles to finding help are an indictment of our American healthcare system. To find a therapist covered by my insurance, I must have called 15+ providers. One group practice had me fill out a 27-page questionnaire BEFORE scheduling an appointment. Imagine if you were really depressed. How could you face so many questions before retiring in anger and disgust? Just looking at that number would be enough to turn me off. After honestly completing the questionnaire, I was rejected for an appointment. It took me about two weeks after that rejection to get the energy to call other hospitals and offices. Between the wrong numbers, disconnected lines, and `no longer in network,’ and a provider `who moved to Puerto Rico years ago,` I had an enormous search for the right therapist (who by this point was ANYONE who would talk to me).

Finally, about three weeks into looking, I had the opportunity to talk to a therapist. By chance, my first session was perfectly timed after a rough June 12th and before a huge celebration. I shared how I cried unexpectedly when a friend brought his bicycle into my living room. I discussed with the therapist the announced end of M+M’s Monday rides and my fear that I would be associated with canceling the city’s favorite group bike ride. I shared my frustrations from the sudden change from being an independent solo traveler to my current wheelchair-based movements.  There are no easy solutions to internal emotional pain. Still, a healthy container and space to talk about feelings make all the difference for me.

The contrasts between my past trauma and my current situation are stark.  When I returned to Atlanta from Geneva in 2008, I had no local support network. I stayed with my immediate family during that time, which exacerbated my tensions. Now, I have a world of support and my own residence. When I had PTSD, though my body was capable, I could not muster the emotional energy to go to nature. Now, at the very least, I can wheel myself to my back patio and watch sly squirrels squabble over bird food. I no longer turn to chemical enhancements to deal with emotional pain. I have learned the value of meditation and breathing techniques. Instead of writing with my right hand, I now use voice-to-text to create journal entries.

Anyone else could have been in my place during that freak accident on May 15th. Through discussions with witnesses of that incident, I know many others were traumatized by what they saw. One person suggested that this accident has brought a moment of reckoning to the Atlanta cycling community. As I have started to voice my medical and personal healing, old and new friends have unfurled their hearts with me. I consider these newsletters as a mutual form of relief. I learned that several others are going to therapy. I applaud anyone working to improve their inner lives. Ultimately, I welcome conversations about uncomfortable topics. As an empath, a constant mediator, and a liaison, I feel empowered to share my experience in the service of others. I know that my cycling community and I will rise from this situation. My spirit and the Atlanta group cyclists will mend our ways as my body repairs itself. I anticipate we will all emerge stronger on the other side of this crucible.

Updates From Week of June 5

For me, the nursery rhyme could be updated as head, teeth, wrist, and ankle. Since my update last week, my physical condition has been improving. The idiom goes that time heals all wounds. However, with nuance and experience, I know that some wounds calcify. They turn hard and sharp and sometimes prick us unexpectedly…. In my townhouse, I have added a bright red corner desk facing the patio and a bird/squirrel feeder in the window.  My fridge has been stocked. I usually have at least three dessert choices and as many options in greens. Between the goodies in my fridge and the motley crew of visitors, spice, and variety are standards in my day. Nights, however, are a different story. I would welcome some boring days; sometimes, it feels like a plea. Could the world slow down a little bit? 

Only on Wednesday last week did I learn that my hand was more messed up than my leg.  This surprised my friends who saw my foot on the 15th.  During the last three weeks, Grady struggled to find a surgeon with time to work on my hand and wrist. Ultimately, I was assigned a surgeon at Emory’s Ortho Center, just 10 minutes from my home. On Friday, as I was being prepared for surgery and anesthesia, two nurses inquired how I ended up in their care bay. As I told them about my accident, they were both sympathetic.  The older nurse, who alluded to her years of wisdom in the profession, advised me to start suing all the parties involved. A deep dark cloud crossed my face. This is a really charged conundrum for me. I have lived my entire legal career avoiding personal injury practitioners. Nonetheless, that nurse was just one of three other medical providers who have also told me to do the same. 

Beyond this over-assertive help, the experience at Emory reminded me of what my Grady roommate Lola said. She said the staff at Grady neglected us; she had comparative experience. Now, so did I. At Emory, they did not drop medical equipment on my broken wrist. Nor did they destroy two of my flower arrangements. They also knew which doctor and which limb I had come in to work on. The Emory team even followed up with me within the time frames they said they would! Wow. I left there feeling we had mutual respect for each other’s time.

One of the cyclists on May 15th was a dentist. He reached out to ride organizers who relayed his offer to help me. Since I have had difficulties scheduling anything with an oral surgeon, I decided I might as well see the dentist first. Yesterday, at the dentist’s office, X-rays showed an ominous horizontal crack going through the top of the three teeth at the very front of my mouth. These will require a 3-D imaging tool that the dentist didn’t have. Meanwhile, I told the dentist that I wished to have my smile back, just at least for my birthday next week. The kind dentist created a composite on my front teeth, so I no longer appear to have come out of a bad bar fight. Though I’ve been advised not to eat hard apples with that front tooth, I can smile at people again!  I’ve never once gone to a dentist that was so gentle and kind. Even though his practice was over an hour away, I would actually go back to him by choice. The dentist comped the composite service and generously offered assistance after the additional imaging is done. For one reason or another, people have always told me they appreciate my smile. I used to grin inadvertently and shrug. It has been nice to return to smiling without pain. 

As I have always tried to do work that aligns closely with my heart, the most challenging part of this past week was being unable to participate in the second round of public comments about Cop City at city hall. I had been asked to return to work (after three unpaid weeks off) and could NOT justify asking someone for a ride downtown. This actually may have saved me a lot of trouble because while there is an elevator at City Hall, apparently, it was not working during the second public comments period (ADA issues, anyone?). Instead of attending in person after my work meetings, I watched the televised comments afterward. I watched for nearly 10 hours, napping for about 3 hours around midnight and then returning with some supernatural passion. I felt guilt (or something like being left out) when I saw friends, a familiar state legislator, and movement leaders participating at the podium. It stung that I couldn’t stand and say my piece there. I appeased myself by trying to tweet and spread the word.

On the 15th, when my accident happened, I had lined up for hours to be speaker number 218. After over 7 hours in the anxious line, I was tempted by the hubbub of the Atlanta Cycling Festival.  I wanted a tiny break and hoped to participate in the festival. I decided to join the festivities and return to City Hall after the ride. With little further deliberation, I left with a cyclist friend who just happened to be at City Hall and we rode up to the Georgia Beer Garden together. Ultimately the council members voted as they were suspected to.  Still, the lost opportunity stings. I chose to leave City Hall on May 15 and ride up to the Georgia Beer Garden. What if I hadn’t?

While my accident did not kill me, I suspect my friends are trying to kill me with kindness. After taking me to the dentist yesterday, my friend Buddy took me (and two other friends) to see a hilarious adult puppet show with Leonardo De Vinci as a crime-fighting hero. In one scene, Da Vinci rides a bike and smashes the villains with wheelies. Our whole crew laughed at this inside joke. If you will do tricks, at least smash a bad guy. Pre-wrist surgery, one friend painted my fingers with sparkles and glitter. Another sweet heart brought me hand-picked flowers and homegrown greens. Next week, I anticipate multiple opportunities to shine my fancy dental work around.

My health update and safety on group rides

As I lay on the asphalt after my bike accident, I focused my attention on breathing. This meditation technique helped me maintain composure and consciousness. While I was trying to breathe, a man, a NOT-good-man (in my opinion), was leaning on me and putting his arm across my body. I shudder as I remember the feeling of his weight and body heat on my torso while I struggled to stay calm. Unlike the other Good Samaritans helping me, his presence terrified me. We had chatted once before on a ride, but I did not appreciate his aura and chose never to engage with him. I still do not understand why he believed he had the privilege to lean across my body and put his weight on me…especially after such an enormous trauma. As I reflect on it, I feel small and sad.  

I separately told two familiar men around me that I didn’t like this NOT-good-man and that I needed him to get away. I was relieved when I saw that my superhero friend Shannon, the Army Veteran medic, had shown up. She had also dealt with the creepiness of this NOT-good-man. Anyone that knows her will appreciate that she is a force to reckon with. After multiple verbal warnings, he finally backed away. Shannon took his spot and nuzzled me in an act of genuine affection that I am likely to remember my entire life. With her there, I returned to channeling my energies for what lay ahead. Her actions embodied the proactive community care that I wish to see within my community.

Since my post last week, I have been to the hospital three times. A friendly face from my WhatsApp group transported me to and fro each time. I have learned that my ankle was fully dislocated and that at least three bones are out of wack in my wrist. I have surgery on Friday where a metal plate and three screws will enter my wrist through an incision. Each of my limbs is out of commission for 6-8 weeks. I have been advised to lay horizontally and elevate my tattered right-side limbs. Besides sleeping, I like doing only one activity, mostly horizontal. Alas, I will be learning to read and brood with my limbs above my heart level.

For the last week, I have had an uncountable stream of visitors. My fridge is full, and my heart overflowing. One silver lining here is that I can see how beautiful the Atlanta cycling community is. While I anticipate a change in the rush of support, I know that I am surrounded by loving people. For this reason, I also wish to galvanize some conversations around the etiquette and considerations in organized group rides. So far, some ride leaders have already taken a proactive approach to addressing ride guidelines. This affirmative change feels like putting safety first. 

While no one can force another to act, it speaks to the character and content of leadership to make responsible, forward-thinking choices. The weekly ride M+M (where I was injured) has grown quickly to become Atlanta’s most popular group ride. However, in a post after my accident on their ride, it appears that the ride organizers are pointing to individual riders to be better while ignoring the importance of verbalizing and maintaining safety protocols from the ride’s creators. This reminds me of a few poignant examples: (1) the story of Frankenstein, who was rejected by his creator, (2) the story of Facebook and its rapid growth, and (3) the 80`s film Little House of Horrors where a blood-drinking plant demands more and more from his creator. Each of these illustrates the drama and tension in creating a monster.

As Shannon alerted a series of other people about the actions of the NOT-good-man, I believe we should discuss prospective dangers within our community. One veteran cyclist pointed out that while we alert one another about cars and obstacles on the road, we do nothing to protect each other from dangerous, reckless, or irresponsible riders. Now is the time to take a hard look at the balancing act between community safety and individual freedom. I do not pretend to know all (or any) of the answers. I do know, however, transparency is key. Online, I noticed that many fellow riders were looking for answers and details to learn from my tragedy. In the echoing, vague silence of M+M, I wrote a detailed description of the circumstances surrounding my fall. 

Since prevention is better than cure, I’ve already signed up to talk to a therapist. The salty part of my circumstances is that I find myself in a community where I belong for the first time in a really long time. I’m not trying to fit in; I know that I belong. These tender new relationships are asking to blossom. I had hoped to spend the summer season frolicking with my new friends. Yet, I will remain mainly horizontal and indoors for the next few months. As we know, time never comes back. My bike will remain in the shop this season, and my kayaks will remain dry in the closet.

By the time I am ready to ride, however, I have faith that this community and her faithful riders will have developed a deeper awareness of keeping one another safe. A few cycle hooligans have already made their stance clear online. Some comments indicate that rough riders will quit group rides. For them, a classic reminder would be helpful. U.S. Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. describes freedom as “your right to swing your arms ends just where the other man’s nose begins.” In our case, your right to be Mad Max ends just before your bike (or body) collides with mine.

Published May 25, 2023

TRIGGER WARNING: Gore

On the third day of the Atlanta Cycling Festival, Monday, May 15, I lay on the asphalt while four people held each of my limbs, and a wartime medic kept my bloodied head in place. I suffered major trauma, including almost losing my right foot – after I was sideswiped by a falling cyclist during the city’s most popular group ride, M+M. Moments before the collision, I felt fit and fierce on my bike, even riding past city hall shouting, `Stop Cop City!` I had spent the day at City Hall in line as public commenter #218, wishing to speak truth to power while the city of Atlanta funds a controversial police militarization project packaged as a training facility.

Moments before the accident, I was catching up with friends while riding downhill on a four-lane ramp leading into Interstate I-75. We were going three times the average speed ( over 30 MPH, as captured by Strava data). Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a cyclist on the sidewalk losing control of his bike. The next thing I saw was his bright green mountain bike immediately in my trajectory, and then I woke up on the asphalt in paralyzing pain. There are varying accounts of whether the helmet-free rider on the tricked-out mountain bike was doing tricks. His life-long BMX riding appeared to help him manage a roll instead of my face plant. Still, it’s worth noting that doing tricks such as jumping curbs, riding sidewalks, and doing wheelies have become common in this weekly group ride despite the known dangers of such shenanigans on a 400+ cyclist ride.

After spending most of last week at Grady Hospital, I still do not know the extent of all my injuries. My visible scars include a cast on my right leg (the one which almost lost its ankle), a cast on my right arm up to my elbow, a chipped front tooth, a cracked other tooth (all attached to a deformed upper lip with two stitches, lacerations across along my right side of the face, a bruised & bandaged right shoulder and scuffed up knees. Unseen are the pains in my jaw, tongue, nerves, neck, and shoulder. Plus a foodie’s inability to eat hard or spicy foods. The rest of this warm season will be navigating our Kafka-esque medical system for insurance approvals of specialist appointments and walking a dangerous line of pain management. Before that Monday, I’d never broken a bone; now I can join the homies in injury BINGO.

Looking at recovery is a roller coaster path of ups and downs. I’ve been told it might take up to a year to recover my full body functions. It might be 3 to 6 months before I can ride my beautiful blue bike. I went from developing a love for cycling to having that very activity pushed out from under me. It feels a little bit like I am walking through the stages of grief. Already some moments are reviving my 2008-based PTSD. I am just 2 and a half years into sobriety and remember HALT while taking pain pills. Initially, it felt brilliant to see the sun when I was wheeled out of the hospital, I quickly fell into anguish when I accidentally saw my face in the passenger side mirror. I did a double-take when I saw my broken teeth and discolored, bruised, and swollen face. I quietly cried tears behind a pair of aviators.

I am here and have a possibility of 100% recovery only because the camaraderie within the cyclist community made sure cars did not crush the rest of me into the road. By my miraculous luck, two off-duty Grady nurses pulled over after a work shift in scrubs and helped manage the gory scene. My heart goes out to a fellow cyclist who held my hand and played music for me while I struggled to stay conscious as we waited for EMS. Post hospitalization, beloved amigos from my favorite weekly ride, MWR, created a WhatsApp group for my boo-boo care. I might not have a foot on my leg without the community who swarmed to help me. The organizers of the M+M ride created a GoFundMe page (link below) in anticipation of my medical bills. The funds will be a fraction of the financial burden I anticipate for physical recovery and mental health support.

As I learn to write and function with my left hand, my spills teach me lessons in humility. When my favorite aunt gave me a towel bath in my first-floor half-bath, I realized I actually need to learn to ask for help. I have to throw Sabrina, Miss Independent, on ice for a while.

If it weren’t for this community’s support, instead of being in relatively good spirits, I might be drinking spirits again.

Thanks to those who sent many forms of support via GoFundMe campaign, hugs, cards, and food.  I doubt I will get any financial support from the proximate cause of my accident…the cyclist got to leave the scene without any ambulance assistance.

[CLARIFICATION: The cyclist who created all this trauma stayed beside me and waited for EMS. An earlier version of this piece on my Facebook account created some confusion]

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Get Well Soon video https://youtu.be/MP14AT5X9c8 made during ACF with heart-warming messages from my bike family Midweek Roll

GoFundMe: GoFundMe by M+M (now closed)

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My journal cover exclaims, “Magic is something you make.” It has been a year and a week since I returned to Atlanta. The moments I recorded in my journal attest to the magic and mayhem of my making. The past week in review speaks to the efforts of the year. On Tuesday, April 11, 2023, I led 15 hungry cyclists to my favorite Indian restaurant in Decatur. That Thursday, I added a third bookshelf to the collection at my townhouse. On Saturday, by dumb chance and good luck, I spent an afternoon sailing Lake Lanier with friends. Finally, I joined local Bike Grid enthusiasts for a slow roll up Peachtree Street Sunday. The magic is ON, and I continue to cast a few designs forward.

On April 11, 2022, I shipped my collection of old journals and mementos from my ex-boyfriend’s apartment in Tokyo to my mother’s home in Tucker. Shortly after that, at customs & control in Narita, I turned in my Japanese residence card. Then, with both anxiety and goals as carry-ons, I set off to my hometown. My three-prong goals for Atlanta were: to make a home, participate in the community, and to do meaningful work. Here are my thoughts on a few critical magic milestones from this return.

1. Home

For the first five months of my return, I took up a garden-facing room at my mother’s house. Over the pandemic and in Japan, I had longed for an oven. Beyond that, my ideas of home were transformed by my experience going from a 1,100 square foot house (Bluffton, South Carolina) to a 200 square foot efficiency (Suginami-ku, Tokyo). The Atlanta I returned to was (is?) in a white-hot housing market. Things were expensive and going fast. I wanted something cozy and inside the perimeter.

Eventually, I bought a townhouse in a Chamblee-area community to store my books and souvenirs. In this complex, I can hear birds chirp from nearby woods while I drink coffee in the mornings. On the grounds in the rear of the property is a park that follows a creek that later connects to more water. This place is a great place to get my footing.

2. Community

In pre-COVID Tokyo, I was part of a thriving international community of ex-pats. My social silence grew as our gathering spaces and social outlets diminished post-Pandemic. I missed eavesdropping in the grocery line and making conversations with strangers. On returning to America, I looked forward to creating and being in community again.

Through a CouchSurfing(CS) event last summer, I made friends with a group of the Atlanta cycling community. Through group riding here, I have found another sort of home. Atlanta by bike looks different. I began to appreciate the nitty-gritty needs for cycle infrastructure. On the Beltline, cruising through the newly connected areas of Atlanta, it is much easier to see historically underfunded areas in the grip of gentrification. My cyclist amigos share a sense of civic duty. We made good chit-chat with a city official on our Sunday ride. As we deepen community relationships through fun and advocacy, I suspect I will continue to appreciate the new takes on Atlanta.

3. Meaningful Work

When I left the US in 2017, I was tired of the direct services legal work I had been doing in southern Georgia (across the river from Bluffton, SC, where I lived at the time). Thankfully, the sabbatical from law practice (and respite from Trump) brought me a new way to examine my professional capabilities. From there, I found joy in teaching, coaching, and consulting.

Time in Tokyo also transformed what I dared to envision for Atlanta (granted, Atlanta may never be as progressive. It sits in red Georgia, after all.) Upon my return last year, I started attending seminars at the intersection of housing and justice. I volunteered for a conference where I met GSU Professor and Housing Scholar Dan Immergluck and got a copy of his book Red Hot City. Atlanta’s car-centeredness points to the complex interplay of transport, housing, and access. In another seminar, I crossed paths with an old Atlanta CS friend who was Dan’s student and just finished his master’s in urban studies. At such a seminar, I learned about the movement to Stop Cop City. Finally, through the right partnerships, I feel lucky to have identified work for a community-based small-scale developer in Atlanta bringing affordable housing to under-developed parts of the city.

4. Tough Stuff

One of the most challenging parts of my move has been the saga of my journals. Since age 7, I have intermittently written words in journals to deal with life, changes, and reflections. In Tokyo, I took on the task of reading and notating about 25 lbs of handwritten diaries. Unfortunately, those journals I sent from Japan last year did not make it to Tucker—thanks to the US Postal Service. Then, to add salt to the wound, my family lost three generations of jewelry in a burglary from my mother’s home around Christmas time. As I figure out how to carry these losses, I am grateful that I can still appreciate what is in front of me now.

From my complex’s backwoods, we can eventually get to Briarcliff Road. My family has lived on various parts of this road during our 30+ years in Atlanta. If you take Briarcliff Road and travel on it south, you can eventually see the changes brought about by the Beltline. In a sense, I rode back home without knowing precisely what it would bring.

Opening up to a breeze can refresh your room or your life. The capacity to restore is at the heart of my beliefs and hopes about home. To live as you dream requires determination. It helps to have supporters and to build in community. Reflecting on the intermittent roller coaster of the last year, I feel blessed to have found a warm sense of community. After long perseverance, I am engaged in work that I believe makes the world a better place. Finally, as I continue my personal mission of flourishing to the bounds of my human potential, I hope to make more time to write and share as I organize, educate, and empower.