I’m Still Here

The fuck is wrong with me? Don’t answer that. I’m not accepting submissions.

Yesterday started the way a lot of post-crash days start lately: tired, hopeful, and already bracing for disappointment. I had a morning full of appointments and one of those phone calls that manages to suck the oxygen out of a room without technically delivering bad news.

I woke up genuinely hopeful that the same Santa Fe orthopedic surgeon who saved my wrist might also save my sanity by finally shaking loose the bureaucratic bullshit surrounding my knee. And to be fair, she tried. God, did she try. She’s relentless. She doesn’t take no for an answer. She fixes orders. She calls other doctors. She follows up. I wish every human in healthcare worked like her.

After fixing the order for what felt like the fifth time, she finally got on the phone with the doctor who would be doing the draining and figured out exactly what he needed to move forward.

Case closed, right?

Of course not.

Now I had to wait for them to call me to schedule the procedure. So I did what any rational adult does when modern medicine breaks their spirit. I went to breakfast.

Right as my food arrived, my phone rang. It was the imaging place calling to schedule the knee procedure. Progress! Except the first available appointment wasn’t until the following Wednesday.

Seven.
More.
Fucking.
Days.

I explained that I wasn’t sure I could wait that long. The woman on the phone was kind, apologetic, and completely powerless. There was nothing she could do. So now I wait, hoping someone cancels, hauling around what feels like a quart of extra fluid sloshing around my thigh like I’m some kind of medical snow globe.

At least it’s scheduled. That counts for something.

After being misgendered roughly fourteen times by the waitress, I paid the bill, threw a leg over Aurora, and left the parking lot like I had something to prove. I rode for about an hour. Stopped for gas. Rode some more. Let the noise and motion burn the static out of my head.

While riding, I kept thinking about Lilith. About how much I missed a touring bike. About the difference between a light-to-light, Tesla-bait cruiser and a bike that’s built to eat miles and keep you steady when the road gets stupid.

So I stopped by Wicked West Harley in Santa Fe, figuring I’d ogle some bikes and scratch the itch for now.

Here’s the thing about plans: the universe doesn’t give a shit about them.

I’d “planned” to replace Lilith in the fall. The universe had other ideas. After throwing a leg over a black 2025 Harley Road Glide, I fell in love again. No debate. No analysis paralysis. Just that quiet, immediate certainty.

She’s in my garage now. I didn’t ride her far, just home from Harley, because of course New Mexico decided to drop a snowstorm on us immediately afterward. But she’s here. And I’m already thinking about a different seat for legroom and calling the Fab Shop about air, pipes, and a tune.

More importantly, when I finally get cleared to return to work, hopefully next week, I’m going to be ready. And that feels damn good.

Because let’s not forget what I survived:

-          Multiple fractures to my face.

-          Teeth knocked out.

-          A laceration across my lower lip and chin that left a gnarly scar and took part of my lip.

-          Thyroid cartilage fractures that required intubation.

-          A collapsed lung.

-          A traumatic brain injury.

-          A fractured left forearm that required hardware.

-          Fractures in my left foot that required hardware.

-          A Morel-Lavallée lesion on my left thigh.

-          And, a lot of soft tissue damage.

I survived all of that.

The crash stole some memories. It took my bike. It shook my sense of time and certainty.  But it didn’t take me out of the game. I’m coming back stronger, clearer about the legacy I’m building, and more sure-footed on the road.

And for the record, no decade-old Subaru is going to end my story.

Just saying.