Lawyers, Leadership, and Lips

What a fucking day. What a fucking week. Lawyers. Leadership. Lips. Those are the three “L’s” currently running my life.

1.      Lawyers

I hired them sometime around week three after the crash, when my brain finally started firing on more than fumes and hospital morphine. Personal injury law. That’s what they call it. Cute little niche, like it’s a hobby.

Before this, my understanding of the legal system was mostly informed by Hollywood. Suits. Closing arguments. Brilliant minds battling it out in the gladiator arena of justice.

That’s adorable. Justice isn’t even part of the equation.

The first crack in that illusion came when I asked whether they’d looked into the citations the crash report clearly listed as “CITATIONS PENDING.” You know, because mowing down a motorcyclist seems like the sort of thing that might warrant, at minimum, a ticket.

Their response? “It doesn’t really help your claim since fault has already been admitted.”

Your claim. Not justice. Not right and wrong. Your claim.

And that’s when it clicked. This isn’t about accountability. It’s about policy limits. It’s about underinsured coverage and subrogation and which insurance company reimburses which other insurance company in what order. My medical insurance footed the hospital bills. My auto policy and motorcycle policy are carrying most of the load. Not hers. Mine.

She’ll see a bump in premiums. But I had to learn how to walk again. Three months in a hospital and a wheelchair. A walker after that. Teaching my legs how to move forward like they hadn’t betrayed me.

But sure. Premiums.

And don’t get me started on the word “accident.” I hate that word. It implies fate. Inevitability. A cosmic shrug.

Bullshit.

My bike had a blinding LED headlight. Two LED running lights. Red taillights, side and rear. Reflectors everywhere. I looked like a damn Christmas tree rolling down the road.

She either didn’t look, or she didn’t register what she saw. That’s not fate. That’s negligence. And when negligence gets processed through a system that boils it down to numbers and negotiation, justice evaporates. What’s left is bartering. A transaction.

We like to pretend America is built on justice, but it feels more like it’s built on spreadsheets.

2.      Leadership

Ironically, this week at work was incredible. For the first time since returning, I felt like myself again. Not the broken version. Not the “recovering TBI” version. Not the fragile one. I strengthened relationships. I gained trust. I led.

And even that carried a sting. Because those are connections I might already have had if I hadn’t been handed a three-month, involuntary sabbatical courtesy of someone else’s carelessness.

Growth came from the wreckage. But it didn’t have to.

3.      Lips

And then the call came from UNM Health. They finally got insurance preauthorization for surgery on my lip. End of March. Of course I scheduled it.

I’m self-conscious as hell about this. There’s a quarter-inch gap where my lower lip used to be. I can’t seal my mouth while chewing. I can’t eat soup in public. Hell, I can barely eat anything in public without thinking about it. Every mirror is a reminder. Every meal is a reminder.

Another cost. Another receipt. Another line item in the ledger of an “accident.”

Where I Actually Am

I know I should be grateful. Two books written since the crash. Several short stories. More blog posts than I can count. A sharpened urgency to live. A refusal to waste time. There has been growth. There has been light. But if I’m honest? I’m not there yet. I haven’t forgiven her. I haven’t forgiven the system. I might not have forgiven God.

There’s this loop in my head: gratitude colliding with anger, blessing wrestling with resentment. I can see the good that came from it, and I can still hate the way it arrived.

Maybe both are allowed to exist at the same time. Maybe forgiveness isn’t a switch you flip but a muscle you strengthen. Maybe justice in the legal sense is never going to satisfy the justice my soul wants.

For now, I agreed to pursue the number the lawyers brought forward. Not because it feels right, but because I need closure. I need this chapter to move toward an ending.

Leadership is growing. Surgery is scheduled. The lawyers are negotiating.

And somewhere inside all of that, I’m still learning how to live with the gap, the physical one in my lip, and the philosophical one between what happened and what should have happened.

I’m healing. But I’m not holy about it yet.