Curb Attack

    So last Thursday I was having a fantastic day. I was going to spend my morning at the Lit Arts office, had lunch plans with a friend, would spend my afternoon blogging about my birthday andanswering a million emails, then looked forward to seeing a friend for a movie. Everything was going great. I was having a good hair day and my outfit was on point.
    I went to Lit Arts and had a lovely time with the new intern (they call me "Senior Intern" now), arranging the pieces for the student anthology. I felt light and happy. I left a little before 1 o'clock, and biked downtown. I was on Yamhill, coming down to 5th, when I decided to turn left, and angled myself to cross the MAX rails ... diagonally ... which was stupid ... because I have slim little city bike tires ... the kind that fit easily into things like, oh, y'know, MAX rails.

    My tire stuck, and in less time than I could comprehend, I was sailing off my seat and hurtling face-first towards the ground. My knees and chin slammed into the pavement, I could hear my bike clattering down ahead of me. I had no thoughts, just animal responses. I wonder sometimes what babies' thoughts are like, without the articulation of language to process reactions with. Try falling off your bike if you too are curious about this. Within a few seconds my ability to think returned and I thought, Oh my God, I broke my jaw. I tried moving it. It moved. Not Broken. Good. Teeth not broken. Also good. Knees hurt. Manageable. My head was still spinning when I saw the blood dripping into the street. Where was I bleeding? By now a small crowd of people had run over to me. I couldn't hear them but apparently they were saying basic things like, Is she okay? Someone call 911. I reached up to find the source of the blood. I felt something fleshy and dangling where my ear should be. I pulled my hand back to my face and there was blood all over my fingers. What was that? I reached up again. Fleshy dangle. What the fuck was that? It took me a few moments to realize it was the top of my ear, almost totally torn off of my little head.
    There was someone above me, trying to help me up. Someone said, "Is she okay?" Someone else, apparently the guy helping me up, said, "No."
    I stood up, shakily, and was helped to sit on a small fountain. I guess I was talking but I wasn't really sure. Someone said they were calling an ambulance and I said, "I don't have insurance, I can't go in an ambulance, do not call an ambulance." People kept telling me I needed to go to the hospital. I couldn't really process it. I thought I was going to throw up. Within a minute someone was pressing napkins against my ear. I winced. I made jokes. I called my roommate. I called my mom. I called Daryl and asked him to please come pick me up and take me to the emergency room, rather than, y'know, meeting me for lunch. The guy who'd helped me up was sitting next to me, his name was Ian. He was about my age, looked like a street kid, and had soulful eyes. Another woman, Karen, kept urging me to go to the hospital. When I called my mom, Karen asked to get on the phone.
    "Um, Mom, Karen wants to talk to you."
    "Who's Karen?"
    "A nice woman who's been standing with me since I crashed."
    People brought ice, clean white cloths, napkins. Ian gently wiped the blood off my hands, arms, face, neck. I thought, should we be falling in love right now?
    Since I'd refused the ambulance ride, a fire engine full of EMT's showed up instead. All hot. I actively wished I wasn't covered in blood because they were cute. They wrapped me up with gauze and made sure I was heading to the emergency room. "We'll remember this call," they said, "you're the girl whose ear was falling off and was making jokes about it."
    I traded contact information with Ian and Karen, and Daryl showed up not long after. In the emergency room, I cracked, "This is so Portland - I fell off my bike, and I know I busted my knee too, but I can't roll my skinny jeans up high enough to check it out."
    When the ER physician examined my ear, I finally started to react to the pain. She moved the ripped piece around, pulled my ear forward and back. Worst pain of my life. Talking about it later, I compared it to the first 20 minutes of being tattooed, then shook my head and decided this was worse. I clenched my fists around the armrests of the chair. Daryl told me that he thought I was going to pass out. When she was done, I was told that they didn't think they'd be able to reattach it, but they were calling down a plastic surgeon.
    It was that moment that my concerns about cost evaporated. You can't reattach it? Fuck you, put my fucking ear back on!
    Luckily, the plastic surgeon who showed up (in record time, even), examined it for about two minutes and said, "I can reattach this." I think I might have told him I loved him.
    This is me, getting my ear reattached:

   

    The guy with the camera is my plastic surgeon. He was taking 'before' photos. "Is this for the scrapbook at home?" I asked. He laughed. He promises to email me the photos of my mangled ear. But here is a photo of my successfully reattached ear:

    During the surgery, Karen left me a message to see how I was doing. I called her back later in the afternoon, and she said, "I'm so glad you're okay - you wre so brave and strong and funny. Do you remember the first thing you said when you got up?"
    "Oh my God, I have no idea. What did I say?"
    "Who needs an ear, anyhow?"
    Here's what it looked like a few days later:

    Plastic Surgeon warned me not to freak out if parts of it started to turn black. Allegedly, these area will eventually be replaced with healthy tissue.
    Anyway. I've obviously spent a lot of the last week zonked on Vicodin. If I haven't been at work I've been sleeping. And feeling nauseous. And sleeping some more, but only on my right side. If I wanna switch to the left I have to make a "V" out of my pillows and set my ear in the empty space. Also, I have big purple bruises on both knees and my left hip.
    In other words, I am fucking legit. As you know, internet, my legitimacy is very important to me.
    Anyway. Will write more now that I'm off the dope.

Comments

[Ryan G]

Gross! Those tracks are a hazard. Glad you're okay. I once saw a cop on a bicycle track in to them and fall, and I felt bad for him. Last week I was involved in an urban planning workshop, and we were riding in a pack of 20 (with many less-experienced riders). I think I reminded everyone about five times that they should be extra careful when crossing the tracks. It could have been a disaster.

I tracked into a small and stupid crack in the sidewalk last fall and fell and broke my wrist and elbow. So I am wary of all cracks these days, not only giant max cracks.

Also! One time I rolled a bowling ball over my sister's pinky finger, and it split open, and then the docs took skin from her ear (she was born early, and one ear was bigger than the other) to mend the wound. Her ears were symmetrical, and her finger was fixed! She wore a gigantic head cast for a few weeks. It looks you didn't have to do that.

[kristen]

You poor, poor girl!

This is exactly why I don't have a bicycle.

[Karen]

Hey Erica...even lying in the emergency room you look incredible! So glad you're enjoying the Vicodin.

[Chris]

You're like Evander Hollyfield! Only, you know, Tyson bit his ear off. But still.

[Meagan]

Oh. My. God.

This is the most horrid/lovely story I've ever heard. Are you and Ian going to, like, get married?

You were missed last night - Kiala and I bonded. I thought of you!

[stoogepie]

Ouch!

This is exactly why I don't have ears.

I knew you had a plastic surgeon. Those couldn't be real.

Anyways, you look totally hot in the ER with the paparazzi hovering over you.

[Kiala]

Jeebus.

You're like Van Gogh.

Only totally different.

We did miss you.

Lots.

[JustinS]

Too bad Ian rescued you instead of Oscar Goldman. You could have been the next Jaime Summers.

[robert]

Yooooowch. I had a bike accident in Portland once. Any by accident, I mean I rode my bicycle to work one morning after drinking, opened the shop 45 minutes late and barfed as soon as someone asked me for quarters.

Signed,

A STRANGER

[Kiala]

Where ARE you???