Friday night on my way back from dessert with friends, I was riding my bike along the dark, empty streets of east Vancouver, relishing the quiet, the cool wind on my face, the glow of the streetlights cracking through the thick, dark canopy of leaves arching across the road. Just a few blocks from home, I was speeding down the big hill on tenth avenue when I hit something—I couldn’t see what—and the next thing I knew I was continuing down the hill at an even steeper incline, balancing on the front tire with the back end of my bike in the air.

Continuing to hurtle toward the roundabout at the bottom of the hill while doing an accidental, reverse wheelie was not a good idea. Neither was clamping my hands around the brakes, but that was what I did—either out of my instinctive desire to slow down or because the weight of my entire body was already on my wrists and trying to hold on for my life was an unconscious decision. Then I was flying past the handle bars, floating over the pavement, hearing a scream that must have been mine, and feeling the impact of the cement against the heels of my hands and then my shoulder blades.

Thank God I was wearing a helmet. I ended up on my back as I slowly rolled over and stood up, I saw blood on my hands and slung across my purse, but could hardly feel any specific cuts. I had the good sense to stumble out of the road myself, but not to move my bike. I stood in the grass staring at it in the street, red and white lights still flashing.

Then things got melodramatic. A couple of neighbors came outside to check on me; in shock, I sunk down to my knees and started to cry as I fished out my phone to call Andy. The two women who found me were nice enough to move my bike out of the road, make sure that I knew my name and what day it was, and begin helping me walk my bike in the direction of my apartment.

I don’t handle blood very well. I am absurdly, comically overwhelmed with wooziness by the sight of it. These were not life threatening injuries: scraped hands and shoulders and foot; bruised hip and sore neck muscles. But if I lived by myself, I likely would have gone to sleep on the couch still covered in blood and with gravel in my wounds, because looking at them–much less trying to clean them–made me feel lightheaded and weak like I was about to pass out. Fortunately, I live with a loving husband who has a stronger stomach than I do. He doctored my wounds and patiently put up with my need to sit on the  bathroom floor and take deep breaths every couple minutes throughout the process. (Seriously, it’s embarrassing how I react to blood. Pain tolerance: HIGH.  Blood visibility tolerance: ZERO.)

Without the use of my hands, I felt like an invalid all weekend. I couldn’t bathe or even change clothes without help. Andy did the gardening we had planned to do together, cooked all the meals, bandaged my hands, helped me dress myself, and even washed my hair for me.  I am married to a stellar human being.

Andy planting leafy greens in the garden

Three days later, my cuts are scabbing over, the soreness is receding, and I’m going in to the chiropractor in a few hours to reset my skeleton. Looks like I’m gonna be just fine.

I spent all last week revising the manuscript of my book, and I finished just a few hours before my crash–good timing, since typing would have been a lot more difficult over the weekend. Andy put it in the mail to my editor the next day, so hopefully it will soon be polished and ready to submit to an agent or a publisher.

My completed manuscript

Throughout the process of writing this memoir of my time in India, I have received so much helpful advice and input from other writers and editors. Every time I reach a point of not knowing what to do next, a conversation or a connection with someone pops up and illuminates the next step. It sometimes seems I’m bushwhacking my way through the wilderness, but I’m beginning to trust the journey, and that the grace which has carried me this far will continue. I know that this story is bigger than me.

I’m looking forward to sharing the book with all of you. Meanwhile, for those of you in Vancouver, watch out for the unmarked mogul on 10th!