Since my husband made the call himself, he’s surely completely fine, I thought. I think I can go through the checkout line with the 6 pounds of bananas and bagged salad really quick with the kids in tow but he says he’s hurting and cold. Surely, this man has gone through pain before but it’s just each time, it hits closer to home. I dread seeing the damage as I head to the scene.
Just like any other day, Gym Hottie is riding his bicycle home after work. Blind spot or just a fluke of bad luck, a van swipes him off the sidewalk and claims his bicycle under it as it screeches to a startling halt. It launches the six-foot cyclist to the road straight onto his face with, the best invention ever, his helmet taking a good hit.
I breathe in then out as I am driving with our children I share with a man, who was just hit by a 2-ton piece of metal. I drive and dread. I am shocked he is standing up let alone walking to meet me as I exit the car to see him. Our little babies, one asleep and the other awaiting my warning about a hurt Dada, are oblivious as my husband and I are sobbing over what may have been worse. What may have been a call from a medical authority. A call that may have led me to the emergency room instead of the scene. A call I wouldn’t be able to handle or know how to relay to our babies.
We are thankful we’ve been able to joke about the damage it’s done to his face, and nowhere else. A running joke that we are grateful to be able to share and shine a bit of light into the incident. It could be so much worse and I’m grateful the babies get to be with their daddy longer.