“No, please. Not like this.” A profound terror burrowed deep and unforgiving into my soul.
Is this really how it’s going to end? Those were my last thoughts before I went down. An eerie silence settled over me. My friend ran over and flicked off the ignition switch for me. Only then did the pain begin to register in my brain.
Before the shock and adrenaline completely overtook me, I informed my friend, quite clinically, that I was positive my leg was broken and could he possibly call an ambulance. Only then did I roll over onto the road as the pain gripped me and tore through all my senses.
Until that day, I’d never broken a bone in my life. Somehow though, my brain just knew, and informed me unequivocally that my leg was broken; I just had no idea how bad. I flicked the visor up on my full-face helmet and chanced a glance downwards.
I saw my right leg jutting out at an unnatural 45° angle below my knee. That’s not how that’s supposed to look. Panic threatened to consume me, but years of training told me to breathe in and out.
Slow inhales and exhales. Remain calm, you’re no use to anyone if you’re hysterical.
Bystanders ran to check on me. Their faces and voices were nothing but a garbled blur. I realized later that it was my tears obscuring their faces. The deafening sound of my pounding heartbeat rang in my ears and nearly drowned out every other noise.
I could hear people asking me if I was alright, but I couldn’t answer. I heard people tell me that the ambulance was coming. I heard someone tell me not to fall asleep, to stay awake. But I wasn’t sleeping; my eyes were shut tight simply to block out the pain. I had floated out of my body, and was watching the scene unfold from afar.
I waited an eternity for the ambulance. It felt like hours, but it was only minutes.
When the EMTs finally arrived, their gentle voices reassured me. They placed a gas mask over my mouth. “Just breathe,” they said, “it’ll help ease your pain.”
Once again, I focused on my breath.
I could vaguely hear the EMTs speaking back and forth.
“Compound?” One asked. “Highly likely,” the other answered. I'd later learn that a compound or “open” fracture meant your bone had snapped clear through your flesh. These breaks were quite serious. Their scissors sliced skillfully through my pants to assess the damage. Oh man, I really like these pants. I laughed internally at my own delirium. Pants could be replaced. My limb could not. Cutting off the boot proved to be exponentially more difficult.
Both my boots were fully intact. They had saved me. They were the difference between an open and a closed fracture.
While I was lucky enough to avoid an open fracture, my own break would come with its own set of unique challenges. The unnatural angle of my leg, and the sturdiness of the boots proved impossible for them to cut it open. They worked for minutes trying to delicately extricate my leg from the boot. Every micromovement to cut open the boot resulted in an excruciating amount of pain.
After a time, I removed my gas mask and I yelled (unintentionally) “please just rip it off.” To my delight, they acquiesced. My leg was free. The boot was half cut apart, its protective entrails spilling out.
I heard one EMT remark in surprise that it wasn’t an open fracture. The other seemed surprised and relieved as well. I would go on to keep my cut open boots for the next five years. It served as a reminder. My leather riding gloves laid next to the boot, as if they were some twisted offering to a shrine. When I finally got rid of them, I felt a bittersweet tug at my heart. Time to let go, time to move on.
Once in the ambulance, I politely asked if they could call my mom to let her know what had happened to me. They told me I could call her when I got to the hospital. I’ve never been in an ambulance — isn’t this exciting?
If you ask me today what it was like to ride in an ambulance, I can only tell you that I had a gas mask on, and it was bright. I have no memory of anything else.
The face of my rescuer eludes me, but his calm voice still lives somewhere in the recesses of my mind. As I continued to breathe through the gas mask, it became less and less potent. The pain was growing worse. We were finally at the hospital. I thanked the faceless EMT and he wished me good luck before whisking off to save someone else.
Both my boyfriend and my brother were already at the hospital waiting for me. My friends had called them, bless their hearts. When I saw their faces, I began to cry again. I asked my brother to call our mom.
A nurse asked me if I consented to be put under anesthesia while they set my leg. I didn’t know what that meant but I nodded. She placed an IV into me and I closed my eyelids heavily. When I next opened my eyes, I looked down and saw my leg was one again straight. Oh, that’s what that means. The adrenaline had begun to wear off by then.
After my mom arrived at the hospital, the doctors told us I’d need surgery almost immediately. My tibia, fibula and ankle were all broken. The x-rays showed a very complicated fracture that would require pins and plates. My fracture was so rare that I was later asked to participate in a medical study about it.
The doctors impressed upon me the urgency of which they would need to operate. In addition to my multiple fractures, I had something called compartment syndrome and it needed immediate medical attention.
As soon as "potential loss of limb" was mentioned, I understood the gravity of the situation.
I signed the consent forms and they wheeled me away. The doctors were able to alleviate the compartment syndrome and my leg was no longer in danger of amputation. I would go on to have three more surgeries during my two-week hospital stay. The time went by in a blur.
Upon my hospital release, I initially needed a wheelchair to get around. I would eventually graduate to crutches and then a cane before being fully mobile and autonomous. My entire healing process took around 18 months, including one additional surgery that I needed a year later.
I used to think I was unlucky. I mean, what an unfortunate thing that happened. It was physically and mentally debilitating for the longest time. The anniversary of the accident used to be a mournful and somber time for me.
Looking back now though, I realize I got lucky. I was able to heal, to walk, to run and to be free. Now on the anniversary date, I look back and I’m so grateful. I am alive — what a gift. That could have been my last ride.
Now I look at it as the first day of the rest of my life.
- Vienna Kerfoot, Port Moody
You can find Vienna Kerfoot on Instagram.
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