Bicycle death, part 2
When Owen replaced the bicycle that was stolen in front of the Blockbuster store, he bought one that was bright orange. He thought it would be hard to miss on the road, on his night-time rides to and from work.
In September, 2006, he was riding that bike to work at the 3rd Street Cinemas. He crossed the street at a corner and a young girl, driving a Mustang, ran a stop sign. She ran directly into him. He was thrown about 6 – 8 feet into the lane of oncoming traffic. He lay there for a few seconds (no cars were coming), then got up, checked his injuries, picked up his bike, and started to get on it. He was stumbling and shaking. A man in the apartment building across the street had seen the accident, and ran to Owen with a first aid kit. This stranger made him sit down while he bandaged his scrapes and asked him questions, to see if he was alright. The stranger got the driver’s information and gave it to Owen, along with his phone number, in case Owen needed a witness. Owen got on his bike and rode to work.
Dave and I knew nothing of this accident until we picked him up from work that night. He had called me earlier in the evening, and asked if I could come pick him up. I often picked him up after work because I was afraid for him to ride home at night. We lived in different towns at the time, but I never minded making the drive. I liked the chance to spend time with him, even if only the 10-minute drive from the theater to his and Nat’s apartment. I asked him how it felt riding to work after the accident, with the wobbly front wheel. He said he didn’t even remember getting there.
Owen spent the next afternoon and evening in the emergency room. He didn’t want to go at first, but after we reviewed the whiplash-like aches, the scrapes, the bump on his head, and the fact that I thought he was still in shock, he agreed it was a good idea to get checked out.
X-rays showed nothing was broken. The doctor put him out of work for a few days to make sure he was okay, and that they hadn’t missed anything. He said sometimes the soft-tissue injuries get worse before they get better, and to make a follow-up appointment with his personal doctor. He did, and his doctor prescribed physical therapy for the neck and back injuries.
Months later, just this last April, when the final determination of the insurance claim arrived, it said the accident was equally the fault of the driver and Owen. He was outraged. He could not understand how riding his bike and being hit in the bike lane by someone who had run a stop sign, could be equal. I explained that insurance companies often deny the initial claims, and that we would have to continue our efforts, even if it meant getting an attorney.
Owen had little patience for how screwed up our systems are, and thought he had been wronged in the insurance company’s assessment. He also knew it would take many more months to come to a resolution. He said he would think about whether or not it was worth pursuing. We talked about it on occasion, but he wasn’t interested in the time commitment, nor how little there was to gain from it. His anger was apparent every time we talked about how wrong the decision was. He kept saying, “How could I have been equally at fault? I was in a FUCKING BIKE LANE! She ran a stop sign!”
That was the same orange bike that’s still missing. We had the front wheel repaired after the accident. Michael, Nat, or I took him to and from work until we could get the bike to the shop. His bruises and scrapes mended, the aches and pains eventually lessened, but the outcome added to Owen’s mistrust of people and systems…again.
The missing orange bike is a part of Owen’s death, for me. All his missing belongings from the last night he was seen alive, are a part of his death.
The two kids who decided to throw Owen’s cell phone in the River four days after his body was found, but reported it to the police anyway (they said they had read about the missing phone in the newspaper), are a part of his death. They said they made the report in case someone else knew they had the phone, and thought they “might get in trouble”. If they were willing to report it to the police, why didn’t they just turn it in? That cell phone had photos and phone numbers on it that we can’t retreive. Those two kids robbed us, just as they robbed Owen. It took us six weeks after he died to track down Carla, because her number was in his phone. And, there were others, that we still haven’t been able to find.
Every time I see a young man riding a similar bicycle, I see Owen. Every time I see a young man writing in a journal, I see Owen. Every time I see any young person near the River, talking on a cell phone, I want to grab it and throw it in the polluted water where my son’s body was found.
Instead, I throw in flowers and watch them float away. Then I stare into the darkness that is the Petaluma River, and pray someone will show up at my door with Owen’s last journal…and his bicycle.
Song for the night: The Bicycle Song, Walter Schreifels (you can connect with Walter from the link in the blogroll to the right, “The Bicycle Song guy”)
http://youtube.com/watch?v=9JTxoeFjN8M
A journal and a bicycle. Such a small request for a mother to make, and yet there is no one with enough integrity to see that you get your desires. To lose a son, and to want so little. The thing that makes me have a little faith in people, is the man who bandaged Owen’s wounds. A bit remeniscent of another who stopped to help a wounded warrior. A Good Samaritan, if you will. There are still decent people in the world who will do what is right, simply because it is the right thing to do. And in spite of all those who don’t, this man did. God bless him. He poured in the oil and the wine, and gave of himself what no one else would. I think of Owen working that evening, probably in a daze, but faithful to go on to work. I wonder how many times Owen escaped death, before the night he couldn’t? How many times have we all escaped it? Never forget the man who helped, because that is what will give you faith, when so many others let you down. There are good, kind souls in the world, and sometimes they find us when we least expect it, and when we most need them. Angels unaware, as the Word calls them.
I understand Owen’s outrage. I was told that I was completely at fault when I hit a car runing a red light because I was turning left. The guy afterwards kept saying it was all his fault. He even told the cop that. But no kind witness stepped forward and my insurance co. didn’t lift a finger to defend me. I had to just accept it, but it does do something to your sense of justice.
I’m so sorry Owen went through such a thing. But I agree with Lonnie above that the kind witness is something to hold onto. There is much wrong with our world, but there are pockets of what is true and good.
Hang in there.