Hey, don't go getting any notions. Morris was wearing his helmet, and his leathers; he never rode without them! The only conclusion that I can draw is that he'd be dead now if he hadn't.
According to the police report he was probably going about 40 mph when he got into some loose gravel in a construction zone on a deserted country road and lost control of the bike. There were no other vehicles involved. Fortunately a farmer was out in his fields and saw the accident happen. The farmer whipped out his cell phone and dialed 911.
He sustained a broken arm, broken shoulder and collar bone, broken ribs (but no punctured lung), multiple lacerations on his left side, and brain trauma. They drilled a hole in his head to relieve the pressure. He contracted pneumonia later. Everything's healing nicely, except Morris just isn't home, yet. I mean, he's awake, but he's not conscious. I add the “yet” in optimism, the doctor's can't say; we just have to wait and see.
It was scary going to see him that first time. I was afraid of what he would look like. I was afraid of the wrong thing. He looks great, considering. My friend Wes looked worse and all he did was slip in the shower and hit his head. But at least Wes recognized me when I visited him, and could squeeze my hand. Morris is completely unresponsive.
Oh he can move. In fact he moves a lot. He writhes in the bed, extending and contracting his limbs, except for his immobilized left arm; not as if in pain, but as if restless, wanting to get up and get going. The doctors say it's a good thing, it means that there's something going on upstairs and although it isn't much it suffices for exercise. The nurses hate it. They're constantly having to reposition him, and cover his exposed private parts. “He always was a trouble maker,” I joked. “Well he hasn't changed,” returned the nurse. To me it looks like he's fighting for recovery, or is that just wishful thinking?
He finally opened his eyes and looked at me. I could swear there was recognition there, but the nurses said, “Yes, he'll look at you, but there's no real focus and he doesn't track with his eyes.” My hopes were dashed. I remember, either from my education or subsequent reading that the human face is the first thing that infants focus on; an instinct if you will, a recognition hardwired into our being; and that faces are the most common form of visual imagining. That's why we see a man in the moon.
On my second visit I had more hope. He looked at me and continued to do so, coming back to my face again after straying. On top of that as he extended and contracted his good arm he more often than not stretched it toward me, hitting me in the face, as it were. Or was that just more wishful thinking? I'd positioned myself on that side of him because it was the direction his body was turned, after all.
I didn't have much time on my last visit. I started a new thing with his arm movements; resisting his attempts. He fights back, which is reassuring. His eyes were open when I leaned in to him and said, “I have to go now, I'll be back soon.” It seemed that he grew still, as if he felt disappointment at my departure; or was that just more wishful thinking born of my sense of guilt that I was leaving so soon?
I'll be back. I've made arrangements with the neighbors that if my car isn't in the driveway at 9:00 at night, when Lloyd takes their dog out for her last walk, then they're to feed my ex-wife's cat and fish the next morning (did I tell you that I was babysitting my ex-wife's cat, plants and fish?). I'll sleep in Indy on the truck, which adds a whole layer of subterfuge to the adventure because we're no longer allowed to sleep on the yard there. I can't do too much though, because the cat is high strung and every time that I don't come home I find puke all over the place when I finally do, poor thing.
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