The First Time I Almost Became a Widow
I don’t care if it’s not the law. Wear the damn helmet.
I married my husband at just 23 years old. One year and three months after our wedding I was almost widowed because of someone else’s mistake. The only thing that kept me from burying him at 24 was a well-made helmet… and a bit of luck.
My husband loved his motorcycle and I loved riding with him. We rode together while dating and after we were married. It was a whirlwind courtship starting in September of 2008.
He proposed in early January 2009 and we were married by a 93-year-old priest in July of the same year. Money was tight and we couldn’t afford the wedding and the honeymoon at the same time. Therefore, the honeymoon had to wait.
I didn’t want to have to pay for a new passport yet, so I didn’t bother to change my name until after we finally honeymooned in the Caribbean in the summer of 2010. This is why I almost became Mrs. Lane and a widow on the same day.
He dropped me off at work that morning because I didn’t want to pay for parking downtown. On my lunch break, I ran across the street and officially changed my name at the DMV. Later, during a 15-minute break, I checked my phone. I saw multiple missed calls from him and some numbers I didn’t recognize.
Without checking my messages, I called him. No answer. It took two more attempts before I heard him on the line.
His voice was kind of muffled as I asked him “What’s up, love?”
“You didn’t listen to the voicemail, did you?”
“No… why?” There was lots of urgent voices in the background and weird noises that started to make me nervous.
“I was in an accident. Listen to the messages. I gotta go.” And he hung up.
Frantically I dialed my voicemail and listened to a supernaturally calm nurse identify herself and the hospital where I could find my husband. The only thing I remember now from the message was her repeating…
“Your husband appears to be okay, but it was a bad wreck and you need to get here now. I repeat, he appears to be fine.”
I slumped to the floor and cried for a minute until a very kind HR rep found me. I explained what happened; that he had dropped me off and I had no way to get home quickly. I didn’t even know he was planning to ride that day and now he was in a hospital over an hour away. She immediately retrieved her purse, then notified my bosses and explained that she was taking me home right away.
She drove me to our apartment while I just kept trying to convince myself he would be fine. He was alive. I had heard his voice and he was going to be just fine. I gathered up some loose, oversized clothes for my husband, snacks, and drinks for the hospital, and waited for my sister to meet me at the apartment. I didn’t want to drive all the way there on my own; just in case my phone rang again.
The drive there was tense. My sister offered, but I knew she’d speed a lot more than I would, and I didn’t want to risk being pulled over. Plus, it forced me to keep it together. I kept it together for almost 90 minutes, through the drive and while navigating the small county hospital.
We found the nurse’s station and I asked where I could find my husband. The nurse provided the room number. We walked briskly and pulled back the curtain.
Inside I saw a small pool of blood on the floor, my husband’s ripped and crumpled jeans in a corner, and a bed. What I didn’t see was my husband.
I lost it. I started some combination of crying and yelling while my sister rushed back to the nurse’s desk to find out where they’d taken him.
At that moment I was sure that he must have suddenly taken a turn for the worst. Why else would there be blood and the jeans they’d cut off him just laying on the floor?! Apparently, he’d needed another CT, had been taken to imaging, and she just forgot to tell us. That’s not the kind of mistake I was inclined to forgive at the moment, so I let my sister handle it.
A bit later, they rolled in my husband. Suffering from a massive headache due to a major concussion, bruised, battered, cut, and scraped, but alive. He was being kept for observation for a little longer and they’d hit him with some strong pain medication. After carefully kissing him and fighting tears of relief, I asked him what happened.
He was an adjunct instructor at a semi-rural university. He figured it was probably one of the last nice days until spring, so he rode his motorcycle to class and taught for about an hour. He was riding home again when he was hit. An older lady didn’t see the massive, red, retro Honda Silverwing. He was just getting up to speed on the main drag, and at about 35mph the silver SUV in the oncoming lane suddenly cut a left turn- directly into my husband. He didn’t have time to react. He went through his windshield and left a helmet imprint in hers.
After his head hit her windshield, he fell off the hood and she pulled out of the road and into a parking lot. Maybe she was in shock. She could have easily run him over a second time. Her front end was so badly damaged that she couldn't drive any further.
The off-duty EMT assisting my husband saw her on the phone. Naturally, he thought she’d called 911. She told him no, she wasn’t talking to 911, so they dialed using my husband’s cell. Somehow, it survived the crash.
It was only a combination of preparation and luck that kept my husband alive. He always wore his helmet and a riding jacket with armor on the shoulders and chest.
The off-duty EMT had been driving a big box truck some distance behind my husband. He saw the crash. He saw him go flying and the impact. He saw him slip like a rag-doll off the hood. The EMT blocked the lanes of traffic with his truck and stabilized my husband’s head and neck. We don’t know what his name was, but he probably kept the injuries from being much worse. He even helped direct people when EMS arrived.
My husband remembers the first responders’ relief when they realized that he wore a helmet and body armor.
Since then, I’ve heard all the arguments against helmets from bikers and advocacy groups. “You’d just leave a pretty corpse.” “I can’t see as well.” “It’s my right.” “I want to ride free.” “It’s my life and my choice.”
I always have to fight the urge to slap people who try to convince others that helmets are useless.
The force of the two vehicles combined would have left a smear on the old lady’s windshield and made me a widow- but for his helmet. I’d have been identifying a body that day- but for his helmet. I’d be calling my husband’s mother with news of his death- but for his helmet. At the very least, he would have been severely disabled and dealing with a traumatic brain injury- but for his helmet.
The science is in. Helmets save lives, prevent some seriously traumatic brain injuries, and therefore probably prevent even more PTSD for witnesses and first responders of motorcycle accidents. I know helmets aren’t perfect. Do they save every rider? No, but at least they give you a chance.
People use the line “Well at least he died doing what he loved.” any time someone isn’t as lucky as we were. Well, you know what else my husband loves? Our three sons born after the accident. Earning a Ph.D. and becoming a tenured professor. Taking vacations together and having at least eleven more years with his wife, friends, and family. He’s even looking forward to riding again someday- all because he wore a helmet.
While the bike was totaled, my husband survived. Maybe remember his story the next time you ride.
Do you want to leave a bloody smear- or a helmet imprint on a windshield? Take it from me, one of them definitely makes for a better story.
Thank you for reading.
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