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Lewd Ferrigno · 01-27-2006, 10:59 PM

Many times we hear statistics and they pass by us as nothing more than a number. We dehumanize these statistics and avoid the meaning behind them. Here’s the story of a statistic.

Waking up on the wet pavement, the rain beats down on his torn skin like acid. Surrounding him, are strange faces, twisted in the flashing lights to resemble his worst nightmares. He tries to scan around, but his tired muscles only allow limited movement. He turns his head to the side to catch the torn skin and bone jutting out of his leg. He squints as the blood flows, unhindered by skin, into his eyes from his gashed forehead.

His soft voice asks if his father and friend are alright. No one answers.

The lights flash rhythmically in the background. Discussions occur around him, oblivious to his presence. He can hear the sound of tires on wet asphalt at his feet, but cannot see them. He cannot lift his arms, from the weight of his muscles. A paramedic asks him if he knows where he is. He can only ask about his father.

As he’s lifted into the ambulance, he shivers uncontrollably. He can’t feel a thing but the icy cold coming over him. He talks, but nothing comes out. One of the paramedics says “He’s going into shock”. They throw blankets on him, but the cold keeps coming. All goes dark.

When he arrives at the hospital, they begin to put the needles in, but he can only feel it slightly. They cut his pants off and the pain of the jean peeling off of the torn skin is felt through the iciness. People surround him, coming into the room to perform a task and leaving as quickly as they came. All the time, the cold grips like a mother’s arms.

The injections start, dulling the pain and nauseating him. His journey into the operating rooms is a quick one. Watching the lights flow past him like mile markers, he barely hears the conversations going on around him. When he arrives at the room, doctors tell him to relax, but he’s so distant on the drugs that relaxation doesn’t occur, only faint noises register. He receives the anesthetic and begins his sleep.

As he wakes up, his face peels off of the pillow, covered in his own vomit. The tubes in his nose cause a soreness going all the way down his throat. His muscles are sore and turning his head to look at the traction device he will spend the next three months in is difficult. The room is awash in a pale orange light, the shadows jump off of the machine he has now become a part of. His stomach area is sore from the catheter that’s been put into him. It’s a dull pain. His vomit encrusted face looks around the room. There is no familiarity here, no family or friends, only the half open blinds and the orange light.

During the next week, he will eat only ice chips and get Demerol shots to dull the pain. His memory of when the doctor came in with his stepmother and told him his father died in the crash are dim and hazy, thanks to the drugs.

Over the next 2 years, he will have his leg broken 3 times to fix it. Be in a cast from his chest, down to his ankles and be unable to perform even the most menial tasks.

This is the aftermath of a drunken driving crash. A statistic to most, a memory for me.

01-27-2006, 10:59 PM	#1 (permalink)
Lewd Ferrigno Banned Join Date: Jul 2005 Location: Los Angeles, CA Age: 38 Posts: 18,627 Casino Cash: $23176 Sportbike: 2008 KTM Super Duke	One kid's story Many times we hear statistics and they pass by us as nothing more than a number. We dehumanize these statistics and avoid the meaning behind them. Here’s the story of a statistic. Waking up on the wet pavement, the rain beats down on his torn skin like acid. Surrounding him, are strange faces, twisted in the flashing lights to resemble his worst nightmares. He tries to scan around, but his tired muscles only allow limited movement. He turns his head to the side to catch the torn skin and bone jutting out of his leg. He squints as the blood flows, unhindered by skin, into his eyes from his gashed forehead. His soft voice asks if his father and friend are alright. No one answers. The lights flash rhythmically in the background. Discussions occur around him, oblivious to his presence. He can hear the sound of tires on wet asphalt at his feet, but cannot see them. He cannot lift his arms, from the weight of his muscles. A paramedic asks him if he knows where he is. He can only ask about his father. As he’s lifted into the ambulance, he shivers uncontrollably. He can’t feel a thing but the icy cold coming over him. He talks, but nothing comes out. One of the paramedics says “He’s going into shock”. They throw blankets on him, but the cold keeps coming. All goes dark. When he arrives at the hospital, they begin to put the needles in, but he can only feel it slightly. They cut his pants off and the pain of the jean peeling off of the torn skin is felt through the iciness. People surround him, coming into the room to perform a task and leaving as quickly as they came. All the time, the cold grips like a mother’s arms. The injections start, dulling the pain and nauseating him. His journey into the operating rooms is a quick one. Watching the lights flow past him like mile markers, he barely hears the conversations going on around him. When he arrives at the room, doctors tell him to relax, but he’s so distant on the drugs that relaxation doesn’t occur, only faint noises register. He receives the anesthetic and begins his sleep. As he wakes up, his face peels off of the pillow, covered in his own vomit. The tubes in his nose cause a soreness going all the way down his throat. His muscles are sore and turning his head to look at the traction device he will spend the next three months in is difficult. The room is awash in a pale orange light, the shadows jump off of the machine he has now become a part of. His stomach area is sore from the catheter that’s been put into him. It’s a dull pain. His vomit encrusted face looks around the room. There is no familiarity here, no family or friends, only the half open blinds and the orange light. During the next week, he will eat only ice chips and get Demerol shots to dull the pain. His memory of when the doctor came in with his stepmother and told him his father died in the crash are dim and hazy, thanks to the drugs. Over the next 2 years, he will have his leg broken 3 times to fix it. Be in a cast from his chest, down to his ankles and be unable to perform even the most menial tasks. This is the aftermath of a drunken driving crash. A statistic to most, a memory for me.