Hit by a Truck

We knew when we bought a motorcycle and My Man started using it to commute to work that it was a gamble. Chiang Mai does, after all, have one of the highest rates of motorcycle fatalities in the world. Still, most of those have to do with reckless and/or inexperienced drivers, intoxicated tourists, and not wearing a helmet. My Man has been riding a motorcycle on and off since he was 16 and is a great driver. Plus, it really makes the most sense economically, shaving off more than 30 minutes from his commute some days and costing much less in gas, insurance, and initial investment than a second car. Reluctantly, we decided that the positives outweighed the negatives (I say "reluctantly," but My Man absolutely LOVES riding his motorcycle. The reluctance is definitely one-sided).

Then, My Man got hit by a truck.

We had planned on a fun family evening at the market near our house. It's a blast (I will post about it soon). Tons of street food, miscellaneous vendors selling everything from flowers to shoes to makeup and electronics, and music (often live). There is also a huge bouncy house slide that Funny Guy would live in if we let him. So we were looking forward to the evening. (We try to go at least once a week.) Then, after My Man was already late getting home, I got a text from him saying he had met up with friends and to go ahead and go without him because he would be home late. Slightly bugged, we set off without him. We had a great time, but I felt bad My Man wasn't with us and kept checking my phone for an update. Finally, he called and asked when his last tetanus shot was. Huh? It took a few probing questions for him to admit that he was actually in the ER, that he hadn't been hanging out with friends, but had been hit by a truck on his commute home. WHAT?!?!??!?! He hadn't wanted us to miss our fun night out so had waited as long as possible to call me.

Apparently, police had already been on the scene, directing traffic, saw the accident (and that the truck driver was completely at fault), called an ambulance for My Man and got the driver to take care of the motorcycle and hospital bills, so he hadn't felt the need to alarm me. My heart melted and I had to repent my earlier annoyance. I hurried the kids home to get ready for bed, grabbed copies of passports, immunization records, and insurance cards, and headed over to the hospital.

By then they were just about done and My Man grinned, clearly pleased with how well he'd timed everything so that I wouldn't have to wait or be inconvenienced at the hospital. Here's his side of the story:

While lying in the Emergency Room after the x-rays as the nurse digs road out of my body, I receive my first ever call from the duty officer: “Sir, a hospital called and said there is an injured American there at the hospital.”  “This is ironic,” I think to myself, about to tell him I am OK, the truck didn’t completely run me over, and it looks like the only thing really wrong is my broken foot, but then the young airman continues, “the doctor told me he was acting wild and saying he didn’t want to live anymore.”  Now I am worried; I never said that, did I? Either the hospital is making up a story to kill me and hide the body or there is another American in a different hospital emergency room.  After getting the number to the hospital, I call, relieved that it wasn’t in fact my hospital.  As the nurse moves to my hand, scrubbing, scraping, and cutting pavement out, I talk to a doctor at another hospital across town about another American.  When I ask to speak to the Amcit, the doctor tells me to wait a second and comes back after what seems like an hour (time seems to pass more slowly while rocks are being picked out of the most sensitive part of your hand), she tells me he has run away and they don’t know where he is.  Just another day in the life of a consular officer.  Now, can you hand me those crutches?

After we checked out of the hospital, we headed over to the police station where we negotiated everything with the other driver before finally heading home where I figured he'd be able to rest.

The next day, in spite of the pain, however, My Man was back at work. He was the only consular officer in town and didn't want to cancel appointments.

In fact, he was out doing hospital visits, business as usual. His staff were so impressed that they took pictures and sent them out to the whole consulate (including his boss who was out of town).

We were extremely grateful that he came out from the experience with only a broken foot, sprained/bruised knee, and deep road rash. As bad as that was, it could have been a lot worse. And now he has first-hand knowledge of the Chiang Mai hospital system.