Chapter 2: Acetaminophen for Breakfast

Acetaminophen for breakfast—never ibuprofen. Mom says ibuprofen is too harsh on an empty stomach and makes it sour. The internet claims that if I destroy enough of my gastrointestinal lining, I’ll end up gluten intolerant. The last thing I need right now is to start asking for a gluten-free menu at all my favorite restaurants—especially in 2019. Too much shade is thrown at the gluten intolerant these days. Broken leg and gluten intolerant? Talk about kicking me while I’m down.

So, acetaminophen it is.

The night in the ER after the collision—the night the sirens sang for me—will go down as one of the most devastating in my life. Me and my bicycle vs. the machine. The 33,000-pound truck that hit me head-on? That was a nope. Sorry to disappoint.

The existence of cars in an otherwise bikeable city is a masterclass in human-engineered stupidity. Still, natural selection will eventually take its toll. It’s me today, but it could be you tomorrow. Statistically speaking. Want some numbers to calm the nerves during airplane takeoffs?

• Lifetime odds of winning the lottery: 1 in 292 million (302 million for Mega Millions)
• Lifetime odds of dying in a plane crash: 1 in 816 million
• Lifetime odds of dying in a motor vehicle crash: 1 in 84

But who’s counting?

Anyway. Deep breath. Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Ibuprofen will be my mid-morning snack. I’m hungrier than usual and don’t think I’ll make it to lunch. I woke up absolutely starving and crawled to the cabinet for breakfast. My crutches were inconveniently on the other side of the room—left there by my roommate after he finished playing with them last night. I was a little embarrassed, honestly.

The doctor said my fracture is rare and I’d need a specialist. The specialist said he could get me into surgery in ten days—absolutely not eleven. “What happens if it’s eleven instead of ten?” I wondered. The whole exchange felt less like medical advice and more like a group project scheduled to start the day before it’s due. I’m just hoping the swelling is logarithmic, not linear. This is stressing me out. I need lunch.

Usually, it’s acetaminophen for lunch too, but today I found some naproxen in the cabinet. Felt lazy to just repeat breakfast. Besides, variety is important. These are all hors d'oeuvres anyway—tidbits, finger foods. Tonight, I’ll eat big. I picked up a prescription for OxyContin yesterday.

Oxy’s good. Fentanyl’s better. But beggars can’t be choosers—and the opioid epidemic is no joke. I’ve got a laundry list of assignments to finish today, and I’ll need to punch a few extra belt loops to stay focused. That’s my favorite time of day—it reminds me of the functional human I was just a week ago. Until then, I’ll fret.

Hunger causes sleeplessness. Sleeplessness causes fretting. Simple math. I’m always happy to explain.

Hold on—I need to get back to fretting.

School, sport, school, girlfriend, school, health, sport, sport, health, sport, girlfriend, girlfriend, dog, health, girlfriend, school, dog, sport, sport, sport, sport, sport.

That’s my playlist until dinner. “Sport” is on all of Spotify’s algorithm-generated lists these days. Their algorithm sucks. But it’s my fault—I don’t skip enough.

“You’ll probably make it back for your local Thanksgiving Day Turkey Trot,” the specialist said. “Expect a knee replacement sooner rather than later.”

Those lyrics repeat in my head.

He thought he was being comforting, flexing his Ivy League bedside manner. I felt nauseous—and not just from the fentanyl.

This wasn’t my fault. This was the bike’s fault. The inventor of the bike did this to me. Lance Armstrong had something to do with it. I know it.

The doc was clear about the timeline:

• 10 days until surgery
• 4 months on crutches
• 3 months relearning to walk

I’ll probably fall asleep tonight dreaming of acetaminophen for breakfast.