It’s Monday, August 17th around 5:30 pm. I am in a pro-op suite at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Bellingham, WA. The prep nurse asks me again, “Mr. Davis, can you tell me in your own words what we are about to do here tonight? The surgical consent form swims before my eyes, unfocused and unreadable. I hear my own voice, but it doesn’t seem, to be coming from me, “You will an make an incision in my right arm, locate an arterial clot and remove it to restore  proper blood flow to my right hand.” “And…” she prompts.

‘You will do similar on my right leg.” “And if Doctor is unable to find suitable arteries to restore flow to your right foot…?” That disconnected voice appears again, “Then you will amputate my right leg above the knee.” Oh dear God!” I will soon go to sleep not knowing if I will wake up with two legs. How the hell did I get here?

It wasn’t a crash.

I just had what I thought were leg and arm cramps. Except that my fingers and toes were blue and hurt like hell. A vascular ultrasound confirmed the presence of arterial clots in my right leg and arm. Time was critical if I was to save my leg. Hence the rapid trip to surgery.

It’s 2 weeks later and I am happy to report that I still have my leg. A skilled surgeon and a little luck were with me that night. Still, the whole incident made me think about the potential changes to my life has the surgeon not been so skilled or the luck so good. As so often happens after a crisis, I began to consider all of the “coulda-beens”. What if I couldn’t ride anymore? As in physically unable to operate the controls of a motorcycle.

As I continue my recovery I remain grateful for what I have and for those around me who have been so generous in their support.