911 Call

This post will be a serious one, because sometimes, in a few seconds, life gets really serious. I was at my computer editing a project this evening when I heard the squeal of brakes and a crash out on the street. My kitchen windows face busy 4th avenue, so I have heard my share of fender benders happen out there. "Should I go look?" I wondered briefly, before jumping up to go to the window. I was expecting a minor scrape, both drivers pulling over to the side of the street, getting out of the car, exchanging insurance information... I witnessed this kind of seen no more than two weeks ago. But what I saw chilled my blood. I looked out the window and right below me on the street, there was a man laying face-down in the middle of the road, limbs bent out at odd angles. A small SUV was parked about six feet from the man, and the driver was getting out of the car. People swarmed into the street to help. My brain froze. Should I call 9-1-1? I had never done it before, but as I was inside my apartment on the second floor, it seemed like the best thing I could do to help. I sprang into the living room and grabbed my phone. I tapped the numbers deliberately. It all felt like it was an eternity. There was no ring. A man immediately answered and I started spewing out details frantically.

"A man was hit. He's lying in the middle of the road!"
"What borough are you in, ma'am? The Bronx, Manhattan--"
"Brooklyn! It's on 4th avenue right outside of my building. (Here I gave the cross streets). A man was hit by a car and he's not moving."
"He's in the street?"
"Yes, in middle of the street."
"And he's not moving."
"No, I don't think so."
"Okay, is the vehicle still there?"
"Yes, the vehicle is stopped in the street."
"Can you describe the vehicle."
"Uh-- red-- uh-- what do you call it? SUV. A small SUV."
"Can you see any license plate number on the vehicle?"
"No, I'm too far away."
"Okay, please stay on the line while I contact the dispatcher."

As cars moved out of the way, I noticed the crumpled bicycle in the median. My brain was trying to put together a picture of what must have happened. The dispatcher, a woman, was soon on the other end. The operator gave a brief description of the incident and the dispatcher said, "Yes, caller?"
I paused. Is she talking to me? Oh right, I'm the caller.
"Yes?"
I confirmed the incident location and she replied, "Yes, we've received multiple calls about a bicyclist struck by a red SUV at that location. We're sending an emergency response team."
"Thank you," I said, and I hung up.

It was so fast, but at the same time it seemed to take forever. I watched as people went into the street to help and dozens more congregated on the sidewalk to watch. Within a few minutes, an ambulance and a fire truck pulled up. EMTs rushed out of the ambulance and began touching the man in various areas to feel for fractures, while others gathered around his head. Some of the firefighters went to talk to the driver of the SUV. The EMS team brought out several plastic splints and appeared to be securing them around the man, while simultaneously loading out a stretcher, and that rolling thing that supports it. About four of them moved the man's body onto the stretcher, and as they began to move him, a woman cried out, "Oh my God, his he's bleeding all over the place! His head is bleeding!" The team lifted him and set him upon the stretcher, covering him up halfway with a sheet, and slowly moved him into the ambulance. I saw a round pool of blood on the ground where the man's head had been. He hadn't been wearing a helmet that I could see. The driver and the woman who had been in his passenger seat were on the sidewalk, watching. The man seemed calm and eager to cooperate, but I couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind. What it his fault? Would he face charges? I wondered this at the same time that I found myself praying fervently for the bicyclist in the ambulance. It seemed like they were taking far too long in there. I knew theoretically that emergency response was supposed to try to stabilize the patient before moving him or her to the hospital, but in reality, it seemed too slow. This guy must be fighting for his life, I thought, or worse. Were they not driving away because he was already dead? The ambulance stayed where it was. At one point, an EMT got out and seemed to take down the license plate number on the red SUV. The firefighters grabbed a hose and sprayed down the street, yelling at the people standing on the sidewalk to move out of the way. Away went the blood and discarded packaging and tools left by the EMS. An EMT had thrown a bottle of something into the street, and I heard the glass shattering. The whole time, cars continued to squeeze through in the far right lane. The firefighters directed the driver of the red SUV to move his car to the side of the street. I had thought the car was undamaged but then I noticed that the entire windshield was smashed. The cyclist had to have hit it before landing face down in the street. It looked like it had been a head-on collision. Though I couldn't be sure what happened, I thought perhaps the cyclist had crossed while the vehicle was making a left turn.

I almost got run over at the opposite corner of 4th avenue a couple of years ago, so I could easily picture it happening. I was crossing the street (with a white light, not a flashing orange one), and I saw a car coming to make a left turn. Since I had the light, I kept walking. I saw that the car was going fast, but I thought that it would surely stop. It was broad daylight and I was walking on a crosswalk, after all. But the driver, in his impatience, thought that he could avoid me if he made a really quick, sharp turn and cut in front of me before I reached the median. I don't know why people do that, but I definitely wasn't expecting it. All of a sudden, the car looked like it was going to hit me. It was a few months before my wedding, and an image flashed before me of going down the aisle in a wheelchair, because I felt like this guy was going to take my legs out of commission. The driver slammed on the brakes and I jumped out of the way, avoiding his bumper by perhaps a foot, as I let out a terrified scream. I've got a loud scream. The driver paused, probably assuming he had grazed me, but when I took a stunned step back, he peeled off as I yelled at him. I don't know what I said, but it probably wasn't my usual sort of language, and that driver definitely didn't stick around long enough to hear it. I went back to my apartment, angry, a bit embarrassed, and very shaken by the close call. Had I been one step closer, I could have been one of the over 100 annual pedestrian traffic fatalities in New York City. Over a thousand are injured each year, just crossing the street. Cyclists actually seem to be much safer statistically, but I'm absolutely terrified to ride a bike on a busy city street. I just don't trust myself to pay careful enough attention.

After about fifteen to twenty minutes, the ambulance finally pulled away, lights flashing and sirens blaring. Where were the cops? I wondered. It seemed like they should be talking to the driver and witnesses. The firetruck moved to allow for traffic. Finally, forty minutes after I made my 911 call, the police arrived. Two officers got out, with the firefighters quickly filling them in on what had happened. One cop lit a cigarette while the other went to talk to the driver. He got his license and registration and went back into the cruiser to run it. The smoking cop started talking to witnesses, still smoking. It made me mad to see him looking so nonchalant. I could hear the driver's voice but not well enough to distinguish what he was saying. I followed his hand gestures, which conveyed, "I was coming this way, and he was going that way." The cop asked the driver another question, and he shook his head vehemently. Perhaps it was "Have you been drinking tonight, sir?" But as much as I tried to fill in the script, I wasn't getting any closer to learning what had happened. I was shaking and I wanted to talk to somebody, but my husband was at work and his phone was off. So I decided to get all my thoughts out in writing.

Three hours later, the crumpled bike is still in the median. About a half hour ago, I looked out the window and saw a young guy walk up to the bike and stare at it. "Somebody had an accident!" he shouted to a man across the street. Five minutes ago, I saw a car backing up slowly in the right lane. The driver got out and inspected the bike. I thought maybe he was a detective or something, and the police were going to take the bike as evidence. But evidently it was just some schmuck who thought he'd found a free bike. It is the only thing reminding me that all of this really happened. I just keep thinking of the bicyclist and praying that he's still alive. I'll probably never know.