The Cyclist
On the way to the village we came to a line of stopped cars.
"Uh oh," I said, and started up Waze in irritation, thinking it was surprise roadwork like last year.
A few cars reversed and turned around, but soon enough the line started moving again. A couple of cars and a truck had pulled onto the side of the road, and we could just get on with our weekend. People on their phones stood around someone on the ground, tangled with his bicycle, bleeding from his head.
"It's an accident," I told told Pavlina as we drove past. "His head is bleeding."
"Should I stop? I can't stop." But a slowed and turned onto a side road into a wheat field.
"You should stop here," I said. "Should I stay in the car with the girls?" Another moment of cowardice on my part.
I might have just stayed in the car looking at my phone if Pavlina hadn't called me. I answered, but she didn't say anything. She wanted me to dig the first aid kit out of the back of the car, but someone else had already given her one, but I didn't know that. I didn't know what was going on, so I left Maggie and Ellie in the car and walked up the road toward the accident, trying foolishly to call Pavlina back.
A wheat field on the left, an embankment full of scrub and litter, and Pavlina kneeling over the cyclist, holding up his head as he took powerful, wet breaths. He was skinny, sallow, maybe in his late twenties, lying on his side with his limbs curled.
I saw what Pavlina was trying to do - keep him on his side so the blood would drain out of his nose and mouth. I squatted down and put my hands on his shoulder and hip. What if his spine was damaged? It didn't seem to be. He didn't seem to be injured anywhere except his head. A gash on his left temple and blood in his nose, but not enough to account for the amount on the asphalt.
I held him there, keeping him from rolling onto his back, while the people standing around us called 112 over and over. "No, he can't walk. We're on Chepintsko Shose. They hung up! Where's the ambulance? It wasn't a car. A dog jumped out at him. I called for an ambulance ten minutes ago!"
Every so often the cyclist would groan and try to move, but we kept him on his side. I let go of his hip and clasped his hand. He squeezed back. His nails were pared very short, but not chewed.
"It's all right," Pavlina told him. "The ambulance is coming. Lie down." She put a water bottle to his mouth, but he was in no state to drink. His face was long and bony, with the beaked nose that's common here. There wasn't much smell. A bit of blood, a bit of sweat. It would have been stronger in a boxing ring.
I'd been squatting too long. My legs hurt, and they kept hurting even when I stood up and stretched them. The cyclist began to move and I squatted again to hold him. We repeated this dance two or three times before I realized I could just put my knees on the ground. So I knelt there, thinking "I'd better remember this. This is the most exciting thing that's happened to me this month."
The police arrived. I was a bit wary, thinking they might stomp around, demanding to see everyone's ID cards. But no. The two policemen left the handling of the cyclist to me and Pavlina while they directed traffic around us and joined the civilians in berating the emergency phone operators.
I have actually talked with someone who was hired by the municipal government a few years ago to reform Sofia's ambulance dispatch system. I would say he didn't reform it enough. As for the police, they were, as Pavlina said, "trained to stop barroom fights," but not in CPR. We continued to kneel on the ground, holding the cyclist.
He pushed against me, trying to sit up again. I was still vaguely worried about "not moving the patient," but I couldn't press him down. I supported him as he rose, bringing into view the gash on the left side of his head. It had stopped bleeding, but for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to wrap his head in gauze. I tried one-handed, fumbling, supporting him and chasing the little roll of cotton as it unspooled on the ground, aware that I was being foolish, but unable to find anything more sensible to do. Blood was coming out of his ear.
The cyclist wiped at his nose. He vomited a thin, brick-colored liquid, and lay back, breathing more easily. Someone found a piece of Styrofoam on the side of the road and Pavlina put it under his head as a pillow.
He slipped deeper into unconsciousness. One of the onlookers asked about his pulse, and after trying a couple different grips on his wrist, I put two fingers under his jaw. The pulse wasn't strong, but it was steady under his clammy skin.
His hands were cold, too. Goosebumps on his forearm. I took a moment to compose the sentence in Bulgarian. "It is cold to him," rather than "he is cold," which would imply something about his character. "Is there a blanket?" I asked.
"Does someone have a blanket?" Pavlina said more loudly.
I switched to English. "Your jacket." She'd forgotten about the cardigan tied around her waist. We draped it over him.
Finally we heard the siren of the ambulance. It parked next to me and a single EMT, a middle-aged woman, got out. She didn't ask questions and she couldn't lift the cyclist onto the gurney. I and two of the bystanders lifted him, raised the gurney, and docked it. The cyclist slid into the ambulance, lying on his back, clutching Pavlina's cardigan.
"Do you want me to get your jacket?" I asked her.
"No," she said. "Let him have it. I hope he wakes up and it confuses him."
I haven't been able to find any reports on this traffic accident. The cyclist's wallet and cell phone were in a pouch on his bike, but I didn't look in his wallet and the cell phone was locked. The police said they'd answer it if it rang.
I won't know what happened to this guy, but I think his prospects weren't bad. He had a concussion, obviously, and he went into shock, but he did finally end up in a hospital, and his breathing and pulse were all right. In the end, that's all I know. That, and the knowledge that although I had the urge to tell Pavlina to keep on driving, and another urge to stay in the car and not help, I did the right thing. Next time, I'll be a bit quicker.
Book reviews and writing news will come next week.
See you then.