{"id":4977,"date":"2017-04-28T15:30:20","date_gmt":"2017-04-28T22:30:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/?p=4977"},"modified":"2017-04-28T16:07:55","modified_gmt":"2017-04-28T23:07:55","slug":"lessons-learned-billys-busted-leg","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2017\/04\/lessons-learned-billys-busted-leg\/","title":{"rendered":"Lessons Learned from Billy’s Busted Leg"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Photo by David Mao<\/p><\/div>\n

I gripped Eric Bensen\u2019s room number in my fist and scanned the digits that stretched down the shiny Fish Memorial Hospital hall.<\/p>\n

Eric, one of last year\u2019s crushes, landed in the hospital after a lawn mower accident. He was probably bummed and worried about running hurdles on the track team his senior year.<\/p>\n

Visiting the hospital\u2014where Mom nursed 11-7 every night in the intensive care unit\u2014didn\u2019t bother me. My few hospital trips\u2014getting my stomach pumped after ingesting a bottle of baby aspirin as a toddler, and a couple of ankle surgeries in high school\u2014felt like take-your-daughter-to-work days.<\/p>\n

Beeps punctured the antiseptic air around me, adding texture to planes of the place, pulsing healing in my mind rather than pain.<\/p>\n

Laughter and voices filtered into the hall before I matched the room number to the scrap in my hand. I peered through the doorway, scanning fifteen familiar faces huddled around Eric\u2019s bed.<\/p>\n

I doubt he noticed me sidling to the far corner.<\/p>\n

The curtain between Eric and his roommate billowed when someone brushed against it.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Photo by Alvimann<\/p><\/div>\n

Gray day washed through the window, chalking the tan from the stranger\u2019s skin, the gold from his hair\u2014leaving his body as bleak as the expression on his face.<\/p>\n

No one spoke to him, bothered to glance in his direction. They all buzzed around the Florescent light illuminating Eric\u2019s half of the room.<\/p>\n

When the guy looked at me, I said, \u201cWhat happened to you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTore up my leg. Motorcycle accident.\u201d The words came out staccato, like it hurt to speak.<\/p>\n

I waved a hand at the curtain between his bed and Eric\u2019s. \u201cI\u2019m sure the volume doesn\u2019t help.\u201d If it were me I\u2019d envy Eric\u2019s popularity.<\/p>\n

He shrugged, like Eric\u2019s party was the least of his worries.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Ann\u2026\u201d I waited for him to tell me his name.<\/p>\n

He shifted and grimaced. Just when I\u2019d given up, was trying to think of a way to slink out of the room and quit bugging the guy, he said, \u201cBilly. Billy Daniels.\u201d<\/p>\n

I perched on the edge of the chair beside his bed, casting around for something to say, anything to keep the conversation going. \u201cSo, what\u2019s messed up?\u201d<\/p>\n

\"\"

A Honda 350
cyclechaos.com<\/p><\/div>\n

His gaze measured me, like he was deciding whether he wanted to put up with my inane questions. \u201cWhat\u2019s not?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at his leg suspended above the bed. \u201cBroken?\u201d<\/p>\n

He sighed, his expression empty. \u201cBusted both bones.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long will you be in here?\u201d<\/p>\n

He stared out the window where rain now pelted the glass. \u201cA long time. Couple months.\u201d<\/p>\n

The sentence weighed a thousand pounds.<\/p>\n

I decided then, I\u2019d come back\u2014whether Billy talked or not.<\/p>\n

I visited Billy the next Thursday and the one after that. He\u2019d turned 17 a couple days after the accident. I\u2019d be 17 for another few months. Dr. Tessler took the pin out of my ankle over the summer and he patched up Billy with a handful of hardware. And that was all we had in common. But Billy brightened when I bopped into the room. He talked about his beloved Honda 350 that fared worse than he did in the wreck. I talked about competitive swimming. Other than Jim Russell, who knew every kid at New Smyrna Beach High, Billy was the only motorcycle guy I spoke to. And I was the only book nerd Billy knew. Our words unwound the mysteries of our different worlds.<\/p>\n

A month later I stood in the doorway of Billy\u2019s now familiar room.<\/p>\n

A dark-haired waif of a girl slouched in a chair in the corner.<\/p>\n

Billy smiled when he saw me, less pinched than last week.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Billy Daniels’ Martima<\/p><\/div>\n

The girl\u2014the only other visitor I\u2019d seen on my trips to the hospital\u2014shot me the look of death. Well, maybe I imagined it. Regardless, she got up and walked out of the room.<\/p>\n

Billy called her his ex. Maybe she wanted to re-up. She didn\u2019t need to worry about me. I changed crushes like flavors of the week and Billy hadn\u2019t worked his way through the rabble in my head. Besides, he\u2019d wrecked on his way home from Ann Fisher\u2019s\u2014the only Ann he had on his mind.<\/p>\n

The warmth between us was one human to another. He got somebody to talk to for half an hour. I got the satisfaction of knowing I made his day go a little better. Maybe he thought I was a do-gooder, but it just seemed right to visit Billy. I always felt better after a trip to the hospital, like he\u2019d given me a gift. I\u2019d only had to walk over to the hospital to pick it up.<\/p>\n

Back at school, Billy hobbled around on crutches, having curried almost as much clout from his motorcycle accident as Clay Scarborough copped from a shark-bit foot. We smiled, said hi, and folded into our separate swarms.<\/p>\n

In the tangle of history, my childhood friend, Kate Canfield, many years later walked the beach with Billy in the fresh horror of losing Kathie, his other half.<\/p>\n

And Billy, I am certain, shouldered a long litany of suffering for the people in his life.<\/p>\n

I learned from Billy that sometimes giving doesn\u2019t cost a thing. That\u2019s how I felt when my friend flew in a few weeks ago, her marriage and faith fracturing like fine bone china crashed against the crags of life. We jaunted off to Jerome, a Seuss-ical town on the top of a skinny hill, for our own version of Green Eggs and Ham<\/em>, wine, and words. She headed home with hope and a few Thinks [She] Could Think<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Photo by Milada Vigerova<\/p><\/div>\n

This week I sat helplessly beside my almost-daughter April as she writhed in pain for five hours after her most recent operation. How could I not feel her pain in my body? I saw another friend last night who is heading to jail for four years. The stark fear in his face, the years he must surrender, sliced into me. But even when giving costs, I\u2019m rewarded by knowing I helped. I wanted<\/em> to be there for my friends.<\/p>\n

I remember that want-to when the wheels wobble off my life. I call Jayne Grumbling in Indianapolis who\u2019s been there for me through 36 years of heartaches of all sizes, along with the joys. She once carried me through so many months of depression, she collapsed when I crested into daylight. But she\u2019d do it again\u2014because she loves me and knows she helped.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m glad Billy and I exercised our humanity those short weeks we both were seventeen. He nudged me to make my life count in quiet ways that really matter, to let others count in mine.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Billy today.<\/p><\/div>\n

\"\"

Billy Daniels, 1975<\/p><\/div>\n

Billy Daniels\u2014lifelong New Smyrna Beach resident\u2014restores boats, a career he loves. In his spare time he sails the Martima (spotlighted above). He watched the sailboat being built in NSB in 1979 and her first dip into the water. In 1989 he bought the Martima. Billy says he’ll probably keep her forever–she’s a part of him. Once in a while he rides his old \u201977 Suzuki GS 750.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I gripped Eric Bensen\u2019s room number in my fist and scanned the digits that stretched down the shiny Fish Memorial Hospital hall. Eric, one of last year\u2019s crushes, landed in the hospital after a lawn mower accident. He was probably bummed and worried about running hurdles on the track team his senior year. Visiting the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3295,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false}}},"categories":[2,66,322],"tags":[303,230,132,302,304,305],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nLessons Learned from Billy's Busted Leg - Ann Lee Miller<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/annleemiller.com\/2017\/04\/lessons-learned-billys-busted-leg\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Lessons Learned from Billy's Busted Leg - Ann Lee Miller\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"I gripped Eric Bensen\u2019s room number in my fist and scanned the digits that stretched down the shiny Fish Memorial Hospital hall. 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