McKenna - How to get run over by a truck: a memoir

Katie McKennas beautiful, wrenching memoir reduced me to actual tearsand then, slowly, left me with a broad smile and a growing sense of wonder.

Jennifer Finney Boylan, author of Shes Not There and Stuck in the Middle with You

At times visceral and horrifying, at times heartbreaking and healing, and at times hilarious, McKennas memoir is a testament to the incredible resilience of the human spirit coming up against a crushing blow.

Hilary Angus, managing editor of Momentum Mag

Incredibly moving and insightful... This book should be required reading for all professionals who work in the field of medical trauma and rehabilitation.

Leo J. Shea III, PhD, clinical associate professor of rehabilitation medicine at NYU Langone Medical Center

How to
Get Run Over
by a Truck

Copyright 2016 Katie McKenna

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. The author has tried to recreate local events and conversations from her memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity in some instances she has changed the names of individuals and places. She may have changed some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence.

Published by Inkshares, Inc., San Francisco, California
www.inkshares.com

Edited and designed by Girl Friday Productions
www.girlfridayproductions.com

Cover design by Kathleen Lynch

ISBN: 9781941758984

e-ISBN: 9781941758991

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016931481

First edition

Printed in the United States of America

To Mom, Dad, Conor, Callie and James,

There are darknesses in life and there are lights,
and you are one of the lights, the light of all lights.

Bram Stoker

Thank you for being my lights.

Do not pray for an easy life,
pray for the strength to endure a difficult one.

Bruce Lee

So, how do you get run over by a truck? My first recommendation is to ride a bicycle. This is specifically for their fool factorevery time I saw someone riding a bicycle it seemed so innocuous. It was low-impact exercise that was good for you. Lance Armstrong rode a bicycle, and he beat like one million kinds of cancer. What could be healthier?

Plus, I live in Brooklyn, and all the hipsters ride bicycles: they have messenger bags and wear vintage glasses, and they make riding over the Williamsburg Bridge look cool and effortless. I figured if those pasty-skinned music lovers could handle riding their bikes in Brooklyn so could I. I mean, hello! I was an all-county track champion in high school. I knew I could own that bicycle. Im not just talking about owning it in the actual I purchased it kind of wayI mean own it in the frat-boy way, e.g., We totally owned that keg last night. That was the way I was going to own that bicycle.

I actually did, for almost a year. I rode my bike for errands. I rode my bike to work. I rode my bike to my friends apartments in the neighborhood, locking it to stop signs and feeling eco-conscious and thoughtful. In the summer I even took myself on romantic bike ridesand let me tell you, that bicycle had moves. Stopping in McCarren Park at twilight made me feel like I was in a foreign film, sitting on a park bench in a black beret and a scarf, drinking winewhen in fact I was sitting on patchy brown grass, wearing sport shorts and running shoes and drinking a Bud Light tall boy in a brown paper bag.

When I woke up early on October 2, I wont tell you that I had a premonition or that there was a hand on my shoulder that told me not to go out that daybecause that would be untrue. But I did get the feeling that someone was trying to tell me something I obviously had no interest in hearing. These were signs from God. Three, in fact: 1. My bike tires were flat; 2. I almost fell down the stairs trying to get my bike out of the apartment; andmost important3. I decided not to wear any underwear that day.

Most lazy twenty-four-year-olds, when faced with the fact that their bike tires were flat, would say, Fuck it, Im not going to bother. Nope, not me, not Katie can-do. I thought instead, Ill fill up my tires and get in a workoutthis is going to be the best morning ever!

Then my bike tried to attack me as I took it down the stairs. We got out of the door just fine, but as we went down the stairs the bike started to bend and fold as if it was trying to fight me back into the apartment. I should have seen it for what it was: a cry for help. Bob the Bike knew more than I didhe didnt want to die that day either. He was trying to stop me, but I wasnt listening. I wanted to be thin, to get that endorphin rush, and on top of that I wanted to see the sunriseI wanted it all.

And then there was the matter of the last sign that I shamelessly ignored. As a child I was told to always wear clean underwear. My mothers reason was always the same: What if you get into an accident? This never made any sense to me, because I always assumed that if I got into an accident I would wind up peeing my pants anyway. But because I was a good girl I wore clean underwear nonetheless. That morning I made a conscious decision to go without and, by doing so, I now believe I tempted fate; my accident was bound to happen.

Before I continue, I need to make one point about this whole underwear thing: I had just gotten up, underwear-free, and the idea of putting on a beautifully pristine pair of undies just to get them dirty made no sense at all. I figured that on this point, God and I were on the same page.... I was mistaken.

It was an unbelievably beautiful day. There was the smell of fall in the air, the sky was a deep blue, and there was no one on the streets. The morning felt like a secret; it was so dark and quiet, it gave me shivers. The few trees left on my block were beginning to change from dark green into a golden yellow. Fall has always been my favorite season, a time of new beginnings, a new year of school, a new fall jacketa chance to start over again.

I walked my bike one block up and over another to the Hess station on the corner of Metropolitan and Humboldt. I had a quarter tucked into my sock to pay for the air I was going to pump into Bobs tires. By 6:15, tires fully inflated, I was riding down Metropolitan without much of a plan. I knew I wanted to ride for forty-five minutes and just explore the neighborhood.

My roommates and I had recently moved into a new apartment in Williamsburg. In the most classic of New York real estate scams, our Mafia-esque landlords (I am talking gold chains nestled in a tuft of chest hair and velour Fila tracksuits) had told us that our old building was being sold, and that we had to be out in a month. In actuality the building was not being sold; they were just bringing in people who would pay more rent. We moved about ten blocks away, farther from the sweet Italian neighborhood that we had been living in and closer to the industrial part of Williamsburg.