When His Riding Mistake Became My Six-Surgery Story

Have you ever had surgery? What for?

Yes. Six.
All because of one accident. One careless moment by a bike rider. I was on my scooter—just riding to the Church for Mass—and then everything changed.

The impact wasn’t just metal against metal. It was life crashing into stillness. My leg and shoulder took the worst of it. The pain was instant, but the journey that followed was far longer, far harder.

Six surgeries. Each one peeling back layers of fear, pain, and recovery. Hospitals became second homes. My days were filled with anesthesia, dressings, and questions. How long until I can walk again? Will I ever move the same? What did I do to deserve this?

It was a horrible time—not just physically, but emotionally. The helplessness, the frustration, the long, slow hours of healing with no shortcuts. For several months scrolling on floor to move since no one to help during the day. I had to learn patience, not just with my body but with life itself.

But the story doesn’t end in pain.

With time, I began to see my scars differently. Not as signs of damage—but of survival. My leg walks again. My hand holds again. My heart, though bruised, beats more fully. Healing came slowly, but it came—one little movement of the toes, one small step, one deep breath, one painful but powerful lesson at a time.

Today, I still carry the memory of that accident. I carry the scars, too.

Last month, when I learned a new meditation technique, I was able to sit on the floor for hours—for the first time in 11 years since the accident. Tears rolled down my cheeks—tears of joy, of endurance, of a long journey from near amputation to recovery and survival.

But I also carry strength I never knew I had.
I carry the story—not of a crash, but of rising after it.