On right hooks, broken bones, Uranus jokes, Ari’s new job, Grace’s 17th birthday, and why Sophie has started wearing a Russian flag around Temple Square (vol. xxvi, no. 3)

Dear Family,

I got right-hooked by a car while cycling last Saturday.

If you’re a cyclist then you probably know what that means. If you’re not a cyclist then you have probably done it to a cyclist at least once, likely without even realizing it. A right hook is when a motorist passes a cyclist on the left as they both approach an intersection and then makes a right turn in front of the cyclist while the cyclist attempts to go straight.

Sometimes the cyclist is able to stop in time to avoid a collision. The driver then goes along their merry way, unaware that they just nearly killed somebody.

Here is what happens when the cyclist can’t stop in time:

I was riding east on Norbeck Road approaching Georgia Avenue (you know, in front of that Big Greek Cafe location that has seating for at least 20, a bustling carry-out business, and maybe like four parking spots). At that intersection, Norbeck has two left-turn lanes, two thru lanes, and a right-turn lane.

My intent was to cross Georgia and continue on Norbeck. There’s no bike lane there, and so I positioned myself on the right edge of the right-most thru lane (basically on the line between that lane and the right-turn lane). My instinct was that this would protect me from right hooks (road cyclists are always instinctively guarding against right hooks because — and I can’t emphasize this enough — drivers do it all the time) as it got me safely to the left of everyone turning right.

Or so I thought. In hindsight, I should have positioned myself in the middle of the right thru lane (as opposed to on the right edge of it). Had I done that, I almost certainly would have avoided getting blindsided by the guy who for some reason opted to make a right turn from the thru lane.

My snap assessment of the intersection as I approached it had obviously failed to take into account that possibility,⁶ and before I even saw the car, I was pressed up against its passenger-side doors and getting shoved to the ground.

Unlike the woman who hit me three years ago, this guy stuck around to make sure I was all right. He was so nice I couldn’t even bring myself to be mad at him. He offered to call an ambulance, but I didn’t feel like dealing with all that. I couldn’t really move my left arm without quite a bit of pain, but it looked okay from the outside, and so I just called Crystal.

Crystal, who is now accustomed to receiving these calls from me, picked me up, shoved my bike in the back of the car, and drove me to urgent care. X-rays of my left hand and arm revealed a fractured scaphoid (one of those 800 small bones in your hand/wrist that you don’t even know are there until one breaks) and a hairline fracture of the radius (which I think everyone knows is one of the two forearm bones⁷) at the elbow.

The orthopedic surgeon who subsequently examined me (on Monday) did not believe surgery would be necessary. She felt the radial fracture would heal on its own and sent me home with a cast on my wrist that extends a little more than halfway up my forearm (leaving my elbow free to do what elbows do).

Notwithstanding my many run-ins with motor vehicles over the years, I had never broken a bone previously and this is my first cast. Oddly, it still feels like a best-case outcome. I asked the orthopedist if I could run. She said yes, though she suggested easing back into it, which isn’t really my thing. (I ran 9 miles this morning, which is less than I run on a typical Saturday.) I didn’t even bother asking if I could ride a bike, but I have taken up riding one of the Pelotons at the office. Peloton may have itself another convert.

When I half-jokingly asked whether I was allowed to swim, she said I could if I opted for a waterproof cast, but insurance wouldn’t cover it and I would be asked to pay the difference.

I grimaced and asked, “Well how much is that?”

“Sixty dollars,” the doctor replied.

She could have said six hundred dollars and I would have said yes. Sixty dollars, are you kidding me? That’s barely a tank of gas these days. Is there really anyone who, for want of $60, would opt for a cast you have to wrap in a trash bag every time you shower? I haven’t actually tried swimming yet, but it’s nice to know I won’t have to wait six weeks.

Meanwhile, I am feeling better each day and becoming increasingly adept at doing things one-handed, including putting in and removing contact lenses, cracking eggs, opening allegedly child-proof drug vials, and applying deodorant to my right underarm with my right hand (which isn’t nearly as hard as I expected it to be — it just never before had occurred to me to try it).

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In other medical news involving me, most of you know I turned 50 a couple of months ago. I formally marked the occasion ten days ago by finally getting the colonoscopy my primary care physician has been telling me to get since I was 47. (They had recently begun recommending you start getting them at age 45, but I’m old fashioned, was reared on the virtues of delayed gratification, and chose to hold out for 50.)

I’m sure I would have spilled more ink describing how it went had I not already dropped 900 words on right hooks and bike crashes. Too bad since few things are more riveting than a blow-by-blow account of someone else’s colonoscopy.

All in all, the procedure was uneventful and as advertised. I slept through it and, honestly, had they not provided nine full-color photographs afterward (which, come to think of it, I suppose could have been of anyone’s colon) I might have thought they hadn’t done anything to me at all.

They (allegedly) found and removed one very small (2 mm) polyp, subsequently described in the pathology report that came back yesterday as a “tubular adenoma; negative for high grade dysplasia.” Even after Googling it, I don’t really know what that means, but the doctor didn’t seem worried about it and told me to come back in 7 years. Assuming an inattentive motorist doesn’t kill me first, I probably will.

The worst part, just like everyone says, was the process of flushing out my entire digestive system the night before. But even that, while unpleasant, was not as awful as I had feared. I did throw up once, but not until after the half-gallon of Miralax-laced Gatorade had done its thing. And I still managed to power through the whole bottle of delicious magnesium citrate the next morning…

I could go on, but that’s probably enough. So there you have it. My first colonoscopy. Not as bad as breaking your arm. Not as bad as a lot of things. In retrospect, not really bad at all.

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Speaking of colonoscopies, Crystal has been shepherding some of her beloved middle school boys with autism through a unit on the solar system this month. Exploring this topic with middle school boys inevitably prompts the kind of serious inquiry exemplified by thought-provoking questions like, “Can we do anything about the toxic gas coming from Uranus?” Crystal may be under the impression that there is an age at which boys stop finding Uranus jokes funny. All I can tell her is if there is such an age, I haven’t reached it yet.

The team Crystal leads as our stake communication director got a little bigger this month following our stake’s annexation of two Olney wards (one English, one Spanish) from the neighboring Seneca Maryland Stake. This and subsequent boundary alignments have resulted in an even more diverse (if that is even possible) Silver Spring Maryland Stake consisting of ten units (eight wards and two branches) only five of which are English speaking. It also means that four of the five Willis brothers, their parents, and their families are now in the same stake.

The explosion in the number of Brother Willises and Sister Willises is bound to create confusion. The first instance of this came during Crystal’s first meeting with her newly expanded committee when the delegate from the Olney First Ward asked Crystal if she was Bishop Willis’s niece.

The “Bishop Willis” in this context was Grant. Crystal’s committee member had somehow managed to mistake my wife (who, Crystal never tires of my pointing out, is older than I am) for my younger brother’s niece. Even over Zoom I wouldn’t have thought it possible to be that confused, but Crystal’s getting a lot of mileage out of it. And with Andrew’s recent appointment as our new stake young men president, the confusion will only multiply.

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In keeping with her brand, Grace did not want anything extravagant for her 17th birthday this month. She was more than content with Thai takeout, a chocolate raspberry cake (which actually was fairly extravagant — Crystal makes really good cakes), a pair of retro-looking Nike high-tops that the cool kids are wearing these days, and a trip to the thrift store. She exudes both profuse gratitude and reluctant concern whenever even modest sums of money are spent on her — one of her many endearing qualities that I hope she retains when it comes time to plan her wedding.

The most extravagant element of Grace’s birthday celebration was the Conan Gray concert she attended with her friend Ilse at someplace called “the Anthem” at the Wharf on D.C.’s Southwest waterfront. I had never heard of Conan Gray or the Anthem. Perhaps you have heard of Conan Gray (if you are reading this, I am guessing you haven’t) but if it’s been more than five years since you’ve been here, then you would not recognize the waterfront and almost certainly have no idea where the Wharf is or how to get to the Anthem. But Grace is one of the cool kids, so now I know.

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Temple Square missionaries wear flags below their name tags indicating what language they can lead tours in. Until a week or so ago, Sophie wore a U.S. flag (presumably to denote her fluency in … United States of American?). But now, having “passed off” the tours in Russian, she finds herself in the sometimes awkward position of wearing a Russian flag.

This draws some odd looks and a few comments from people who actually recognize it (as opposed to people like me who, if you put the Russian flag next to the flag of the Netherlands and ask me to tell you which is which, I would get it right roughly 50 percent of the time).⁸ I imagine Sophie might rather wear a Ukrainian flag, but that wouldn’t really work because a) Sophie does not speak Ukrainian,⁹ and b) Lots of people who speak neither Russian nor Ukrainian are wearing Ukrainian flags these days.

And besides, Sophia has no beef with Russia or Russians. She attends a Russian ward in Salt Lake every Sunday. She loves it and loves them. (She’s a missionary; missionaries love everybody.) Her most recent letter signs off with a plea to pray for the people of Ukraine and Russia, all of whom are suffering because of this, albeit in different ways. I think that’s the right way to think about it — a conflict not between two nations or two peoples but between one brutal autocrat and all of humanity.

Perhaps even more exciting than passing off her Russian tour-giver credential, Sophie got passed off (by Linda Margetts) to play the Assembly Hall organ when there are actually people in the building. Apparently there will be some events there later in the spring and summer that she will get to play for. Still waiting for her chance to test drive the two really big organs (in the Tabernacle and the Conference Center).

Sophie also had the good fortune of running into Gary and Rebecca Boren at the Conference Center this month. Here they are together (apparently before Sophie earned her Russian flag).

Ari is now two weeks into their new job as a counselor at Kids After Hours, a before-and-after-school camp of sorts for elementary school children. The school where they work is in Garrett Park, a little more than five miles from here. Ari could do (and has done) the commute by bike. But they find it more convenient to walk from our house to Trader Joe’s (a half mile through the woods) pick up the “Flash” (a bus rapid transit sort of thing) from there down to the Silver Spring Metro and pick up another bus from Silver Spring to Garrett Park.

Typing the description of Ari’s commute (which they make twice a day — round-trips in both morning and afternoon) exhausts me, but it works for them. The fact that county buses have all been free to ride since the start of the pandemic probably makes it more tolerable. The county keeps pushing back the end of the fare holiday and they should just make it permanent.¹⁰

On Wednesday we gathered at Grandma’s house for a dual celebration of Peter’s 39th birthday and Grandpa’s homecoming after six weeks of in-patient rehab following what I hope is still being considered a successful back operation. I’ll let Grandpa describe it in his monthly letter, which I anticipate will come this weekend.

He seems to be getting around reasonably well with just his old-lady cane, and he got a really nice new recliner out of the deal, so that’s good. Bob Windley (who is 7 years older than Dad) grabbed me at church on Sunday and asked how he was doing. After I told him, Bob tearfully told me how much he had missed seeing him at the previous day’s meeting for temple sealers. I imagine Dad missed being there, too, and we are beyond grateful for his ongoing recovery.

Finally, it’s been a lot of fun having Crystal’s sister Liz and niece Addy visit us for the past week. (They weren’t here to see us so much as to see the sights of Washington and New York, but we were happy they opted to stay all but one night at our house.) They couldn’t have nailed the timing much better, rolling into town just in time for near-perfect weather and peak cherry blossom bloom. If you follow them on Insta, you already know they have lots of great pictures. Here’s one from our kitchen this morning that probably won’t make the social media feed:

And here is Liz (an actual professional teacher) helping her big sister with her homework.

We are grateful for family near and far.

Love,
Tim

1. An inexcusable failure of imagination on my part since, having learned to drive in New Jersey, hanging a right from the center lane is something I would not think twice before doing
2. I graduated from high school and therefore know that the other forearm bone is the ulna, but I honestly couldn't tell you -- and don't really care -- which is the radius and which is the ulna.
3. Also, Australia and New Zealand. I can never keep those straight either.
4. This has caused me to wonder which flag a Russian-speaking Ukrainian missionary on Temple Square would wear...or a French-speaking Canadian missionary for that matter.
5. I just typed and deleted (you're welcome) multiple paragraphs explaining all the reasons why I think free buses would be a wise use of public funds. I feel like I am becoming incrementally more socialist -- you know, like Jesus -- with each passing year. I'm okay with that.
6. An inexcusable failure of imagination on my part since, having learned to drive in New Jersey, hanging a right from the center lane is something I would not think twice before doing
7. I graduated from high school and therefore know that the other forearm bone is the ulna, but I honestly couldn’t tell you — and don’t really care — which is the radius and which is the ulna.
8. Also, Australia and New Zealand. I can never keep those straight either.
9. This has caused me to wonder which flag a Russian-speaking Ukrainian missionary on Temple Square would wear…or a French-speaking Canadian missionary for that matter.
10. I just typed and deleted (you’re welcome) multiple paragraphs explaining all the reasons why I think free buses would be a wise use of public funds. I feel like I am becoming incrementally more socialist — you know, like Jesus — with each passing year. I’m okay with that.