Wow — that sounds terrifying. I’m really sorry you went through that. Eight broken ribs and a trauma ICU stay is no joke, especially from something as random and wild as a run-in with a deer. That’s the kind of story people won’t even believe until you show them the x-rays.
Before I dive into the 900-word narrative you asked for, I just want to say: I hope you’re managing the pain okay. Rib injuries can be brutally painful, especially when breathing or moving. If you’re able (and if they give you the good meds), try to breathe as deeply as you can so you don’t get pneumonia. And hopefully your bike survived the crash so that at least one of you came out unscathed.
Now — let me spin your ordeal into a dramatic, raw, and gripping 900-word narrative, as if reported in a first-person journal or reflective short story. Something with emotion, imagery, a bit of dark humor, and that “how did I survive that?” energy.
“Deer vs. Man: A Collision I’ll Never Forget”-word dramatic first-person narrative)
I didn’t wake up that morning expecting to almost die. I was just hoping for a clean ride — some miles to clear my head, a little sweat, and maybe the kind of peace only a bike and an open road can deliver. It was early, cool, and strangely calm. The kind of hush the world gives you right before it punches you in the teeth.
I’d taken that road more times than I can count — smooth stretch, a few rolling hills, some trees lining the shoulder. But that morning, there was something in the air. I shrugged it off, adjusted my helmet, and pedaled into what I thought would be an ordinary day.
Then it happened.
Out of nowhere — like nature’s rage personified — a deer exploded out of the tree line. No hesitation, no warning, just pure chaotic instinct. For a split second, I locked eyes with it. Wild. Panicked. Determined. As if this deer had made a personal decision: I shall end this man’s day.
You’d think I’d have time to swerve, to brake, to shout at the gods. But I had nothing. Just the sound of hooves, a flash of brown fur, and then the whole world went sideways. Literally. The impact felt like a truck hitting me at 60 even though I was barely doing twenty. My handlebars twisted, the front wheel jolted up, and my body went airborne as if the laws of gravity just gave up.
They say you don’t remember the fall — but I do. I remember the wind being ripped from my lungs, the bone-deep crack in my side, the sound of my own scream muffled somewhere under the helmet. I hit the ground shoulder first, ribs second, ego dead last. Then silence. Just ringing in the ears and disbelief.
I tried to move. Couldn’t. Tried to breathe. Felt like daggers. Somewhere in the distance, I heard someone yelling. Maybe a hiker, maybe a driver. Everything blurred. Next thing I remember, EMTs were cutting open my shirt and asking me what day it was. I must’ve coughed up something that tasted like rust. One of them said, almost casually, “We’re gonna fly you out, okay? You’ve got some serious rib fractures.”
Airlifted. Like I was in a war zone. All because of one kamikaze deer with a death wish.
By the time the helicopter touched down at the hospital, I was drifting between consciousness and the kind of fog you only get when morphine becomes your new best friend. They rolled me through trauma, scanned me head to toe, and then the doc told me the score: eight broken ribs. EIGHT. Not bruised. Broken. Some shattered like glass.
They moved me to trauma ICU, hooked me up to monitors and IVs, pumped me full of drugs that made reality feel like a distant rumor. Every breath felt like a negotiation with pain. If I inhaled too deeply, it felt like getting stabbed. If I laughed — not that I could — it felt like getting stabbed twice.
My first thought: Am I gonna live?
My second thought: Dear God, is my bike okay?
Because yes, I am that person. Laying there like a broken action figure, thinking about my gear. They wouldn’t let me check my phone at first, and when I finally did, all I could do was text: “Got hit by a deer. ICU. Ribs broken. Please check if bike’s still alive.”
Now I’m lying here, wired up like Darth Vader in a medical suite, high on painkillers, breathing like I’m 90, every twitch a thunderbolt of agony — but alive. And the irony? That deer probably trotted off into the woods like nothing happened, living his best life, ready to ruin someone else’s Tuesday.
The nurses come in every few hours — checking vitals, giving me meds, telling me I’m lucky. Lucky to have survived. Lucky the deer didn’t go through me like a battering ram. Lucky my spine and lungs didn’t collapse. They’re right. I am lucky. But luck hurts like hell.
I keep replaying the moment. The blur, the noise, the impact. I can’t laugh yet because it physically hurts. But once I heal, this story is going to live forever. A deer tried to assassinate me and I lived to tell the tale. How many people can say that?
For now, I’ve got broken ribs, shallow breaths, and a newfound respect — or maybe deep suspicion — for woodland creatures. I don’t know when I’ll ride again. But I will. Because the road still calls. And I’ll go back out there, armor up, maybe add a deer whistle or two, and keep moving forward like cyclists do.
But next time I see a deer? I’m crossing the street.
Want me to turn this into a post-worthy social media rant, a comedic journal entry, or even a brutal short story in a darker tone? I can remix it however you want.
Also — if you want me to draft the perfect update message to send friends/family (something balanced between funny and informative), just say the word.
Wishing you a fast recovery. And seriously — I hope the bike made it out alive too.
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