Don Bania
“That was the first day of my 50-year journey—a journey filled with ups and downs, joys and sadness. But also a journey filled with PEOPLE. Wonderful people to whom I want to say, “THANK YOU.”
It happened as if it were yesterday: August 19, 1970, a Wednesday. I was 18 years old, fresh out of high school, when I borrowed a co-worker’s motorcycle. The motorcycle was a 250 Ducati, and I got onto it as if I was late for a hot date. From my father’s gas station on 11th & Hennepin Ave. in downtown Minneapolis, I sped down 10th street to 35W and then to Lake Street. Then I headed west. But little did I know, 2 miles away, a drunk driver was heading east. As I crossed Hennepin Ave. and approached the intersection of Lake and James, my world turned upside down when the drunk driver turned into my lane. With no time to stop, I squeezed the brakes, and everything turned into slow motion.
It took me less than a second to hit his car, but it seemed like minutes, long enough for me to say, “I can’t believe this is happening to me!” The impact threw me over the handlebars and headfirst into the car’s roofline. Everything went black. I saw stars and heard nothing. At this very moment, my neck broke, completely severing my spinal cord and leaving me a quadriplegic paralyzed from the shoulders down (Minnesota had a mandatory helmet law in 1970).
Moments later, I woke up in the middle of the intersection, flat on my back, with a crowd of strangers standing around me. I heard myself saying, “Is my bike okay? Is my bike okay?” while a man kneeling by my head was trying to take my helmet off. The pain in my neck was excruciating. It felt like a hand grenade had just blown up inside.
Minutes later, the ambulance arrived. The paramedics rolled me onto a backboard and put me in the ambulance. I remember complementing the paramedic on his black, bushy mustache, as I’m sure he was saying to himself, “Keep on talking, kid, keep on talking." At General Hospital in downtown Minneapolis, a team of doctors and nurses were waiting. They immediately cut off all my clothes and then shaved the hair off the top of my head.
Next came a man in a white lab coat with an electric drill. Without a word, he started drilling a hole in the top of my head. That’s when I passed out and woke up in the ICU with a Catholic priest giving me the Last Rites. When he saw that my eyes were open, he walked up to me and said, “Donald, you’ve got a free ticket to heaven.” I said, “Father, can I have a rain check?” At a loss for words, the priest backed up, and my 42-year-old father stepped into my view. I said, “Well, Dad, I got a haircut!”
That was the first day of my 50-year journey—a journey filled with ups and downs, joys and sadness. But also a journey filled with PEOPLE. Wonderful people to whom I want to say, “THANK YOU.” These people came to my side to care for me, cheer me up, and be my arms and legs. Not to mention Jesus Christ, my Savior and Lord, who gave me the ability to forgive the drunk driver.