The Day Joy and Fragility Met on the Same Road

Today started like a beautiful Sunday morning should. My children and I had planned to see the Stitch movie together—a 10 a.m. showing we’d all been excited about. The film was brilliant, the kind that makes you laugh and feel good long after the credits roll. It was great family time. We were happy. Genuinely, peacefully happy.

On the way home, still smiling, we talked and laughed about the film and made plans to grab something to eat. We hit some traffic, so I decided to take a shortcut—one I’d driven before, familiar and quiet. But what we encountered next changed the course of our day in a way I never could have anticipated.

There, on the right side of the road, was a man lying on the ground. He was a cyclist, surrounded by what looked like his friends—perhaps fellow hobbyists or professionals out on a ride together. One of them was performing CPR. No police, no paramedics, no flashing lights. Just raw urgency, fear, and confusion. One person was guiding traffic. Another was on the phone, presumably calling for help. Someone else had gone into a nearby house, likely trying to get assistance.

As we waited for another car to pass us so we could move on, we were motionless—stuck not only in traffic, but in that moment. Watching a life hang in the balance.

My daughter, sitting next to me, whispered, “Is that… what I think it is?”

I said gently, “Yes, it is.”

I kicked into helper mode. I scanned the scene. I saw no emergency services yet, and I watched as the man giving CPR—bless him—tried his best, but from my experience, I could tell he wasn’t trained. And my own past suddenly caught up with me. I wound the window down and asked if help was needed. “Does he know what he’s doing?” I asked.

The friend replied, “Are you a medic?”

In my mind the words rang out 

 “That was many years ago. I’m no longer registered. I wouldn’t feel confident giving CPR now.” 

And those words stung more than I expected so I simply replied “no sorry” 

I drove on, because I couldn’t do more. And as we pulled away, I was overwhelmed. I felt helpless. Useless. Worthless. I knew what to do once. I had been in that position before. But today, I couldn’t help, and that broke something open in me.

Tears came—mine and my daughter’s. She saw what I saw: a man possibly taking his last breaths, and people doing all they could to hold him here.

Not even five minutes later, police cars began to rush past us—sirens blazing, clearly in emergency mode, driving at terrifying speeds. My daughter said, “But they’re not paramedics.”

“No,” I told her, “but they’re first responders. They’ll know what to do.”

Later, we heard an air ambulance had come. That’s how serious it was.

All of this has made me reflect—deeply. On how quickly life can change. On how we can be laughing one minute and praying silently the next. On how fragile we all are.

It brought up old memories I thought I had buried. Medical PTSD from my own time in intensive care. From being resuscitated myself. From being the one giving chest compressions in years gone by.

I thought that chapter of my life was closed. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe this moment, painful as it was, was also an opening. Maybe it’s time to explore whether there’s still a role for me to play—some way to never feel that helpless again. Even if I never go back fully, perhaps there’s something I can do. Something I can learn again. Or something I can teach.

But not today. Today I grieve what we saw. I hold my children close. I let the tears come. I let the shock settle.

And I honour the man whose life was fought for on a quiet Sunday road.

Whoever you were, wherever you are now, may peace find you.