Chasing the sunset

My pit crew cheered as I walked towards my red Mustang. Sounds of engines revving up around me, made me hasten my pace.

I waved as the boisterous voice over the stadium microphone, announced my arrival. “All set to go in her Red Mustang, we’ve got Gabriela Martin. She started her journey winning the Australian FIA F4 three years ago. She has been unstoppable since – F4 Champion. F2 Champion.  Gabriela did not simply climb the junior single seater ladder - she charged up to knock loudly on the F1 door. We are so proud of our diva! Give a shout out to our very own Australian F1 Racer, Gabriela Martin!” This was followed by a loud cheer from the audience. The kids were jumping on their chairs, waving up the flag with my car logo and name. I smiled and waved out to the crowd.

I paused at Adam’s car. He was my closest competitor. My nemesis. Our eyes met, albeit fleetingly before we looked ahead, ready to take on the challenge. I’d been relentlessly training for this moment. I got into my car, zoning everything out. I felt the adrenaline rush as I revved up the engine. I shifted gears, going from 0 to 250km/h in a few seconds. The screech of the race cars peeling out, gave me nervous energy. I speeded up further, looking to find the gaps.

I spotted Adam’s car ahead of mine and focused to overtake him, at the start of turn two. It was a semi tight corner on the edge of my car’s cornering limit. I was struggling to keep it in control. I realized I would have to push my car and myself over the limit to overtake. I felt every bit of asphalt under my tyres. I could feel the vibrations of the steering wheel. The suspension was fighting the lateral force pushing me out of my way and do what a real racing driver does… and go beyond my skills. One moment, I thought I was nearly ahead. But I felt the chassis dance bend and I knew I’d pushed too hard. My car spun out of control and hit Adam’s.

Then, I blanked out.

I lay on the hospital bed like a discarded car bumper in the scrap yard. As I lifted my head to get a view of where I was, a stinging pain ran from my hip to my toes making me wince. I called out for help. A nurse rushed over. I whined in pain as she shifted my position. I could feel my face contorting with pain and fear, and I screamed as she gave me an injection.

“What the hell? Keep your voice down for god sake!” a voice yelled at me from a few feet away. I could not see him through the curtain separating us. I soon blanked out again.

“Are you feeling better?” asked the doctor, his cold hands checking my vitals. “I’m Dr. Nathan. And you’re at the St. Kilda Hospital. You met with a major accident at the Grand Prix in Melbourne two days ago and were brought here in a terrible condition. You were in coma for the past 48hours. We’re glad you are alive. However, I must tell you, that you have lost your kidneys in the accident.”

“Lost my kidneys?!” I stared at him in disbelief, my eyes as wide as the headlights on my car.

 It made sense. I felt tired and weak. The brooding feeling of having lost something forever. My heart took a free fall like the car going downhill without gas.

“Your body needs clean blood to function properly. Untreated uremia may lead to seizures or coma and may ultimately result in death,” he explained.

“How long do I have to live?”

“Untreated, a couple of weeks. Unless someone can give you a kidney transplant.”

And then, he left.

For a few hours, I was in a daze. Utterly dejected. He could not be serious.

I was silent. Like a drained-out car battery.

“Get up, girl,” said a voice. “You’ve been sleeping for three days straight.”

The man’s voice woke me up. The doctor seemed to be in his mid-forties with a pot belly and round spectacles. He had a coarse and heavy upbeat voice that hit my ears like the loud honk of a truck. I could not recognize him.

“I am ok,” I writhed in pain. “… aahhh… I’m better. My name…”

“Oh! I know your name,” he said, cutting me short. He helped me get ready for the dialysis process alongside the nurse.

“Gabriela Martin! The famous F1 driver! The pride of Australia, taking aim at F1’s male monopoly. You are all over the newspapers, you know. Everyone’s talking about your narrow escape from death. You’re very lucky, you know?”

“Lucky?? I can barely stand on my feet, let alone walk,” I said looking at my feet. “And I’ll be stuck with this dialysis forever or die if I can’t find a kidney donor. I can’t ever race again. Do you even know how that feels? I wish I’d just died,” I said, tearfully.

“The other boy you were racing with, didn’t make it. Can you swap places with him, Ms. Gabriela?” he asked, clenching his fist, and pressing it over the edge of the bed. He was so angry I thought he might explode like an overcharged electric battery. I could not understand why he was so angry! Surely, he must feel sympathy.

“And there are 15 kids in the next ward who won’t make it to their 10^th birthday for no fault of theirs, while you are sleeping comfortably in this plush hospital room,” he added taking a swipe at the luxurious room I had been allotted.  

“I’m sorry doctor,” I said, holding on to the nurse for support. “It’s just that I feel so broken right now.”

“It’s all right, you don’t have to be.” He sighed, calming himself down. “I’m sorry. I’m just distressed with my own grief lately.” And then he left abruptly.

The nurse patted my shoulder, “Don’t worry. You’ll be all right. Time heals everything.”

At first, the press was relentless. Dr Jackson shielded me and my disfigured face from the flashes of the cameras. I didn’t have the heart to meet my pit crew. Gradually, they went away. My sponsors came to visit me after two weeks. Interested more in their fees than my recovery. But apart from that, my room was silent. No one came to visit me. My ambition had driven the men out of my life. I lived alone. And I didn’t want anyone to see me with my disfigured face. My phone lay silent.

The medicines made me weak and drowsy, and I took a lot of naps. When I was awake, I watched the F1 races the entire day, followed the stats of my peers. It made my pain disappear for a little bit. As the days bore on, I started to spend more time watching the races and playing computer games on my phone. But I missed the thrill of driving, the smell of petrol, the sense of adventure.

Dr. Jackson came into my room twice a day to check in on me. If I was watching a race, he’d stop by and watch it with me for a few minutes. At other times, he’d wake me up from my nap. One day, he caught me crying. He sat me on a wheelchair and took me out to the balcony overlooking the sea to watch the sunset near the St. Kilda beach. Then he disappeared for a bit and came back with two butterscotch Gelatos.  That was the beginning of our friendship.

Gradually, in a month’s time, Dr. Jackson became my therapist and friend in distress. “Seize the day, girl!” he often said as he walked into the room and drew the curtains aside, letting the sunshine into the room. He’d put on some music on my Bluetooth speaker. He told me jokes that cracked me up. His narratives had witty humor delivered in a dead pan manner making me giggle.

“Let’s chase the sunset!” he’d say every evening, as he took me out to the garden on a wheelchair. He’d spend a half hour with me and ask me to narrate my stories from my early go-carting days and my lap driving experiences. I was surprised at his knowledge of automobiles and racing circuits across the world.

“Get up lazy bones!” he called out one morning. “We’re going to book you in for a transplant tomorrow. All the paperwork’s done.”

“You got a donor for me?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’m not feeling too well today, so the nurse will help you with the formalities.”

He held my hand silently. His grip getting tight. His jokes died on him that day. Silence engulfed us. His hands got a bit sweaty. I could feel his worry.

“Take care,” I called out, as he turned to go. “We’ll go chasing the sunset later today and I’ll tell you all about my Mustang drive on the Great Ocean Road in Norway.” He came back and gave me a hug. I saw a tear escape his eye. I sensed something was not right with him.

I was wheeled out for surgery later that evening. Dr. Jackson, gave me a thumbs up, dressed in his surgical attire and mask before I blanked out from the anesthesia. I didn’t know then that it was the last time I’d see Dr. Jackson.

“Ms. Gabriela! How are you feeling after your transplant? I’m Dr. Nathan,” I heard a voice address me, bringing me back from my anesthesia induced deep slumber.

I raised my head to look at the doctor. He was handsome, tall and athletic, his demeanor was very confident from fame he may have earned in the medical field. He went over my files and wrote a new prescription.

“I’m sorry to tell you that Dr. Jackson is no more. He had to undergo an emergency operation last night after your surgery but could not make it owing to several complications in his health condition. However, he asked me to hand this over to you before he went into surgery,” explained Dr. Nathan. Then he silently left the room.

Tears slid down my cheeks as I learnt of the loss of my new friend. One more person gone from my life. Forever. I yearned to say a final goodbye to him. I felt like a punctured tyre.

The paper in my hand, had some scribbles in Dr. Jackson’s handwriting.

“My dear racer. I hope you are reading this after your surgery and are making a F1 speed recovery. You must wonder how I know so much about car racing. The boy who died on the race track that day, was my son Adam Jackson. You were his toughest competitor and I know you’ve been rivals for a while now. At first, I was upset that your reckless driving had cost my son his life. But as I got to know you, I could see a little bit of my son in you. The zeal for winning, the passion to follow the trajectory of every competitor, the curiosity to analyze every win. You and Adam were the greatest rivals on the racetrack. And yet, his kidneys turned out to be a perfect match for you. I’m happy that a little bit of him will live on inside another F1 racer. I hope you are soon able to get back to the racetrack and win the gold medal in the Australian Grand Prix next year. Practice hard. I’ll be watching over you. Adieu!”