by Ed Jackson
Copyright
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2021
Copyright © Ed Jackson 2021
Ed Jackson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008423384
Version 2021-07-27
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Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008423360
In loving memory of my late friend, Tom Maynard. For
giving me the strength to carry on.
‘You have power over your mind – not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.’
—MARCUS AURELIUS
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Note to Readers
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: No Diving
Chapter 2: The Finger
Chapter 3: Wiggling
Chapter 4: The ‘F’ Word
Chapter 5: On Tour
Chapter 6: The Long Road
Chapter 7: Second Time for Firsts
Chapter 8: Roll With It (But Not All the Time)
Chapter 9: Rough With the Smooth
Chapter 10: The Small Stuff
Chapter 11: Homeward Bound
Chapter 12: New York, New York!
Chapter 13: The Only Way is Up …
Chapter 14: New Chapter
Chapter 15: Snow and Sun
Chapter 16: A Fireman and a Ballerina
Chapter 17: Ice Breaker
Chapter 18: Pathways
Chapter 19: One Year Later
Chapter 20: Lucky
Acknowledgements
Picture Section
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
No Diving
There’s a number; there has always been a number. As long as I can remember, this number has followed me everywhere. Not in a creepy, stalkerish way; more like a guardian angel. I had played number eight throughout my professional rugby career, and I had met my fiancée, Lois, on 8 January. I’m sure you have your own number, the one you would call ‘lucky’.
So, looking back, it came as no surprise to me that 8 April 2017 was the first scorching hot day of the year. Following a long dreary winter, this was the day I’d been waiting for. After bundling my dad and stepmum into the car, I drove over to their friends’ house. After lunch, I headed down the winding stone staircase to the pool; I was excited by the thought of cooling off and spending a good hour floating on a lilo.
Life had been pretty good recently and I felt that everything was slotting into place. I had just signed another two-year contract with my rugby team, the Dragons, and Lois and I were preparing for our summer wedding in the Tuscan countryside the following year.
I kicked off my shoes and unbuttoned my shirt. Humming to myself, I imagined the swimming pool at the Italian villa where we would marry, filled with all of our friends.
I walked to the edge of the pool and dived in.
Immediately, a shockwave rolled through my body; I had hit my head on the tiles at the bottom of the pool. Everything went black.
There was a loud ringing in my ears as my vision returned. I glanced around; I was still at the bottom of the pool. After ten years in professional rugby, I’d had my fair share of knocks, but this … I’d never hit my head like this before.
I tried to stand and check if I had cut myself. Nothing responded. I tried again. Nothing. My arms and legs hung limply at my sides. The only thing I could do was move my head. I was completely immobile, face down, at the bottom of the pool. Confused, I told my body to push me up again but it no longer responded to my requests. My heart began to hammer in my chest as confusion gave way to panic.
My body went into overdrive, pumping adrenaline to allow me to enter fight or flight mode. But I couldn’t do either. The adrenaline that was supposed to help save me had nowhere to go. Instead, it threatened to tip me into terror.
All my senses were heightened. With my mouth firmly clamped shut, my eyes darted left and right as I searched for something to help me. My chest became tighter. I needed air. I hadn’t taken a big enough breath before diving in. Even though I only had the use of my eyes, I wanted desperately to fight for my life. If no one had seen me dive in, then only I could save myself, I thought.
The seconds ticked by as I stared at the tiles on the bottom of the pool.
Try again. You’ve got to try again.
I strained to push myself up, but all that happened was a precious air bubble escaped from my mouth. I began to feel light-headed and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think. Shit.
And then, it wasn’t just me. The water pushed at my body, threatening to roll me but also letting me know I wasn’t alone. Strong hands gripped my arm, pulling me up, turning me. My face broke free of the water and I gasped for air, over and over again.
I opened my eyes to see my dad standing beside me in the pool. His gaze darted over my body as he began to check me over. A retired GP, having worked his way from a council estate in Sheffield to Oxford University, he was the epitome of the unflappable Yorkshireman.
I stared down at my body. My right leg was hanging down and I thought I could feel the ridges of the tiles against my heel; my left leg had decided to float near the surface.
I was still dazed from the impact and grateful that Dad had taken control of the situation. I reassured myself that after a couple of minutes the feeling would come back. Then we could all laugh about the time I made a clumsy dive into the shallow end of a pool. A welcome feeling of calm washed over me.
Dad checked me over with one hand, while the other one supported my head. My friend, Daffyd, was on the other side, supporting my torso with both arms. Together they floated me over to the edge of the pool and my head came to rest in the hands of Diane, a family friend, who was waiting for me by the side of the pool.
As another friend called for an ambulance, my elation at having been pulled from the bottom of the pool began to ebb away. Staring down at my lifeless body bobbing in the water, I realised that I wouldn’t be hauling myself out of the pool, wobbling over to a sun lounger and laughing about my lack of diving prowess. There wouldn’t be a hastily made sign propped up next to the pool saying, ‘No Diving … Ed’. This wasn’t going to turn out that way.
Dad had made the decision that I shouldn’t be lifted out of the pool until the ambulance came. I tried to distract myself by letting my eyes roam over the endless blue sky. There was no pain; in fact, I couldn’t really feel anything at all. Peering down at my legs, I noticed that my right leg had floated up to join my left. They looked like they were still attached to my body, but they ce
rtainly didn’t feel like it. All I could feel were Diane’s hands cradling my head and the water lapping against my shoulders.
The minutes ticked by slowly as we all retained our positions, frozen to the spot. As I listened to Diane’s reassuring voice, I began to feel sleepy in the warm sunlight. Maybe I could just nod off for a few minutes? I would wake up when the ambulance arrived …
‘How about your left hand?’ Dad’s voice cut through my thoughts, keeping me present. ‘Can you move that?’
I tried. I really tried to move my left hand.
‘Anything?’ I asked.
‘What about your right hand?’
He hadn’t answered my question. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut – just for a moment – but I had caught the flash of panic in them. This was more than a bump to the head.
All I could do was try to stay calm. There was nothing I could do to help.
Eight months earlier …
After a half-day drive up the Pacific Coast Highway, Lois and I had pulled over and found the trail that led into Pfeiffer Big Sur State Park. Through the trees the path wound, the redwood trunks shooting up to the sky but still allowing the dappled light through. There was no one else around and we both felt as if this woodland was just for us. A couple of miles into our journey, the path fizzled out and we were left with two options, to turn back or to push on and make our own trail.
Granted, getting eaten by a black bear probably wasn’t high on TripAdvisor’s list of ‘Things To Do In California’ but the allure of a bit of adventure was always too tempting. We went with option two.
Three hours later, we were still in the forest, clambering over fallen redwoods and wading through mountain streams. The hike was starting to take its toll.
I studied the map for a few minutes before rotating it ninety degrees. Lois caught me and raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t worry, Lois. It’s fine, I know where we are.’
She didn’t believe me and neither did I.
Just as I was wondering whether we’d become the next warning story the rangers would tell other tourists, we emerged from the tree line. Up ahead was the most breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean. There was nothing but Lois, myself and the endless sea crashing against the cliffs beneath us. We stopped to rest and gave ourselves time to absorb the moment.
During the long nights in hospital that were to come, when my mind started to wander, I often escaped to that place. I would close my eyes and take myself straight back. I drew comfort from the warmth of the sun on my face, the smell of the salt in the air and the shades of blue where the sky met the Pacific.
To think we could have taken the easy option, given up and turned back. To think we would have missed that moment because we were afraid of a little adventure. Life is an adventure and sometimes the path disappears; push on and make your own path.
It’s strange how your mind can try to shield you from the reality of a situation or flip you full force into worst-case scenarios.
On that hot April day, in the ambulance to Royal United Hospital in Bath, my thoughts were racing. Every eventuality was going through my head, but when my mind wandered towards the negative, I would distract myself by skipping to a positive outcome. This is what helped me the most in those first few hours. Denial or not, it was keeping me calm and if you’re calm then you’re still in control.
As we sped along the roads, sirens blaring, that calmness turned to tiredness and I wanted to close my eyes.
‘You have to try and stay awake, Ed,’ the paramedic said, watching me closely.
I stared up at him. He was being unreasonable. I needed to sleep; surely there was no harm in that?
‘Ed, stay awake now. Don’t go dropping off.’
Knowing that the hospital was only a fifteen-minute drive away, I begrudgingly agreed to try to stay awake for him.
What I didn’t know at the time was that my mind was protecting me from a reality that was very different. I found out a year later that my fifteen-minute journey had actually taken two and a half hours. Three times the ambulance had pulled over for me to be resuscitated. There had been a doctor in the back of the ambulance shooting me full of adrenaline, just to keep me alive. My heart had stopped beating three times. Technically, I had died.
My life didn’t flash in front of me. I didn’t see a light or hear a guiding voice. Instead, I floated in and out of reality. I had been given a glimpse of how easy that final step can be. It’s just like going to sleep. You drift away, unaware that you might be closing your eyes for the final time. At that moment I was grateful that I had been shielded from the reality of my situation, but soon I would have to face it.
A shaft of electric light projected across the ceiling of the ambulance as it pulled up at the hospital doors. My gaze was fixed firmly upwards, the two foam blocks on either side of my head not allowing even a millimetre of movement.
Still lying flat on the trolley, a strap across my forehead to keep my head from moving, I emerged from the back of the ambulance and into the evening warmth. The light had started to fade, and, as I was wheeled under the hospital porch, I looked up at the large backlit sign that read ‘Accident and Emergency’.
I had visited this hospital sporadically since I was born, due to mishaps as an adventurous child and various rugby injuries, but this time the word ‘Emergency’ wouldn’t leave me. We rolled over the threshold and entered the unmistakable fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor. My vision sharpened as the incandescent light flooded the space around me.
The light was overwhelming. Unable to turn my head to the side, I closed my eyes. My focus settled on the rhythm of the wheels rolling over the floor beneath me. Every bump or crack resonated through the trolley and my panic increased. Movement had become my enemy.
At the sudden halt of the trolley, I blinked my eyes back open. I had come to a stop in a bay. Voices circled around me, my dad’s amongst them. There was a sense of urgency in the conversations at the end of my bed. Occasionally, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a shoulder, hand, or the back of someone’s head.
Five minutes passed. Everyone was talking about me, but no one was talking to me. Lying in the hospital bed, I felt incredibly vulnerable.
Finally, a flash of blonde hair came into view, and I recognised my fiancée, Lois. Before I could speak, she faded from view as the medical staff in their blue and grey scrubs carried on with their work. I strained to find her again, but she was gone.
My chest tightened. ‘Lois?’
A voice came from behind the figures. ‘I’m here, Ed. They’ll let me through in a minute.’
I didn’t know what to say to reassure her, to smooth away that note of panic in her voice. What do you say to people in this situation? I couldn’t tell her that I was fine, because clearly that wasn’t true …
The sea of scrubs parted and in a second Lois was by my side. She leant over me, trying to smile, her bright, brown eyes full of concern.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I think the pool’s okay. I didn’t crack any of the tiles.’
She reached for my hand. I couldn’t feel her touch.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, her smile not quite able to reach her eyes. ‘I’ll send the pool a “Get Well Soon” card. I’m sure it’s just bruised.’
Seeing Lois’s face made everything more real. My mood suddenly dropped and an overwhelming feeling of guilt washed over me.
‘I’m sorry.’
A cold shiver passed through me as the heavy fog of shock began to wear off. I was left with only the stark reality of my situation. I could tell from the activity going on around me, and the fact that I still couldn’t move or feel anything, that this was serious.
Silent tears streamed down my face. This was the woman who had chosen to spend her life with me. Was she now tied to a very different man? Lois didn’t deserve this. She was young, athletic, full of irresistible energy and plans for our future together. And I couldn’t even fulfil the simple act of takin
g her hand in mine.
Before she could respond, Lois was ushered away so the nurses could prepare me for an MRI scan. I barely heard them speak, my mind preoccupied with the worst-case scenarios that had now come into play.
Will I play rugby again? Who will look after me? Lois? My mum? It’s not fair on them; they don’t deserve this, I’ll be a burden that they’ll grow to resent …
I pushed back at the negative thoughts and tried once more to distract myself. I started to count the ceiling tiles as we made our way down a long corridor, anything to keep my mind occupied. The fear would come in waves: one moment I would be happily asking the porter if he’d had a busy night; the next, my chest would tighten and a bubble of panic would choke me, cutting me off mid-sentence. I kept on trying to distract myself from the reality of the situation, anything to keep my mind occupied and diverted.
The results of the scan were not good. I needed an immediate operation, and so, an hour later, I was being transferred to Southmead Hospital in Bristol. I had been told it was the best place for me as it had a leading neurological department. It was certainly different to the hospital in Bath; it had a multi-million-pound intensive care ward that was the newest in the country. I tried to take it all in as I was wheeled through the entranceway. Up above was a huge glass ceiling. It was dark by now, so there was no chance of seeing the outside world. Reflected back at me was the distant figure of a lone man lying on a hospital bed, being pushed through a hospital vestibule.
The on-call neurosurgeon, Mr Barua, was ready for my arrival even though it was getting very late. Mr Barua was a smartly dressed man, particularly for two in the morning. It was Mr Barua who told me that I had dislocated my C6 and C7 vertebrae, which are at the bottom of the neck. The disc in between the two vertebrae had exploded and splintered shards of bone had lodged in my spinal cord.
The spinal cord is usually 12mm across and, judging by the scans, I was told that I only had about 4mm left. I was literally clinging on by a thread. Those remaining nerve fibres also didn’t mean I would be able to walk again, despite my initial hopes that I would. My prognosis was uncertain and first I had to have an operation.
