Lucky

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Lucky Page 7

by Ed Jackson


  On the 8th April at a family friends’ BBQ I dived into the shallow end of a swimming pool. After hitting my head on the bottom I realised I couldn’t swim to the surface because I’d lost movement in my legs and power in my arms. My dad (a retired GP) and friend Daffyd immediately knew something was wrong, pulled me to the surface and stabilised me in the pool until the ambulance came.

  I was transferred to Southmead Hospital with a fracture dislocation at the C6/7 joint. After a number of MRI scans and X-rays the Drs decided to operate at 2 a.m. to stabilise my neck as pressure was being put on my spinal cord. In surgery they removed my shattered disc, relocated my vertebrae and fixed it in place with a metal plate.

  I woke up in ICU, luckily completely coherent, however no feeling below my neck other than limited movement in my right arm.

  You never think this shit is going to happen to you, but it did, now I’ve got to deal with it. This is my road to recovery …

  Before I got the chance to chicken out, I hit ‘Share’.

  It was done.

  Chapter 6

  The Long Road

  ‘Come on, ramp it up!’ Pete shouted.

  The sweat was pouring down me and I gritted my teeth. Engaging what was left of my core muscles, I tried to stabilise my torso with Pete’s help.

  ‘Only a bit longer,’ Pete exclaimed. ‘One more push.’

  Anyone who walked past my room would have thought I was giving birth, not trying to stay sitting up for the first time. Pete had me perched on the edge of my bed. Both of my hands were at my side as he knelt behind me and guided me with arms underneath mine. It was at times like this that I realised how disabled I was. I couldn’t even stay sitting up by myself; my body threatened to tip me over in every direction.

  My muscles juddered in protest, but I ignored the pain and breathed out deeply. I drew on all my reserves and focused on stabilising myself. And then, for three seconds, I was just a man sitting on the edge of his bed. It didn’t matter that it was a fleeting moment, it was still my achievement and it felt wonderful. I took a moment to survey my room at this novel ninety-degree angle before Pete lowered me back down.

  One thing I will never take for granted again is my core muscles. It’s only when they stopped working that I began to appreciate how integral they are. The accident had switched off the power to the muscles along the left-hand side of my trunk and severely impaired those on the right. The result was a torso with the strength and consistency of a soup sandwich. Sitting, standing, rolling, twisting, coughing, just about everything is only possible with some degree of core strength – it’s what holds you together.

  Pete leant over me as I grinned up at him. ‘Same again tomorrow?’

  I loved the physical challenge I was now able to engage in and it was what I had been hankering for back in Southmead Hospital, but I soon realised that every physio session was as much a mental challenge as a physical one. Not being able to do what had come so easily before was frustrating, and if I was honest with myself, quite upsetting. And I’d have to do it all again tomorrow.

  My left leg and hand were also causing me a lot of worry as there was still no movement in them. In my darker hours, often in the middle of the night, I wondered if I would regain only the use of one side of my body. Would the muscles in my left leg and arm wither away if I couldn’t cajole them into becoming part of my recovery?

  As always, I tried to push these worries away by refocusing my thoughts. Now that I could sit up, I was able to be hoisted out of bed and do a bit more about trying to wake my muscles up.

  The next morning, Pete wheeled into my room what could only be described as a grandad chair with wheels. It was a cherry-red, high-backed, padded chair – the sort you would see in an old peoples’ home – and, in front of it, Pete had placed a machine with two peddles and a monitor.

  Behind him was a big guy who looked to be an ex-rugby player himself. He was tall, well-built but didn’t have the bravado that so many rugby players have. In fact, he was almost a bit shy.

  ‘This is Wyn,’ Pete said. ‘He normally does respiratory physio, but I told him about you and he offered to come and help out.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you both,’ I said. ‘And what have you brought with you?’

  ‘Let’s get you up and I’ll show you.’

  There wasn’t much I could do to help as Pete and the nurses transferred me onto my new piece of equipment using a hoist. My disability was always clearest when I had to be moved around the room by a small crane. It made me feel helpless.

  ‘It’s not the latest model …’ Pete concluded after I was settled in.

  ‘It looks like it was released the same year as the Sega Mega Drive. Did you just get me out of bed to play Pac-Man?’ I added.

  Pete grinned. ‘No, nothing like that. But it will do the job, now that you’ve got the power in your right leg to start turning over the peddle.’

  The ‘MOTOmed’ was a power-assisted bike, designed to get your legs moving. Although my left leg was still a passenger, the process would hopefully help maintain some muscle memory so there would be a halt to the wastage on both sides. An hour on my new chair and I returned to bed feeling like I’d actually achieved something. I now had something tangible to do, something to break up the day. Although I was still a long way off from being able to work up a sweat, I was glad to be back on the bike.

  That afternoon, my ears pricked up when I heard a different sound in the hallway; it wasn’t the usual squeaky trolly or the rubber-soled shoes of the nurses. Instead, it sounded like sharp claws skittering down the hallway. It was what I had been waiting for.

  Lois burst into the room with our boxer and bulldog panting loudly, their leads wrapping around her legs in their eagerness to get to me. I cannot describe how much I had missed them; just having Molly and Barry in the same room as me lifted my spirits.

  While I enjoyed being slobbered on, Lois stood at the bottom of my bed, helping with my physio.

  ‘Pachow, pachow,’ she said, as she stuck both of her middle fingers up at me and then blew the smoke off each one.

  I tried to return the gesture but the middle finger on my right hand wasn’t quite there. We’d been working on it for a few days, but it couldn’t seem to separate itself from the rest of the pack.

  ‘You have a face like an abandoned baboon,’ she continued, pacing at the end of my bed and winding her middle finger up at me.

  Again, I tried to give her the middle finger on my right hand – it was closer this time.

  ‘Your father smells of elderberries!’

  ‘Lois, you stole that from Monty Python.’

  ‘So what?’ she said. ‘It’s a great insult.’

  I tried again and this time my middle finger stood up by itself. It was clawed, but it was definitely doing the job it was supposed to.

  ‘Wooo!’ Lois shouted, while clapping at the same time.

  At that moment my friend, Souto, came into the room and I greeted him with my middle finger.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said, as he returned the gesture. ‘I brought you a burrito from Las Iguanas.’

  ‘Excellent,’ I responded, still holding my finger up at him. ‘Lois, meet my middle finger.’ I swivelled it round to her. I was so pleased with being able to do it, I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘I’m going to take the dogs out for a walk,’ Lois said, smiling as she called them to her. Barry padded over to her but Molly was reluctant to leave, so Lois had to cajole her towards the door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

  Souto pulled up the chair next to me and plonked the plastic bag onto my bed.

  I stared at the bag and then at him.

  ‘Oh, shit. Sorry,’ he said, remembering that I couldn’t actually feed myself. My right arm had gained some movement, but I still couldn’t repeatedly lift my arm all the way to my mouth.

  He unwrapped the paper from the top third of the Burrito and held it close to my mouth. I took a bite.

 
‘I had a great bank holiday weekend,’ Souto said, as he held the burrito out for me again.

  I took another bite. I was starving, and with a full mouth said, ‘Was it a bank holiday Monday this week?’

  ‘Yeah, first week of May, isn’t it?’

  I thought back to Pete coming in on Monday to start my physio. He’d come in on his day off to help me. What a legend.

  Souto held out the burrito for me again. I hadn’t quite swallowed the last bite but took another bite anyway.

  ‘It’s so hot in here,’ Souto said, pulling at his shirt. ‘I don’t know how you cope with it.’

  I couldn’t answer him as my mouth was full of burrito. We were going through a heatwave and the hospital wasn’t able to turn the heating off. So, as well as it being twenty-five degrees outside, the hot air from my large radiator continued pumping into the room. On top of this, I had a two-inch-thick foam collar around my neck connected to a plate that went halfway down my chest that couldn’t be removed.

  It had been so stifling last night that I hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Sweat had dripped down my face and I’d managed to knock the buzzer off my bed so couldn’t call the nurses to help me have a sip of water. They’d been quite surprised when they’d answered the ward telephone and heard me on the end. I’d managed to find the number on the internet and call it through my iPad – needs must.

  Souto was glaring at the radiator as he held the burrito out for me again. Misjudging the distance, he smooshed it into my closed mouth as I squeaked in protest.

  ‘Maybe if I got a wrench …’ he said. He took the burrito away and I watched in mild horror as he took a large bite from it before smooshing it back in my face. ‘That might work …’

  I gulped down everything in my mouth. ‘Souto! Stop eating my food, it’s gross! And look at me when you’re feeding me!’

  ‘Oh, sorry mate. Didn’t even realise.’

  ‘You’re right, though,’ I said, following his gaze over to the radiator. ‘I wish something could be done about the heating. I feel like my head is being roasted in here.’

  ‘Maybe I could pop out and buy you one of those little hand-held fans. I could tie it onto the frame next to your iPad. It would cool your face and blow your hair around, like you’re in a shampoo commercial.’

  I grinned at him through the layer of burrito he had deposited on my face. He was a tool, but I was lucky to have him.

  Nine years earlier …

  ‘You’ll be great, bud. Just don’t fuck it up.’

  Don’t fuck it up. Don’t fuck it up. The final words of the good luck phone call from Tom rang around my head as I entered the Recreation Ground. He and Rich, the third leg of our school friend tripod, would be there in a couple of hours to watch me play. It wasn’t the fanciest of mantras, but the spirit of it was right.

  Sitting on the edge of the bench in the changing room, I unnecessarily adjusted my sock again as I listened to the coaches’ pre-game talk. I still couldn’t get my head around how this had happened so fast. I was nineteen and about to play my first professional game of rugby. There had been a bit of an injury crisis, which meant I’d been called up early. I’d thought it would be at least another couple of years before I got this chance. Looking around me, I certainly felt on the lean side. It takes years to build up the muscle required for rugby and I was ten years younger than a lot of the other players.

  The ref knocked on the door and all fifteen of us swung our heads towards the sound. It was time. Keeping my features completely still, I joined the shuffle of teammates moving towards the tunnel. Outside we met our opponents, the Leicester Tigers, who had just come out of their changing room. They were Bath’s biggest rivals. I felt sick with nerves as I watched them run down the tunnel ahead of us. It wasn’t the size of them that scared me; it was the pressure of messing this up. At that moment, I would have given anything for the game to be cancelled. At the same time, I knew that my dream of playing professional rugby was about to come true. All the years of training and sacrifices had narrowed and settled on a single game of eighty minutes. Don’t fuck it up.

  As I trotted after my teammates down the darkened tunnel towards the light of the stadium, I thought about all the people I knew who were watching this match. My family, friends, neighbours, Dad’s colleagues, teachers … this was my home team and I’d lived in Bath all my life. There were probably even a few people from my primary school in the stands.

  Emerging onto the pitch, I tried not to react to the roar of the crowd as we took up our positions. The noise was overwhelming as I’d never played in front of many people before. And now here I was, in front of twelve thousand.

  My playing position was Number 8, which coincidentally had always been my lucky number. It’s also the only position in rugby that is actually named after its number. So, I had told myself this must be doubly lucky, and I needed all the luck I could get.

  Playing Number 8 meant that I had been tasked with the first important action of the game, catching the kick off. It was really helping my anxiety levels to know that all eyes in the stadium would be drilling down on to me, judging me on this one make-or-break moment.

  Dontfuckitup, dontfuckitup, dontfuckitup. The mantra sped up as I waited for the ref’s whistle. Despite what was whirring through my mind, I kept my face completely still. I was desperate not to reveal what I was feeling.

  The whistle blew and sure enough the kicker shaped to send the ball my way. The thump of leather connecting with the ball was the only sound I could hear as everything went into slow motion. I tracked the ball, high above the line of the stands. I was very aware of the eight pumped-up Leicester forwards at full tilt, hoping to knock me into next week as soon as I caught it … if I caught it.

  Before I knew it, I found myself at the bottom of a pile of players, but importantly with the ball in my hands. I had caught it. The nerves immediately fell away. It was game on …

  With only twenty minutes until the end of the match, I could honestly say I’d done pretty well. Sixty minutes of hard physical work had made getting quickly off the ground more difficult. When I next pulled myself up, my attention was drawn to Alesana Tuilagi who was heading straight for me. Nineteen stone of pure muscle and one of the most powerful players in the Premiership. He stared straight at me as he quickened his pace. I turned towards him, braced myself for the impact and drove into his legs.

  I opened my eyes. All I could see was the grey, tumultuous sky.

  The edges of my vision were hazy, and my head rang, blocking out all other noise.

  ‘Ed.’ A woman’s voice broke through. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Hummm,’ was all I could manage.

  ‘I don’t want you to move. Don’t even nod.’

  ‘I’m ’kay …’

  ‘You might think you’re okay, but you gave us a scare. You’ve been out for a while.’

  I blinked rapidly to try and clear my vision. It was only then that I realised that I was lying in the middle of the rugby pitch with twelve thousand people staring down at me.

  ‘Can you move your left hand,’ a man said.

  I squeezed it around his fingers.

  ‘What about your right hand?’

  I gave that one a squeeze too.

  Remembering my dad, I imagined him standing up in his seat, peering down at me. He would be worrying about whether I was still unconscious. He wouldn’t be able to see from that far away that I was awake and following the doctor’s instructions not to move. Christ, he’ll be worried, I thought.

  ‘And push down on my hand with the other foot.’

  I followed his instructions, desperate to get up so I could show Dad that I was okay.

  ‘All right, it seems there was no damage,’ he concluded. ‘But that’s you done for the day.’

  The doctor and the physio offered me their hands to help me stand. The crowd clapped as I wobbled to my feet. I tried to smile and wave at them as I made my way over to the entranceway of the tunnel.
>
  You fucked it up …

  I was devastated; it had hardly been the dream start.

  The following Monday, I sat quietly as I waited for the defence coach to meet with me. That morning, I’d dressed as smartly as my rugby kit would allow and tried to plaster down my unruly hair. I wanted to look my best when I received my P45; I thought it might help when my pride took a battering. As I waited outside the coach’s office, I wondered if this was the shortest rugby career in history. No, there must have been someone who’d messed things up in the first half of their opening match. It didn’t make me feel any better.

  ‘Come in, Ed,’ the defence coach said, opening his office door.

  I followed him inside and took a seat opposite.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Saturday.’

  I nodded, unable to form any words.

  ‘I’ve got the recording so we can watch it over together.’

  Great, my humiliation would be complete.

  I watched in silence as the figure on the screen braced for Tuilagi. It wasn’t pretty.

  ‘I’ve also got a few other clips for you to watch as well.’

  He pressed another button and I watched three other matches, clearly taken at different times and places. Each one featured Tuilagi.

  ‘He regularly does this,’ the coach said.

  We carried on watching the matches. In each clip he showed me, whomever Tuilagi charged at effectively got out of his way.

  ‘What matters,’ the coach continued, ‘is that you tried. You stuck your head in when lots of other players shy away.’

  ‘So, I’m not fired then?’ I asked.

  The coach gave me a broad smile. ‘No. Not this time.’

  As I lay in my dark overheated hospital room, I thought back to that first rugby match. At that moment, back when I was nineteen, something had clicked into place for me and from then on I’d hung my hat on effort. At every club I played for, I made sure that I wasn’t going to let anyone question my effort. I’m not saying I was the best, but I made sure that I was one of the fittest because it was something I had control over. I worked hard to achieve that target. Because no matter how bad the task made me feel at the time, if it resulted in any sort of progress, then it was worth it.

 

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