Lucky

by Ed Jackson

  They were certainly efficient, but with efficiency came rules. I understood their reasons for being cautious; they had to protect themselves from being blamed if anything went wrong and they wanted to assess my limitations for themselves. They had made it very clear that they were the specialists in spinal injuries. But it was still frustrating as I was going from sitting up in a chair all day to three-hour checks for pressure sores again, which I hadn’t had for weeks. This meant that every three hours during the night and day I would be woken, rolled, inspected and repositioned. It felt like a huge step backwards.

  Despite my reservations, I was hopeful that I would fit in at the hospital. There was a welcoming, community feel on the wards that increased my confidence in the place. That afternoon, they were having a barbecue in the garden and although I was unable to attend in my bed, I was very kindly brought a burger, sausage bap and a Cornetto. It looked like I would be back to eighteen stone before I knew it.

  After a night of being rolled around like a dinghy too far out at sea, I woke up grumpier than usual through lack of sleep. I tried to wait patiently for someone to begin my rehab, but by 3 p.m. I was still in bed. Lois had tried her best to keep me entertained, but I couldn’t help but feel stuck in limbo. I wasn’t being impatient; I knew that high amounts of regular rehab were essential when recovering from a spinal injury. I had been reframing my thoughts, but sometimes action needs to be taken to rectify a situation. I’m not an annoying person, at least I don’t think I am, but I came to the conclusion that if I asked every half an hour to get out of bed, someone might get pissed off enough to listen.

  Just as I was about to start singing loudly and out of tune, there was a knock on the door and one of the staff entered pushing a wheelchair. She positioned it at the side of my bed. We began our polite introductions, but soon she got down to business.

  ‘So, we have to be very careful about pressure sores. I know it might be frustrating, as I understand you were sitting up a lot in your last hospital, but we have to check for them ourselves. There are procedures we have to follow.’

  I nodded, waiting to hear when I could get going.

  ‘Once you’re able to get into the wheelchair, you’ll have half an hour in it and then we’ll check you for sores. The next day an hour, the following day an hour and a half …’

  My eyes glazed over as I totted up the number of days it would take to reach the required four hours in a wheelchair to begin physio. Eight days!

  Her voice cut back in. ‘Have you done a wheelchair transfer before? If you haven’t, we can spend a couple of days teaching you.’

  Ten days!

  ‘Umm, yes. Yes, I have,’ I said, glancing over to Lois who was standing behind the nurse, frowning at me.

  How hard can this wheelchair stuff really be?

  My grandad chair back at Bath had wheels, so it was practically a wheelchair. I didn’t think I’d mention that I had to be hoisted into that …

  ‘Do you want to show us, then?’ the nurse continued, positioning the wheelchair so it was next to my bed.

  ‘Right. Yes. Yes, I will … show you.’

  She helped me to the edge of the bed, and I eyed up the wheelchair. I glanced over to Lois. Her eyes were wide, but she was still my ally as she’d kept shtum.

  Staring at the wheelchair, I could feel the seconds ticking by.

  I’d just have to go for it.

  Without further ado, I launched myself at it. My backside was leading the way, flying through the air from the bed to the wheelchair. I tried to twist my body, and squeezed my eyes shut as one and a half cheeks found the canvas seat.

  The nurse frowned.

  ‘It was a bit of a dodgy one,’ I said hastily, shuffling the other half a cheek into the seat before she could put me back in my bed. ‘It was the pressure of being watched …’

  She smiled. ‘Well, perhaps we can go over your technique again another time.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Thank you,’ I responded. ‘Lois, do you fancy wheeling me out so we can take a look at the facilities?’

  Lois was around the nurse in a flash, and we both waved goodbye.

  ‘Be back in half an hour,’ the nurse called after us.

  ‘Bloody hell, Ed,’ Lois said, as she pushed me down the corridor, ‘a two-legged goat could have done that with more grace.’

  ‘Needs must, Lois.’

  When we were a bit further away from the bustle of the main wards, Lois let go and I decided to have a go at driving my new set of wheels. It was surprisingly easier than I had expected. My arms had gained enough strength in the last two weeks to push at the wheels, but both my hands were curled so my fingers rubbed on the tires.

  For the first time in nearly six weeks, I had my first taste of independence – I could choose in which direction I wanted to travel and when. It sounds pretty basic, but take it away and you’ll quickly miss it. We started with a lap around the gardens and I found myself stopping my wheelchair so that I could watch the bees gliding between the flowers. Lois waited patiently as I wheeled towards the sound of running water. One of the courtyards had a water feature that ran around its edge and I pushed my chair towards it. Within ten minutes, my whole outlook on the place had changed. I breathed in deeply as I surveyed the wide pathway that circled the gardens and idly wondered what the lap record of the outside path of the garden was.

  It’s amazing what a bit a fresh air and some freedom can do. But at the back of my head there was a small thought. I can’t believe that I’m the person who needs a wheelchair …

  I wheeled myself back inside and headed to the far end of the building and into an empty gymnasium. Lois patiently followed, obviously aware that I’d missed the freedom of being able to roam. I parked my wheelchair up behind some exercise bars and Lois sat down on the floor next to me. I think she knew something was up, but she also knew this was important to me.

  Four hours later, I took the brakes off my wheelchair and headed back to the ward. Wheeling myself back into my room, it wasn’t long before one of the nurses came in.

  I made sure I spoke before she had the chance. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s been longer than half an hour and I will take full responsibility if there are any signs of pressure sores. But take a look and I’m one hundred per cent sure you won’t find any. I was sitting up for eight hours a day in the last hospital and didn’t get any.’

  ‘We’ll take a look first,’ she said.

  She helped me transfer back onto the bed and gave me a thorough inspection.

  ‘You’re right, there’s no sign of them,’ she said, peeling her gloves off. ‘I can mark you down as fine to start physio.’

  I gave her a broad grin and she returned my smile, humming as she sorted out the necessary paperwork.

  Needs must.

  Chapter 9

  Rough With the Smooth

  By 10 a.m. the following morning, I realised that I’d drawn the short straw. I was at the end of the list of patients waiting for their morning routine to begin. Without a nurse to help me transfer to the toilet and shower, I couldn’t get going with my day and was still lying in bed. The staff were always apologetic. I knew it wasn’t their fault, but I was keen to start my second morning in a new hospital.

  After they’d helped me to the bathroom, I wheeled my way down to the garden room for ‘coffee club’. As I eyed up a large cake that one of the lovely volunteers had brought in, I tried not to think about the open gym session I’d missed that morning as I’d been lying in bed. At least I’d be meeting my new physio in an hour’s time. With Lois’s help, I slurped my dark roasted coffee through a straw and willingly accepted a few forkfuls of cake. Fed and watered, I rolled myself through the electric doors to a bright summer’s day.

  With Lois by my side, we wheeled around Horatio’s Garden, which had been designed especially for the spinal unit. If you’re imagining a few pansies and a couple of scraggy roses, think bigger, much bigger. It wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Chelsea Flower
Show and has even won several design awards.

  The garden was planted in memory of Horatio, the son of one of the consultant orthopaedic surgeons at Salisbury. Horatio had worked as a volunteer at the spinal unit one summer and was quick to point out there should be an outside space for the patients. Tragically, at the age of 17, Horatio died while he was visiting Norway on a group trip. Shortly afterwards, his mother and father decided to build a garden at the spinal unit as part of Horatio’s legacy, and some of the top names in gardening got involved. The idea spread, a charity in his name was set up and now there are four of these gardens in different spinal units around the country.

  As I wheeled myself around, admiring the subtle water features and vibrant blooms, I decided that outside of rehab, this was where I would spend all of my time. The inside of the hospital had seen better days but this garden more than made up for it. I silently thanked Horatio and his family for giving me this space to relax.

  All too soon, the hour was up and I rolled my way to one of the gymnasiums to meet my new physiotherapist, Kim. As Lois and I waited, we eyed up the equipment and tried to guess its use.

  Through the doorway bounded a woman with long brown hair who was full of smiles for both of us.

  ‘Hello, I’m Kim,’ she said. ‘I’ve read all your notes and I think we should get cracking.’

  Half an hour later, Kim had me standing again with the help of the standing frame and we had started to plot out a course for our future physio. I instantaneously liked her and so did Lois. She had Pete’s positivity and was clearly driven to get me up and walking.

  At the end of the session, she took me to the computer room. There were a few lonely desktop monitors scattered around and it was completely empty. My gaze was drawn to two other bits of equipment in the corner.

  ‘It’s a little sad, I know,’ Kim said, as she read our expressions. ‘Most people have an iPad or tablet now and don’t come in. So that’s why we decided to give it a dual use.’

  She followed my gaze over to the MOTOmed and the standing frame in the corner. Newer versions than the ones in Bath and, most importantly, free of other patients.

  ‘If I show you how to set up the MOTOmed,’ Kim said, ‘you could use it by yourself. I can also show Lois how to strap you into the standing frame and you can carry on with your rehab outside of our sessions.’

  My eyes lit up.

  I had a wheelchair. I was motivated. I had time.

  These three things should have meant that I was able to work on my rehab for most of the hours outside of physio, but it didn’t seem to be panning out that way.

  Due to my ability to hide in a gymnasium for four hours without getting caught, I’d been fast tracked through the wheelchair process to start physio. However, I was still only allowed to stay out in it for five hours a day and I needed the wheelchair to get to the equipment. My hopes for nine to ten hours of rehab a day had slowly disappeared.

  There were two barriers that I had to overcome. I had to learn how to transfer myself to the toilet and shower all by myself (Mum would be proud). I also had to start bending some rules when it came to my wheelchair time. I knew I was safe to sit in a chair for over five hours. I had enough movement to shift myself around to alleviate the pressure and I’d being doing this successfully back in Bath with no signs of pressure sores. I decided to take this decision into my own hands and spend more time in my wheelchair than was technically permitted.

  By my fourth day in Salisbury Hospital I set my first lap time of the gardens at a healthy one minute, twenty-three seconds – I needed to clean up my line going into the second corner. I’d also – for the second time in my life – worked out how to transfer to, and use, the toilet and shower by myself. The first time was when I was 2 years old, and was probably done with more finesse, but luckily I wasn’t being marked for style. Another chunk of my independence was wrestled back.

  Fortunately, I had Kim on the case to help strengthen my hands and legs at my next session. One thing I quickly realised about this stage of my physio, was that I would be spending a large part of my time being electrocuted. Mary Shelley hadn’t been far off the point when she envisaged electricity bringing about life in Frankenstein, because it certainly brings back life to dormant muscles.

  I was lying on my front as Kim expertly applied one of the pads of the FES machine onto a nerve ending and the other on the muscle at the back of my left leg. The electrical current would then link the pads and cause a contraction.

  ‘It won’t hurt,’ Kim said, as she checked the position of the pads again, ‘but it will produce a tingling sensation.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell you even if it did hurt,’ I responded.

  I wasn’t any stranger to this little machine as I would regularly use it during my rugby career after I’d had an operation. Therefore, the thought of electrocuting myself for the afternoon didn’t bring the same jitters as the tilt table had.

  Kim beamed at me as she pushed the button and I felt a tingling sensation run across the back of my thigh.

  ‘Do you think we should set a goal?’ she asked. ‘Something we can both aim for?’

  I thought about it. Setting small goals to reach a final target is always something I’ve responded well to. Obviously, my ultimate aim was to make a full recovery, but I needed something smaller to work towards. A stage one and two of three steps, if you will.

  ‘How about aiming to be discharged from hospital and being able to stand by myself, possibly walk?’ I asked.

  ‘They both sound like good things to aim for.’ She pressed the button again and the tingling sensation returned.

  Lying on my front, my attention was diverted by the flash of comedy monster socks that Kim had chosen for the day. They were the sort you’d receive for Christmas and possibly chuck to the back of your drawer. I wondered if she was low on laundry time at the moment.

  ‘You’ll need to do a few weekend visits first,’ Kim began. ‘And to be allowed home for the weekend you’ll have to able to master a car transfer …’

  I frowned guiltily as I thought of all the transfers I’d bodged over the last few days.

  ‘Then there’s a trip into town, an occupational therapist will have to visit your home and, finally, we need permission from the consultant.’

  I made a mental note of these points and decided that the car transfer was the first one I’d tackle.

  ‘Then, when you’ve had a few successful weekend stays, we need to think about your long-term catheter options when you’re discharged. But that’s much further down the line.’ She pressed the button. ‘We need to get you back on your feet first …’

  I had been given the news that someone else needed my side room and I would be moved to the main ward. I’d lucked out to have it for an extra six days, so, with Mum and Lois’s help, all my belongings were packed up and shifted to the eight-bed ward. I would be back with plastic curtains providing the illusion of privacy, sound muffling and solitude. The flip side of this was that, for the first time since my accident, I would be rubbing shoulders with people who had also sustained spinal injuries.

  I was eager to hear everyone’s story of how they’d ended up here. I’d imagined I would be meeting stunt drivers, sky diving instructors and maybe the odd matador. But, no; it turns out that people have these life-changing incidents as a matter of routine: surgery that hadn’t gone as planned; a dodgy dismount from a step ladder; car and motorbike accidents. One guy had soldiered on with a bulging disc and the whole thing had exploded when he’d picked up his toddler.

  I gained perspective on my life through looking at what had happened to others. And these injuries could happen to anyone. Everyone I met had been dealt a curveball and, like most curveballs, they’d happened when they were least expected and came from a direction that hadn’t been anticipated. Knowing this helped me to stop blaming myself. I’d often replayed the accident, wondering what I could have done differently. Meeting other people in my position gave me permissi
on to remove that element of blame. Accepting I had not failed in some way was a welcome release.

  As I wheeled myself around my new ward and made my introductions, I scanned my new group of contemporaries. They ranged in age from late teens to late eighties. A few of them couldn’t breathe by themselves so had ventilators to pump air directly into their lungs. This was life-changing in itself, as they could barely speak with this tube running into their necks.

  One of the patients, Nas, had decided to show me around. He had been in Salisbury for six months and was waiting to be discharged. We stopped by two of the hospital beds where a couple of the men were lying, staring straight at their TVs. I said hello but it took a few seconds for my greeting to register with them and it was clearly a strain for them to refocus their gaze on me.

  ‘You won’t get much out of them,’ Nas said, pulling his wheelchair next to mine. ‘They take the maximum amount of painkillers they’re allowed every morning and then wave goodbye to the day.’

  ‘So, they just watch TV all day?’ I asked.

  ‘Yup, probably don’t even try to change the channel when reruns of Antiques Roadshow come on.’

  Motivation had left them and it seemed that no one was encouraging them to claw it back.

  After thanking Nas for the tour, I rolled out of the ward. I wanted to sit in the garden, feel a bit of breeze on my skin. As I wound my way through the corridors, I started to realise how lucky I was with my current situation. Despite the doctors’ initial fears, I hadn’t sustained a complete spinal cord injury. There was still a chance that the messages from my brain could reach the right places.

  I had also been lucky to have a strong network of family and friends that encouraged and supported my recovery. Some of the people on the ward had no one to visit them regularly, or work with them on their rehab when the physios weren’t available.