Lucky

by Ed Jackson

  It wasn’t until I met other people who had similar injuries to mine that I was able to gain some perspective on my own circumstances. It’s so easy to get bogged down in your own story and concerns; but when I took the time to look around, it wasn’t difficult to find others who had been dealt trickier hands than my own.

  The next day, my friends had messaged to make plans for the weekend. It was one of the last days of May and baking hot outside. I was fed up with being the person who’d had an accident, the person who couldn’t walk, the person who had lived in a hospital for seven weeks. I didn’t want to be that guy today. On the spur of the moment, I responded and told them to meet me at the closest pub. Facing a weekend of no progress, I thought that a practise roll around town would take me closer to my long-term aim of being discharged. I wanted to make this trip, whether it was supervised, authorised, sterilised or not.

  When my dad and stepmum arrived, I told them my plan: we were going out, like a normal family does on a Saturday. I was expecting them to try to dissuade me but, instead, Dad nodded.

  ‘You’ve been practising your car transfers with Lois,’ he said. ‘And it’s best you try your first time out with me anyway. I can keep an eye on you.’

  I had my freedom pass from a medical professional. Perhaps not from my own medical professionals, and technically Dad was an ex-medical professional, but it was close enough.

  Packing up a large bag of all the things I could possibly need over the next two hours (medical gauze, anyone?), I got into my wheelchair and Dad and I made a break for it. I wish I could say that we had to hide behind laundry trolleys and nip into cleaning supplies closets to avoid detection, but that wasn’t the case. We didn’t see anyone on our way out and I nonchalantly glided out of the front door. Transferring to the passenger seat went as smoothly as I’d hoped and it was actually a little easier with Dad’s higher car.

  Driving through the countryside lanes, I had the window rolled down all the way, and was enjoying being blasted by the funnelling wind. If I could have stuck my neck-braced head out the window like Molly or Barry, I probably would’ve done.

  ‘Lois told me that your physio is going well,’ Dad said, as he slowed to drive over a small bridge.

  ‘Is it weird that sometimes I’m enjoying myself?’ I asked.

  The highs I’d been feeling with my recent wins were helping me sail through Monday to Friday at the hospital. I’d been practising standing every day with Lois, had become proficient in using my wheelchair and was now able to shower without anyone staring at me. The wins seemed to be rolling in thick and fast at the moment.

  ‘It’s healthy,’ Dad responded. ‘Better than if you were resenting it.’

  He was right.

  As we pulled up at the pub, my excitement surged. One nifty transfer later and Dad rolled me round to the garden at the back. There, sitting in a shady corner, were three of my friends, a fresh pint in my place and a menu laid out. Bliss.

  Under Kim’s careful guidance I’d started to see signs of life sparking up in my left foot. One of those shy toes had started to wiggle. Although the movement was small and sporadic, it was reassuring to know that the messages were making their way down my weaker left side.

  Kim had decided to up the ante by introducing me to the parallel bars. Fortunately, the ones she had in mind were a lot closer to the ground than those featured at the Olympics. The idea was that I would learn how to take my first steps while holding on to a bar with each hand.

  My left leg was the main stumbling block. Despite Kim and the occupational therapist shocking it as often as they could, I had no power in my ankle, hip flexor or hamstring. This meant that I couldn’t lift my foot off the ground. Think about how you walk for a moment. Now imagine trying to walk without being able to lift your foot off the ground – maybe even give it a go. Even if I could drag my leg along for any amount of time, it obviously wasn’t something I could consider long-term. It would put unnecessary pressure on my right leg and I’d probably end up spending most of the day on the floor.

  Maybe it might have been frustrating to know that half of my body was refusing to join in, but it didn’t feel like it at this stage. I was feeling really positive about it and could see more scope for recovery. It was actually a relief to be upright and practising a walking motion – it was a huge milestone for me.

  The following morning, I was informed that another essential stage in my progress would be dealt with. My catheter was going to be removed. I’d started to get some sensation back, so it was hoped that I was ready to take control of my bladder again. The curtains were pulled around my bed and the nurse gently eased the catheter out. We then had to wait for me to go ‘oui oui’ to check that it had worked.

  It hadn’t. I couldn’t pee; the messages were still getting blocked. To prevent any damage to my bladder, the catheter would have to be put back in again. I was reassured that this was common, and they’d try taking it out again in a few days. I wasn’t disheartened; I knew it was a first attempt. The stronger I got, the more easily the messages would flow between my brain and the rest of my body.

  I listened to my playlist as the nurse put my catheter back in – a quick-fix distraction while something uncomfortable was happening. At the end of my playlist, I looked up. The nurse was frowning.

  ‘I’m just going to get a colleague,’ she said, before disappearing behind the curtain around my bed.

  Five minutes later, an older nurse came back, and I started my playlist up again. Halfway through, I realised something wasn’t right. There was a poking and tugging sensation that was bordering on painful.

  ‘I’m just going to find the matron,’ the senior nurse said. ‘She’ll know what to do.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the matron of the ward was by my side. She took a quick look and then had a go herself.

  ‘It’s getting stuck towards the end,’ the matron said. ‘I think there’s a false passage. Don’t worry, it’s very common. But I’m just going to get a doctor.’

  Half an hour later, the curtain was snapped back by one of the registrars for the spinal unit. Plastic gloves were put on and she got to work. I tried to watch a film on my iPad in an attempt to block out the three people around my bed who were all intently focused on one very specific part of me. For once I was actually grateful for having no sensation down there.

  ‘I’m just going to get the consultant,’ the registrar said, after admitting defeat. ‘She’s on her rounds, but I’ll grab her as soon as I can.’

  An hour passed.

  ‘Right, let’s see what I can do,’ the consultant said, as she leant closer. I was on my second film now and fifth catheter fitting.

  The consultant was a little more forceful, maybe because she was more confident in her abilities as head of the ward. Twenty minutes later I glanced down. It didn’t seem to be going well. I was sweating from the continuous procedures and just wanted a shower and a bit of peace. And to pee.

  ‘I’m just going to contact a colleague in the urology ward,’ the consultant said, while removing her gloves.

  Ninety minutes later, in rode a consultant urologist to hopefully save the day.

  I braced myself for more prodding and poking as I eyed up the small instrument with a bend at the end that he had brought with him. Hmmm …

  I took my mind away, thought of the Pacific Coast, Lois, the adventures we’d had and might have again. Anything to not be here.

  ‘All done,’ the consultant urologist said. ‘I managed to get the tube past the false passage created by the last catheter and it’s in place now.’

  Five and a half hours had passed, and I was back to where I was first thing that morning.

  Sometimes, though, you have to take the rough with the smooth. Not every step takes you forwards; sometimes you have to turn around and start again.

  Chapter 10

  The Small Stuff

  ‘And you’re sure you are ready for this?’ Mum asked, as she helped wrestle me into my
swimming shorts. ‘It isn’t too soon, is it? It might be too soon …’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ I responded, as I tried to help her by lifting my left leg with my arms.

  It was time to get back in the water. Kim was keen to start hydrotherapy with me, which is a fancy way of saying ‘exercising in a swimming pool’. The irony of using a pool to help me recover from an accident I’d had in a pool was not lost on me. I probably should have been apprehensive, maybe even scared, about getting back into water, but I didn’t feel that way. I’ve always loved water and nearly concentrated on swimming rather than rugby in my early teenage years. People should face their fears, not bury them. Also, I’d like to clarify that I’m not poolist. The swimming pool in Salisbury had never wronged me and odds were that it would stay that way. I’ve dived into thousands of pools and only one has had it in for me.

  Swimming shorts on, I chucked a T-shirt over the top and wheeled myself down to the pool to meet Kim. She was standing next to what looked like another torture device. It was a mechanised chair that was bolted to the edge of the pool with straps across it. I can only assume that it was originally designed for quadriplegics who were suspected of being witches.

  Sitting in my new chair, I was slowly lowered into the water. It felt good. I was beginning to recognise different sensations across parts of my skin and the soft touch of the water was familiar and welcome. Kim hopped into the pool and positioned an inflatable ring with a rope attached to it under me. Our first task was to help me acclimatise to the water and see if I could start kicking. Leading the way, Kim walked in a circle around the pool, pulling the rope as I serenely sailed after her. I felt a bit like a show pooch at Crufts. I gave a few little kicks and noticed how much stronger my right leg was compared to my left one.

  Next, I was manoeuvred so that I was upright. The warm water supported my limbs and I experienced an ease of movement that I hadn’t felt in a long while. In the shallow end, we practised kneeling and strengthening my core. Kim then suggested we try something that I’d been waiting for.

  Holding on to both of my hands, she guided me forwards. Right leg leading, followed by the left, I took my first tentative steps. I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined that I was nimbly weaving my way down a busy high street. No one stared at me – I was just a man getting from A to B.

  Later that afternoon, I wheeled myself into the computer room to have a go on the standing frame by myself. Another patient, Rick, who was in his late thirties and was also in a wheelchair was using the MOTOmed. He’d frequently be in the gym at the same time as me and we’d struck up a friendship, motivating each other to keep going with our rehab.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Rick said, popping his head around from the MOTOmed. ‘I saw you did another lap of the gardens yesterday. Set a good time?’

  ‘One minute, two seconds. I want to get under the minute mark tomorrow if I can,’ I responded, lining up my wheelchair in front of the standing frame.

  Rick let out a low whistle. ‘I think that must be the best time for the quadriplegics.’

  My garden laps had caught on. We’d all decided on an official circuit that took us around the central island of flowers with the trellis archway being the start and finishing point. I’d often sit out in the sunshine watching the other patients try to beat their best times. Even a couple of guys in the electric wheelchairs had joined in. I admired their nerves of steel as they gamely took the corners in their bulky, motorised wheelchairs.

  ‘I’m still hovering just below the minute mark,’ Rick added. ‘It should be lower than that. It’s that big bush on the last corner. I always lose my nerve and swerve too far to the left to avoid it.’

  Rick was paraplegic so had retained the strength in his upper body, unlike me. He’d injured his lower back picking up one of his children and was desperate to get home to his family. He worked hard every day and set high standards for himself.

  I pulled myself up and tried to hold myself steady. ‘Ah, yes, the “Rhododendron of Doom”. It’s taken many a good man out.’

  Standing was getting easier, compared to my first wobbly attempt back in Bath. I tried to hold myself still and took a deep breath. As long as I could avoid a spasm in my left leg and had something solid to hold on to, I was now able to stand unassisted. This also meant that I had finally recovered the advantage of being able to pee standing up once my catheter was removed. As well as going to the toilet, having the strength in my core to stand helped me with transfers, reaching things, seeing over hedges and scaring people who hadn’t seen me for a while – all important skills.

  Exactly two months after my accident, the hospital gave me a present by taking off the white plate that covered the top of my chest. It had been my constant, weighty companion since my accident. It made my skin itch when it was hot outside and sleeping uncomfortable. I still had to wear my neck brace, but I felt so much lighter and freer without half a stormtrooper outfit on. Although I was much more vulnerable to lightsaber attacks, it was a risk that I was willing to take for the comparative comfort it provided.

  I had a new enemy now anyway – The Sneeze. When I’d first arrived at Salisbury, the other patients would greet me in an untraditional manner, ‘Morning, did you sleep well? Have you sneezed yet?’ Their question made complete sense to me as a spinal injury patient. Sneezes were no longer an annoyance, they were fearful. A ball of energy blasting up your spine is not something you want to dabble in. I had therefore come up with several elaborate ways of either preventing sneezes or holding them in. If neither of these worked, I would screw my face up and sneeze like a dog to reduce any damage.

  The first night spent without my body armour on, I was caught up in a surprise sneezing fit. On they went as I screwed up my face and tried to minimise the damage. The next morning, I could feel that something wasn’t right. Explaining what had happened to a nurse, I was told that I couldn’t have physio that morning, had to stay in bed for most of the day and might need a scan. All because of a sneeze.

  That evening I was given the all-clear to leave my bed, so I wheeled myself down to the communal TV room. Ten wheelchairs were positioned in a line in front of the TV. I backed myself into a space between Rick and Nas. Top Gear was on and I settled back to admire the cars I couldn’t afford and which were so low I probably wouldn’t be able to get out of. If someone gifted me one, I’d just have to live in it.

  I looked up to see Souto coming through the door. He’d regularly drive down in the evenings after work to sit with me either in the garden or TV room. I lifted my arm to greet him.

  ‘All right, Ed?’ he said, as he entered with a large bag of Doritos tucked under his arm.

  He stood in front of us and went down the line, fist bumping each of us in turn. ‘All right, Nas, Rick, Claire, Laura, Dom …’

  Souto stopped in front of Dom, his hand stretched out as Dom stared at it.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ Souto said, ‘forgot you can’t move your arm.’

  I winced as Souto went to fist bump Dom’s forehead instead. Dom didn’t seem to mind and made an effort to move his head to meet Souto halfway. Souto carried on down the line greeting each of them in turn and remembering everyone’s name before taking a seat in the middle.

  ‘What are we watching, lads?’ he asked, as he opened his bag of crisps.

  ‘Top Gear,’ Dom responded. ‘They’re taking a road trip across Cuba.’

  I only half listened as Souto and Dom discussed which cars they wanted. I’d been distracted by something out of the corner of my eye. Nas was tapping his foot along to the music playing over the top of the programme.

  ‘Nas,’ I said, ‘your foot’s moving.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? I can move it a bit.’

  ‘But you told me you’d never walk again. If you can move your foot then there might still be a chance.’

  Rick peered over at Nas’s foot. ‘It’s definitely tapping.’

  ‘Why don’t you come down to the gym with me and Rick tomorrow m
orning?’

  ‘Nah, no point,’ Nas said. ‘Just waiting for my flat to be fixed so I can get my wheelchair in.’

  Nas had been left paraplegic after a car accident and had been told early on that it was very unlikely he would walk again. Since then he’d given up hope of any sort of recovery. He wasn’t on great terms with a lot of the staff, but was always friendly to the patients. He refused to take part in physio as he didn’t see the point if he wouldn’t be able to walk again. He’d been waiting to be discharged for the last two months while his flat was being made wheelchair accessible.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Rick said. ‘There’s not much else to do around here.’

  ‘Pick you up at nine?’ I said to Nas.

  He sighed. ‘Okay, but I’m only doing an hour.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ I responded, pleased that we’d at least get him down to the gym.

  The next afternoon I made my way over to physio with Kim. As promised, Nas had been ready by nine that morning and had followed Rick and me down to the gym. I’d shown him what exercises might help, Rick put on some terrible Eighties music and all three of us began our circuits of reps. Chatting over the top of the music, I suggested that I’d ask my mum to make us some sweatbands and then we could do a proper Eighties montage. Nas seemed to enjoy himself and even said he would come back with us the next day.

  I smiled to myself as Lois and I entered the larger rehab room. Eyeing up Kim’s sock choice of the day (Bart Simpson), I wheeled myself over to the parallel bars.

  ‘I’ve thought of a way I could get a few more sessions of hydrotherapy. Once a week really isn’t enough,’ I said, as Kim checked my posture. ‘What if I joined the onsite gym as a member of the public? I could then have access to the pool during the public swimming times. If Lois was with me, it would be safe.’

  Kim and I were always coming up with ways to get around the system so I could have more rehab time. I was definitely thinking outside the box with this one. The pool at the spinal unit was also used as public leisure facilities. People from the spinal unit had limited access to the pool so as not to disturb the gym members and baby classes. But there was nothing to stop me joining the gym and having access to the pool.