Lucky

by Ed Jackson

  As we turned towards the registrar, the months of pain and uncertainty were all worth it, just to be here with her. I blinked away the tears and tried to focus on the words of the officiant. We started by sealing the letters we had written to each other to be opened on our ten-year wedding anniversary. As the ribbon was tied around them, I was overcome by a feeling of light-headedness. I put my arm out to steady myself. The heat was too much for me.

  The officiant frowned and whispered, ‘Are you all right? Shall I move it along a bit?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I whispered back.

  She whizzed through the next section and then we were repeating our vows.

  ‘Up until this moment,’ the officiant said, ‘you have been many things to each other. Acquaintance, friend, companion, lover and teacher. For you have learnt much from each other over these past years. You are now about to say a few words that will take you across a threshold in life. For after these vows, you shall say to the world, “This is my husband”, and, “This is my wife.” Can we have the rings, please, Rich?’

  Rich brought them over to us, his smile so wide that his eyes creased at the corners.

  I slipped the ring onto the end of Lois’s finger. ‘I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and faithfulness. As I place it on your finger, I commit my heart and soul to you. I ask you to wear this ring as a reminder of the vows we have spoken today, our wedding day.’

  I pushed the ring further onto her finger, but it was stuck.

  Lois laughed and tried to push it on.

  ‘It’s a bit warm,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a bit swollen,’ she responded, finally managing to get it on.

  The guests laughed and we relaxed into the moment.

  Lois placed a gold band onto the end of my finger. ‘I give you this ring to wear with love and joy. As a ring has no end, neither shall my love for you. I choose you to be my husband for this day and evermore.’

  ‘Ed, you may kiss your bride.’

  And I did.

  The cheers of our wedding guests drowned out the hum of the cicadas. I couldn’t stop watching Lois as she smiled at everyone. She had already proven that she would be by my side, for better or for worse.

  I took her hand and we walked back down the aisle together, as husband and wife.

  Our honeymoon was a more relaxed affair than we had anticipated. We spent our time sleeping, eating and exploring the countryside of Tuscany. We were both tired from the build-up to the wedding and needed to allow ourselves to do very little.

  When we arrived in Rome, on the last leg of the honeymoon, we were both beginning to feel like ourselves again. We had a friend who was from Rome and had given us a list of all the small restaurants that the Italians liked to keep to themselves, away from the tourist trail. We managed to get a table at one of them, squished into the corner, and we enjoyed hearing the chatter of the locals as we tried to guess what they were saying.

  I peered at the menu in the soft candlelight as I pondered my selection. I felt relaxed, happy … at peace. We had needed this time together to reconnect and plan what was coming next. Lois had started gently asking me about what I hoped to do in the coming months. I’d been pondering this for most of our honeymoon.

  ‘I think I’ve made a decision,’ I said, looking up at Lois.

  ‘Oh, yes? What are you going to have?’

  ‘Not from the menu, I can’t decide between four of the dishes.’ I shuffled closer on my small chair. ‘I meant what I’m going to do over the next few months.’

  Lois leant forwards.

  ‘I’m going to train to climb Mont Buet in France. And then I’m going to climb it.’

  ‘Mont Buet! But that’s, what?’ Lois wrinkled her brow. ‘Twice as high as Snowdon?’

  ‘Three times actually,’ I responded, grinning at her. ‘I think it will take two days to do.’

  ‘Two days!’

  I let Lois ponder it for a moment. I’d just sprung this news on her and she needed a moment to adjust.

  ‘It’s safe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  I had already decided not to mention the avalanche that had killed a skier a couple of years before. There was no need to worry her.

  ‘It’s just whether I’ll make it to the top. That’s the question. There’s the altitude to contend with, which we didn’t have at Snowdon, for a start.

  ‘Well, if you want to do it, I’ll fully support you,’ Lois said, taking a sip from her wine glass.

  ‘I want to climb it with lots of other people. Just like Snowdon. Only longer, higher and slightly more dangerous.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’d better start planning this.’

  A week after I got home from Italy, I received an important email. It was from Nas, my fellow patient at Salisbury Spinal Unit. He wanted to let me know that he had carried on with his rehab after I had been discharged and he was now able to walk with crutches.

  I leant back in the wheelchair that I used to sit at my desk – a daily reminder of what I could still be using – and thought of Nas walking around his newly modified flat. He hadn’t needed most of the modifications in the end as he’d decided to hope for something, even if it might not come to him.

  Back when I was in hospital, many people had said, ‘We don’t want to give you false hope.’ I was against this notion. What was wrong with false hope? Without it you were just left with ‘no hope’. I thought of all the people across the country who might have been held back with their recovery because of lack of hope or information.

  Hope had also provided me with other opportunities while I was striving for my original goal, because I had been open to new possibilities. Before my accident, I had thought a lot about what I would do after my rugby career ended in a few years’ time. I’d known that I would have to make a change and prepare for the future. So, in my mid-twenties, I had started studying for a degree and was halfway through a Masters in Real Estate Finance when my accident happened. I’d decided that when I grew up for the second time in my life, I was going to work in commercial property.

  Recently, I had been offered a couple of days a week working as an intern at a big firm in London, so I set off to the City. This was an area of work that a lot of ex-rugby players moved to when their careers had ended. Before my accident happened, I knew it would suit me perfectly. I would play golf at the weekends and possibly move back to Clapham, where I had lived early in my rugby career. I liked golf and I liked Clapham. So, why, at the end of my internship, didn’t I feel as enthused about it as I had been a few years ago?

  It was because the accident had changed me in more ways than one. It had altered my hopes for the future and my values as well. Once I was introduced to the joys of helping others and raising money for charity, I couldn’t let go of the idea that this was what I was meant to do. I allowed myself to hope that I would do this for the rest of my life. And somehow earn enough to provide food and shelter for me and Lois.

  Having been paid to speak at some conferences and business events, I had started to earn a bit of money. I did these alongside a lot of free charity and hospital talks. However, I hadn’t been prepared for one of the biggest surprises that was a consequence of my accident.

  A month after my wedding, I had a call from a production company who had apparently been silently stalking me at my talks. Unknown to me, they had attended a few and thought I would do well on television. Then came the news that made my head spin – Channel 4 had asked me to work as a reporter for the rugby season that was starting in November.

  I had been offered a job I wouldn’t have even thought about chasing. All because I took a different path from the one that was expected of me.

  I was going to be on TV!

  Chapter 17

  Ice Breaker

  Almost eighteen months after my accident, there were nineteen of us sitting around a large table in an oak-panelled chalet in France. It was the evening before we began climbing Mont Buet, and most
of us had only met for the first time a few hours ago. I was feeling the pressure to make this a success, as it was the first time I had attended a climb that was abroad. At three times the height of Snowdon, and with the altitude to consider, it was going to take two days to climb. I had no idea if my body was going to hold out for that long, but I was looking forward to testing myself.

  As I tucked into my starter, I realised that several of my co-hikers were staring intently into their soup bowls and saying very little. They had decided to raise money for Restart, the rugby charity that supports all premiership players in England and which had paid for my physio, by climbing a mountain with a bunch of strangers.

  I nudged my stepmum, Sue, who was sitting next to me. ‘Some of them haven’t said anything.’

  At that moment one of the organisers of the trip stood up and suggested that we all go around and introduce ourselves and explain why we were there.

  ‘Good idea,’ Sue said. ‘I’ll start the ball rolling.’

  Sue pushed her chair back and stood up.

  ‘I’m Ed’s stepmum, Sue. Ed’s dad and I have been together for thirteen years and I have a son who plays rugby as well. So, we’ve had a rugby family together for many years. But it wasn’t until seventeen months ago, when the biggest upset happened, that I became aware of Restart’s work. I was in the pool on the day … which was obviously very …’

  Sue stopped for a moment to gather herself and we all called out our encouragement for her to continue.

  ‘Sorry. It was very difficult. As I’m sure you can all imagine. Supporting Ed, his dad, his family and our melded family was my number one priority. I’ve seen what an amazing job Restart has done. I climbed Snowdon last year with Ed.’ Sue beamed around the table. ‘And when Ed asked me to come on this trip, I was so happy. It meant so much that he would want to include me.’

  I leant over and squeezed her arm and she smiled down at me.

  ‘It’s always difficult combining families,’ Sue continued, ‘but I hope you soon find out that I love Ed just as much as my own children. I am so thrilled with the improvement he’s made and all the help he has had. And that’s partly down to Restart, so I wanted to help him raise money for them.’

  After Sue’s brilliant start, there was hardly a dry eye in the place. One by one, we gave our own reasons for being there. There were ex-rugby players who wanted to return some of the help they had received, supporters of the rugby players’ union and a couple of people who wished to try climbing a mountain for the first time. Everyone gave their reasons and they were all good ones.

  The ice had begun to break, but all too soon we had to disperse and get some sleep, in preparation for the big day.

  The emotional charge of that evening was still with me in the morning. Although I hadn’t said it to anyone, I was hoping that I hadn’t taken on too much. I’d never walked for two consecutive days before, or up such a steep incline, and I’d never had to contend with altitude sickness. I knew that the first day would be easier, but would I be too tired to tackle the twelve-hour second day? There were so many variables that I’d tried to prepare for, but I couldn’t cover everything. As always, fear of the unknown was testing me. I had to put into practice what I’d always told myself – that the feeling of fear was always worse than the experience itself. I’d proven this to myself countless times.

  As we emerged from our chalet in Buet village and got into the cars that would take us to the start of our climb, we were met by a bright September sun that threatened a temperature in the mid-twenties by lunchtime. This may sound like the perfect climate, but it really wasn’t for this amount of physical exertion, especially for someone who couldn’t sweat properly. We would be staying overnight on the way up the mountain, so the bag I was carrying that morning was much heavier than I was used to. We had four kilometres to walk before lunch, which included 250 vertical metres.

  One of our guides for the next few days was a French man named Seb who quickly led us onto the first track. Within a few hundred metres, the steep angle we were walking at meant that every step required extra energy. We all fell silent as the reality of what our bodies were required to do over the next few days became clear. The winding path narrowed, and I slowly dropped to the back as I struggled with the uneven terrain. I tried not to get frustrated by being last and reminded myself how lucky I was to even be there. To my left was the open vista with its breathtaking views of the mountain range, and to my right was the rugged greenery and trees that clung to the mountain side.

  Seb stuck with me the entire way, helping me decide where to place my feet when needed. Our group began to stretch out as the fitter ones pushed ahead with another one of the guides.

  The morning passed relatively quickly, and we stopped for a lunch of doughy bread stuffed with slabs of ham and cheese. When climbing these types of terrain, my body will burn around seven thousand calories a day, whereas other people will burn between three and five thousand. I burn more calories than most people because I walk a bit like Quasimodo. It means that with every step I use more energy, closer to what another person would use if they were jogging. So plentiful meals were essential. We all ate well before setting off to cover the next seven kilometres that would take us a further 375 metres above sea level.

  Our pace was steady, and by 3 p.m. we reached the dormitory we would be sharing for the night. Judging by the looks of mild horror on some of my co-hikers’ faces, they hadn’t been prepared for the realities of sharing one dorm and one toilet with twenty other people. For my part, I didn’t mind too much about our accommodation standards as I hadn’t had much privacy on the hospital wards. However, I was annoyed that I had to bow out of the optional hike to a lake that was to the east of our lodge. My legs were burning and my knee had begun to swell so I had to be sensible. A couple of years ago, I would have been the first out of the door to visit a mountain lake that I could bathe in. But then, I reminded myself, eighteen months ago no one thought I would walk again – you win some, and you lose some.

  For the rest of the afternoon I sat outside our communal lodging. The mental focus required for hiking was an act of mindfulness for me and, although shattered, I felt at peace whenever I finished a day in the mountains.

  Despite this, I had begun to find it difficult to ignore the stares I was receiving from some of the French people who were also sharing our accommodation. All day, as we passed people descending the mountain and were overtaken by others ascending it, I had received an unusual amount of attention. The other hikers would look at my heavily strapped, slightly twisted leg and almost wince. I had noticed that Seb had stopped to talk to the other hikers when we had our regular breaks, but I couldn’t understand the rapidly fired French passing between them. Seb was a legend on these mountains. As one of the regular guides, it seemed as if he knew everyone and I had presumed that he was catching up with his associates and friends.

  Seb and the others returned from the lake just as the sun began to set outside our cabin. The first thing Seb did was make a beeline to check on me. I explained that my knee was aching less and that I would try to walk to the lake if I ever came back again. He sat down next to me and we watched the orange flares of the sunset sink below the horizon. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, I decided to ask him a question.

  ‘I know I’m not your “average” hiker but I’ve never received this many awkward looks. Do you know why?’

  ‘Ah, that,’ he said, in excellent English. ‘Some French people have strong opinions about these things. They do not understand why a man who struggles to walk would want to climb a mountain. Some think the notion is ridiculous and that you should keep yourself safe and away from further things that could injure you.’

  ‘Oh,’ I responded.

  Well, I had asked him a question. I should have prepared myself for an answer that perhaps I didn’t want to hear.

  ‘What were you saying to them on the climb up, then?’

  ‘I was telling everyone
your story. I wanted them to know that you had a reason for being here. And that it was a good one.’

  I smiled to myself.

  ‘Thanks, Seb,’ I responded, while gazing at the last rays of the sunset.

  We did not sleep well. But then, the odds were against us. In a dormitory of twenty people, there were bound to be several snorers who would keep everyone awake. After a couple of hours of tossing and turning, I slipped into a fitful sleep and probably added to the cacophony surrounding me.

  The evening before, Seb had told us we would split into two groups to make the final climb. I had been assigned to the slower of the two groups that would be setting off at 5 a.m. The fitter, more experienced group, would be leaving an hour behind us at six.

  Leaving the warm shelter, the first group stumbled into the darkness of the early morning. Each of us had a torch strapped to our head and the light shining out from it only picked out the few metres in front. Sue walked with me, our beams bobbing next to one another. As the path narrowed, we dropped into a single line, snaking our way up the first of the trails.

  As we climbed higher, the greenery around us died out and we were faced with the gravelled mountain side. We spread out and Seb began guiding my every step. The terrain we were now climbing was so steep it was close to vertical at some points. Everyone in our group had to use walking poles to help them navigate their way. The gravel-like texture of the mountain side meant my foot would often slip from beneath me. The closer we got to the summit, the more I relied on Seb to guide and support me. And this was all done with just our torch beams for light.

  I didn’t want to hold anyone up, and I certainly didn’t want the other group catching up with us straight away, so I only stopped when the first tentative rays of light began to emerge over the mountain range. All around us were the white tipped peaks of the Alps. Once again, I was reminded of how I never thought I would see these sights again.