Never Broken

by Hannah Campbell

  One of the physio team wasn’t happy about me going home as they were concerned about how I would cope with one leg. What they didn’t seem to register was I’d been coping with only one leg for years as my foot had been so damaged I couldn’t use the leg anyway. This meant I knew how to move my body to get up and down stairs, how to use the toilet and have a bath. I had such trouble convincing them, but I just fought them every step of the way so I could get home and see Milly. I had to show them I could do necessities like getting in and out of a bath and in and out of bed. They told me not to go up and down stairs as they were worried I’d hurt myself, so I lied, omitting to tell them my parents’ former watermill is three storeys high, and said I was going to sleep in my parents’ lounge on their ground floor. In my mind as I was agreeing to it I was thinking: ‘There’s not a hope in hell’s chance that is happening! I will be sleeping on the top floor, in my old bedroom, like a normal person.’

  The first thing I did when I arrived at my mum’s was to crawl up two flights of stairs just to prove to myself I could do it. Even though I was still exhausted from the coma, I had no pain at all from the amputation. It was the first time in years I was free from the burden of my damaged leg and I felt incredible – it was like I was throwing off the chains of my former life. That is the only thing I’ve got the coma to thank for, as I was unconscious for the period when I would have been suffering from phantom limb pain. Even now I don’t really get it. What I do sometimes experience is a feeling like little electrodes of pain tingling in my lower limb where my leg used to be.

  My heart nearly burst with joy when Milly came home from school and flung her arms around me in my wheelchair, excitedly screaming: ‘Mummy!’ I just held her so tight and cried with happiness. Then I told her: ‘Mummy will never leave you again.’ She then looked at my leg and shook it like a handshake, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. ‘Hello, Twinkle,’ she said when she did it. I don’t know where the name came from, but that’s what she called my stump and the name’s stuck.

  Then that was it as far as Milly was concerned. Mummy was back with one leg and Twinkle the stump, and that’s how life was. It’s never been a big deal and it still isn’t. That night, Milly slept with me in bed and it was wonderful to be able to cuddle her. The next few weeks were great! My mum and dad were amazing. Jamie flew over as regularly as he could from Ireland while he continued to work and arrange to move house back to the UK.

  Every day I was getting my strength back, I was spending time with Milly, playing with her and reading her bedtime stories. It was like my life was finally coming together. I couldn’t wait to get to Headley Court as I knew that was when I was going to transform myself forever.

  The second day after my hospital discharge I rang Blesma and said: ‘Please can I have one of your spaces, I want to run in the London Marathon. Actually, please can I have two as I want somebody to run with me because I’ve only just lost my leg and if I get stuck, they are going to push me in my wheelchair.’

  The woman on the phone was lovely. She said: ‘How far down the line are you?’

  ‘Just a few weeks,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t even got my first prosthetic leg yet.’

  Even she was surprised, but she said, ‘OK.’ She knew it was achievable as they work with amputees.

  That night I announced to my family: ‘I’ve confirmed my two places in the London Marathon next year.’ Even then they were a bit disbelieving but I just quietly got on with it and I knew with the help I was going to get at Headley Court, I had a fighting chance of completing it. The irony was I didn’t even particularly love running – I ran because I had to as I was in the Army and it was a part of Army life. But I also wanted to prove to my family I wasn’t hallucinating when I said I’d do the marathon. I was determined to do it and I knew I would.

  ‘Just you watch me!’ I thought.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HEADLEY COURT

  Being at Headley Court in the summer of 2010, shortly before the anniversary of my blast, was like going back to my first days of early training. It was a chance for me to mentally and physically immerse myself in a place I knew and loved. Even when it was tough, I relished every second of it. I knew it was the beginning of me getting my life back. Equally important was the fact I became one of the lads again. It was just like old times and although I was a novelty, as the only girl, it was great to be part of a gang again.

  Even though Captain Kate Philp had been there before to recuperate with her injuries, she was an officer. As I was just a normal soldier I had the same status as most of the lads, which in my mind meant I belonged. The other guys there at the same time as me were so supportive. Finally, I felt I had people to communicate with who truly knew what I was feeling. When I was in the gym they’d push me to work hard to keep up with them. During all my physio sessions, if they did an hour of weights then I’d do an hour, too. There was no way I was going to let anyone, male or female, get the better of me! The effect it had on me was brilliant and for the first time in years I felt like I was in control of my own body, not the other way around, and I was fast making progress.

  Headley Court is run day-to-day very much like the Army. They take a roll call every morning at 8.30am after breakfast and you have to be there, no excuses. Initially, I had six months rehabilitation on a rotation of three weeks on and three weeks off, with weekends at home. Inside, there’s a fully functioning hospital; I was put in a room there for the first six months but because I was coming and going I didn’t have a chance to add any homely touches, although I always put a photo of Milly next to my bed. I was supplied with a wheelchair and I was taught to use it. Around Headley Court, everywhere had been adapted for wheelchair users – wider doors, big bathrooms and lift buttons you could reach easily. When I first arrived I was already used to seeing people with single amputations and even double amputees, so I didn’t bat an eyelid even though there were quite a few of them. I was shocked at first, though, when a young man walked in who was a triple amputee. But I couldn’t help but be inspired by him as he strolled into the room as it made me determined – if he could do it, I could too. You saw all sorts of injuries at Headley Court, so after being there that first time there wasn’t anything that could shock me. Rather I was in awe of the men’s determination to achieve and recover despite often devastating injuries.

  While I was desperate to get walking on my prosthetic, first I had to master my wheelchair as I couldn’t go out until the occupational therapist was confident I could manage alone, but the rehab was so intensive that at first I was too exhausted to go out anyway. Once they were happy I was competent, I was downgraded to standard living accommodation: a room adapted for wheelchair users with an en suite shower. There was a single bed with a view out over the grounds. Decorated in standard military magnolia, it was no-frills and functional. I didn’t even unpack my suitcase when I was there – I spent all the time I could concentrating on my rehab.

  The food was amazing at Headley Court. It was tailored to help those who had gained weight after they’d become sedentary due to injury: there was a salad bar, fresh sandwiches made to order and low-calorie hot food. In addition to the healthy options there were chips and comfort food for the diehards. Compared to standard Army fare, it was amazing!

  Every day, everyone has to head to the gym, no matter what their disability. Anyone from a triple amputee to someone with a brain injury must push themselves to the limit. It didn’t matter what was wrong with you, you just had to get on with it, doing things like weights to music, which was led by an instructor at the front of the gym. If you’re a triple amputee and you can’t pick up the weights they are using, you are just given another set – there is absolutely no exception made for you whatsoever. While it may sound harsh, it is that lack of compromise that gets people motivated. That attitude was one of the main things that kept me going in there and which has kept me going since. Quite simply, you don’t have time to moan or dwell on what’s happened to y
ou; you just have to crack on and deal with it.

  Obviously, while my condition was serious, there were other people in there who were far worse off than me. Seeing them do well in physical exercise made me think, ‘Well, if they can do it, I can do it, too.’

  You do an hour’s exercise in the morning then you are allocated a personal instructor, with whom you do one-to-one physical training for the rest of the day. That involves something low-key like stretching to something much more strenuous such as wheelchair boxing – one of only a few contact sports you can do from a chair.

  One day I was sick but I still took part in a boxing class. Everyone took a ‘no excuses’ attitude. Regularly I did about five hours of physical activity a day, only stopping for lunch in-between. Despite still being in my wheelchair I lost nearly a stone in ten days due to the sheer physical exertion. I examined my face and arms every day to see if I was losing weight as I could literally feel it dropping off me. It was hard work physically but it was worth it. My whole focus was to get fit and then get fitted with my prosthetic leg. As I’d committed to the London Marathon and told Milly I was doing it, there was no way I was letting her down and not taking part.

  Even though there were times I felt I couldn’t go on and every muscle in my body ached, I stuck with it. I felt I was starting to take control of my body again and this in turn was helping to focus my mind. My mood swings were starting to go and my outlook on everything was changing. Instead of being a novelty, sleeping well at night became the norm – I was so physically exhausted. My confidence grew massively and when I went home for a few days’ rest I couldn’t wait to tell Jamie and Milly what I’d achieved. It was a fantastic feeling and, mentally, I was transforming: the old me was coming back.

  The medics at Headley Court try and get you on a prosthetic limb as quickly as possible. Your first leg is a leg in name only as it’s more of a metal pole with a foot on the end. After just one week I had my first fitting at the prosthetics clinic. Barely able to sleep for excitement the night before, as I went down I thought: ‘This is it, I’m going to get my leg and walk straight away!’ In retrospect that was terribly naive. The brutal reality was that when the prosthetic was strapped around my stump and I was eased between the two parallel bars you are meant to walk between, I just fell to the ground – I was too fat to use my prosthetic. I just burst into tears and cried and cried. It seemed I was trapped in a vicious cycle – unable to exercise as I struggled to put weight on my new titanium leg – but without exercise unable to lose the weight.

  Worse still was that after I’d had my leg amputated my body had gone into shock and all my hair had begun to fall out. It had started when I had a shower just a few weeks after coming out of the coma. Relaxing, letting the water wash over me, I began to shampoo my hair. When I started to lather it up a massive clump of my hair came out. I just screamed. It was lying there at the bottom of the cubicle. As the water rained down on me I stood there, crying.

  ‘Oh, my God, can anyone throw anything else at me?’ I thought. It was devastating. In fact, it was worse than losing my leg. It felt like my femininity was going. I was fat, I only had one leg and now I was going bald. The next three weeks were horrendous as each day I noticed more of my hair was falling out in clumps in the shower. It felt like every time I washed it more fell out.

  Initially, I went to the doctor and said: ‘My hair is falling out.’ But as it’s so thick it wasn’t immediately apparent.

  He said: ‘It happens for lots of reasons like stress. Have you got any bald patches?’

  I said: ‘No,’ as I didn’t at that point.

  ‘That rules out alopecia, then,’ he replied. He seemed to think I was losing a few strands like women sometimes do at the end of pregnancy, not the sheer volume that was dropping out of my head. It came out in clumps from my hairbrush and out in the shower – huge amounts, balls of it. So I put a zip-lock freezer bag next to my bed to collect the tufts that kept dropping out. I wanted to show him the evidence of what was happening so he would understand this was anything but a few strands.

  But I never needed to show him. By the time I went back to the doctor, it was clear all of my hair was going as I was left with only baby fluff on my head and a few long tufts. It looked like mange. I was pretty much inconsolable at that time and I feared it would never come back. He diagnosed me with telogen effluvium, a temporary form of hair loss brought on by surgery, major physical trauma or stress – so I ticked every box. I could barely bring myself to look in the mirror; it was devastating.

  The nurses were brilliant; they told me from the start they were sure this was only a temporary thing and it was just my body’s reaction to shock. I had a brilliant welfare officer at Headley Court, who had battled cancer, so she understood the impact it had on me straight away and she made enquiries about wigs. The charity Help for Heroes stepped in and paid for me to have human hair wigs until it grew back, which enabled me to face the world. I’d get up in the morning before putting on my wig and check my head. If I saw a few tufts of stubble I’d say, ‘Oh, it’s definitely grown a little bit – I’ve got a little bit more bum fluff!’

  With the charity’s help I was able to choose a blonde wig. I got the wig fitted while I was on leave from Headley Court and when I came back all the guys were like, ‘Wow, Hannah, you’re blonde! I’m loving the new hair.’

  I had to tell them not to be so daft – I was wearing a bloody wig! They wouldn’t have known, though, until I told them but they were all brilliant about it and no one said anything negative. The medical staff were great as well and as I couldn’t wear wigs to do physio, the nurses would try and plait the few chunks of hair I did have to make me look better. No one ever made me feel self-conscious. I think everyone felt really sorry for me after everything I’d been through as this was like a final kick in the teeth. Going bald was one of the few times in my life where I actually cried properly in front of people as I was just so gutted that it was happening to me.

  I remember Nikki came round and I wailed: ‘What else can be thrown at me? What the hell else do I have to go through?’ She just hugged me and said that it was going to be all right and this was a small setback on my road to recovery.

  Her kindness made me cry even more and I shouted: ‘I’m the fattest, now the baldest one-legged woman out there! What on earth is coming next?’

  The only thing that stopped me going completely off the rails about it all was the fact that my hair started growing back pretty much straight away, albeit in random tufts. Once I knew it wasn’t going to last forever I even let Milly watch me put my wig on when she walked into my room. I didn’t try to hide it. I just said: ‘Mummy’s hair is going to grow back and look, it’s started already,’ and I let her touch my stubble.

  As soon as it got long enough I had hair extensions put in: first, blonde and then bright red. I found an amazing hairdresser near Headley Court, who would either come in or visit my house and sort everything out for me. After my hair grew back, I became much more conscious of it and I still am, in fact. I was so grateful to feel feminine again and it gave me a whole new understanding of what it means to lose that part of you, especially for a woman.

  While dealing with my loss of hair I started to acknowledge the fact that despite still being nineteen stone, I needed to find a way to walk properly so I could fulfil my marathon dream. I had by that time managed to walk a few faltering steps between two metal parallel bars at the prosthetics department. It was agony on my new man-made limb but I felt despite my weight it was a start. The physio kept telling me not to do too much but once I get tunnel vision about something, there’s no stopping me.

  With massive exertion, after about four weeks of rehab at Headley Court I actually managed to walk down the corridor for the first time. Jamie had brought Milly in to pick me up, as it was the weekend. I slipped on the prosthetic and despite it being uncomfortable, I thought: ‘I am damn well going to wear it!’ Milly and Jamie stood waiting at the end of the corrid
or about 20 metres away, and for the first time I walked down to meet them.

  I shouted: ‘Hey, can’t you notice anything? I’ve just walked down the corridor to meet you – I’ve started to walk again!’

  Milly started screaming with excitement and Jamie hugged me and shouted: ‘Oh, my God!’ We were just so happy. It was an incredible moment. That was the first time Jamie had seen me walking properly in years. I don’t think Milly had any memory of me walking before the blast – she was too young.

  That weekend I went home with them and I just wouldn’t take the leg off at all except when it was time to sleep. I was so desperate to learn to walk and so delighted to be upright for the first time in years. I was supposed to use crutches but I was so eager to get back to normal that I didn’t bother with them. After I got my first prosthetic I rarely used my wheelchair again. Ironically, I’d been issued a custom-made wheelchair as I was finally disabled enough to need one. You are allowed to choose whatever you want so I chose luminous pink with a black trim. The company didn’t do pink without you having to pay an extra cost, which Headley Court told me they wouldn’t cover. The next best thing was black, although I felt a bit disappointed. Then, I got a phone call from the manufacturer, who said they’d decided not to charge me. So they made me this bright hot pink wheelchair, which now lives in my basement. While I do have to keep it in case I ever need to use it, I vowed never to get in it and to date I rarely have.

  I had only been at Headley Court for a matter of months when I decided to spend some of my Army compensation money for my injuries on something just for me. After my initial payment in 2007 for my injuries, I received a second compensation payment in 2010 following the amputation of my leg and a diagnosis of phantom limb pain, which will trouble me for life and which can be a side effect of blast injuries. As part of my compensation I received an inflation-proof Army pension for which I’m incredibly grateful to the Army. The reality is that with my injuries I wouldn’t be able to hold down a ‘normal’ job as I can’t stand on my feet all day. Or if I got a skin infection in my stump, I’d have to take weeks off work, as I’d be off my leg. This payout meant I’d not face financial hardship in the future and while I’d still need to work, I could take a job that I’m physically able to do.