by Chris Birch
That Sunday lunchtime it was relatively quiet, the rugby field that had been packed the day before with bustling crowds now lay empty, the tall towers of the rugby goalposts looming above it.
Feeling a little bored, I searched the horizon for something to entertain myself, but there wasn’t anyone around.
'Dare you to roll down the hill,' I said, tapping Simon on his arm and nodding towards the grassy verge in front of us.
It was hardly Mount Everest but with a twelve-foot incline it was the most challenging feat I could come up with.
'Let’s see who gets to the bottom first,' Simon suggested, everything was a competition with us.
I quickly lowered myself down to the ground and pushed off with my feet. Rolling, the world around me resembled the contents of a washing machine. Then it was over. I looked behind me and could see Simon and Nathan landing, just seconds later, either side of me.
'I WON!' I shouted and raised my arms above my head.
I looked down, my body was covered with clumps of freshly mown grass.
'Let’s go again,' I suggested, before running up the hill.
When I reached the top, Simon and Nathan were walking away, they hadn’t heard me.
Shall I walk down, or roll? I thought.
In that split-second, I made a decision that would change the rest of my life. Taking a deep breath and bending my knees, I began rolling myself down the hill, feeling the bumpy ground bashing my body. But, on this second roll, I felt a sharp pain in my neck as I made my descent.
'Argh!' I shrieked, before tumbling again.
As my body continued to roll a sudden stabbing pain took my body hostage, from my lower back right to the top of my spine.
What’s happening?
Chapter Six: Getting Back Up
At the bottom of the hill I opened my eyes to see Simon and Nathan peering over me. I wondered how they had got there so quickly.
How long have I been lying here for?
The sky and their heads were spinning, as though I was a cartoon character who, after a bash on the head, has stars circling above them. I felt a sharp ache and a pulsating sensation in my skull. I tried to pull myself up, but my arm wouldn’t coordinate with me; it wasn’t moving properly. Simon’s face started to frown.
'Are you OK?' he said. 'Chris? CHRIS?'
It felt like minutes passed before I realised I hadn’t answered so, with all the energy I could muster, I pulled a sentence together.
'I-I-I th-th-think I hit ... my head,' I slurred.
Simon took one arm, Nathan the other and they slowly pulled me onto my feet. But my legs were like jelly, not strong enough to hold me up. I slid down and so they draped my arms over their shoulders and held me up again.
'I must have hit a rock, or something,' I said, trying to make sense of the way I was feeling.
'Come on, stop laying it on,' Simon laughed, and then rolled his eyes.
Focusing on the floor to stop the world around me from spinning, it felt like I was still rolling down the hill, over and over. When I didn’t reply, Simon realised I wasn’t messing around.
By now, my hand was doing what I told it to. I kept lifting it up to feel my head, expecting it to be stained with blood. But my fingers came away clean. I was so sure I had cut my head but I couldn’t find where.
'There’s no marks, no blood or anything,' Simon said, peering over my skull.
I patted my head dumbly, unable to believe it.
'Let’s get back,' my little brother panicked.
The walk home was downhill and scared I would fall over again, I leant hard on Simon. Nathan’s house was in the other direction so he left us.
‘Let me know if he’s OK,' he shouted after us, worried.
It was a sombre way to end our jovial morning. By the time we got back home, I had stopped feeling like I was on a big dipper. I plonked myself on the sofa and tried to work out what had happened. There was no blood, there was no bump on my head, yet the searing pain in my skull was still there.
'We better go and see Nan,' I told Simon, grabbing my car keys from the kitchen side.
'Are you gonna be OK to drive?' he asked, his face scrunched up with doubt.
'Yeah, I’m OK,' I lied.
It was enough to reassure Simon, who shrugged and grabbed the card we had bought for Nan. The pounding beat in my head was growing more intense, like the bass of an electro dance song. But I didn’t want to let Nan down. She would be expecting us. The visiting hours were between two and four p.m. and I knew if they passed without us appearing at her bedside she would worry that something had happened.
She was tiny, my nan, in fact, I could rest my elbows on her shoulders when she stood up. Imagine the stereotypical Nanna, grey hair, glasses, delicate little lady ... well, that’s her. I had never seen her in a pair of trousers, she was always wearing her uniform of a long skirt with a blouse and cardigan. I pictured her waiting for us in the hospital. Lying in her bed, surrounded by wires, anxiously checking her watch and craning her neck to look down the hall for our faces. We had to go, I couldn’t disappoint her.
Taking a deep breath, I strained my arms to try and pick myself up from the sofa, carefully calculating each movement.
I’ll walk forwards now. Just another two steps and I will be at the front door. You’re nearly at the car and then you can sit down.
Simon knew I wasn’t well, the pain was etched in the frown on my face.
'Just take it easy, yeah?' he warned, before slipping into the passenger seat of my blue Vauxhall Astra.
It was usually me warning him to be careful in my car. When I had bought it brand new, a few months before, I had wanted to show off my new wheels so had taken Simon for a spin in it. He’d pleaded with me to drive by McDonald's so he could get a milkshake. I’d known that I might spot some girls there I could impress, so I’d agreed. Fast-forward twenty minutes and after scoffing his milkshake too quickly Simon had thrown up strawberry milk all over my spotless upholstery. We drove home with all the windows open, Simon clutching his belly as I lectured him.
'SIMON. Why didn’t you say you felt sick? I would have pulled over,' I had repeated again and again. Every now and then I let out a long and angry sigh. I didn’t speak to him for two days after that and made him clean the car thoroughly before I would forgive him.
But he wasn’t the one feeling sick now. Putting the key in the ignition, I steeled myself. The Royal Gwent Hospital was twenty miles away in Newport. I had driven there a dozen times before, so I relied on my own internal auto-pilot. I was hoping the drive would take my mind off the searing pain that was ripping through my head. Luckily, we made it in one piece. When we got to Nan’s bed, curtains dividing her from the other patients, I fell into a plastic chair next to her.
'What’s wrong, love? You don’t look good at all!' Nan said, reaching up and touching my face before feeling for a temperature.
'I’m OK,' I shrugged.
Poor Nan had been in hospital for three weeks. I was there to make a fuss of her and I knew if she was worried about me it would slow down her recovery. I tried to brush off her concern, but with her nan’s instinct she wasn’t having any of it.
'You aren’t alright, Chris, you look awful, love.’
Bless her. I’d seen that worried look before a hundred times. Any time I had so much as a snuffle as a boy she would race for the cough syrup, tuck me up in bed and serve me homemade soup. Her worry was reassuring. I had no idea what was wrong with me but the burden of trying to be brave was becoming too much. My headache was so crippling that it was making me dizzy, so in the end I dropped the act.
'I... I…' I stuttered.
My tongue wasn’t moving normally. It felt fat and swollen as if I had bitten it.
'I think I’ve hit my head,' I said, finally coordinating my thoughts with my mouth.
'We rolled down a hill in the park and I haven’t felt right since. My head is killing me but I can’t find a cut or anything.' It felt a relie
f to admit it; I put my head in my hands.
'Let me call a nurse, love,' Nan suggested. She sat up in her bed and scanned the hall for a uniform.
'No, Nan, it’s fine,' I said.
Her hands were reaching out to grab someone’s attention but I placed them firmly at her side. She was right, of course; looking back the best thing I could have done was tell someone at the hospital about my symptoms. But something inside me told me I was making a fuss about nothing. I was in the worst pain I had ever felt and yet some kind of British stiff upper lip was preventing me from getting the help I needed.
'Well, you need to go home to bed then, get some rest,' Nan said.
If Nan was prepared to miss out on her visit from us then I knew I must be ill. A wave of tiredness hit me and I realised I had to drive home soon before I nodded off to sleep. So, I kissed Nan goodbye, got in the car and used every ounce of energy I had left to get home. God knows how I didn’t have an accident. I blinked every few seconds to keep my eyes on the road. Simon knew better than to try and talk to me: he sat beside me in silence, probably just praying we made it home in one piece.
As soon as I had parked the car at home, I staggered straight into my bedroom. When my body hit the mattress I sighed with relief; I knew that at last I could finally rest. The clock on my bedside table read 4 p.m.
I’ll just have a quick nap, I thought.
I gave in to the drowsiness and my body sank off to sleep.
The next thing I knew, something was stroking my arm. I opened my eyes and a bright, white, light hit me. I closed them again quickly, giving them a second to get used to the dazzle. Is this the radiant light that people talk about? The white blinding light that means your time on this planet is over and you are being transported to the next realm? But instead of seeing the pearly gates of heaven, when I opened my eyes I realised I was still in my bedroom. The room was illuminated with light, the bright yellow walls reflecting the sun’s rays around the room. Mum’s head suddenly popped up above me.
'Chris,' she whispered softly.
I focused my eyes on her short blonde highlighted hair and waited for the fog of sleep to lift. But, for some reason, it didn’t.
Mum was wearing her usual blue T-shirt and jeans. I had probably only seen her in a dress twice in my life. Just like Nan, Mum was tiny; from the age of fifteen I had towered above her, but she made up for her small height with her big voice. She was always chattering away to the neighbours, or me, or anyone who would listen. I took in the scene around me and tried to respond, but no words came from my mouth. As if I were in a dream, my body seemed to be paralysed.
'Chris,' she said again, louder this time. 'Are you OK?’
‘Simon said you felt poorly, something about doing a roll down the hill …’ Mum
carried on talking.
It was a relief to know I didn’t have to explain anything; I wasn’t up to it. My eyes focused on the clock behind Mum’s face. The hands signalled that it was 10 o’clock.
It was too bright to be night-time. It must be the next day, I thought. I had been asleep for eighteen hours.
'I’ve called your boss, told him you won’t be in, I thought it best to let you sleep,' Mum added.
'T-t-thanks,' I finally managed.
Mum carried on talking, but as she ran through what Simon had already told her, a looming feeling of anxiety was spreading throughout my body. I knew something was very seriously wrong. Like in the moments before an exam, or when the realisation hits you that you’ve forgotten to pay an important bill, that impending sense of doom sat uncomfortably in the pit of my gut, where it would stay for a very long time.
What’s happening to me?
Chapter Seven: What’s Wrong
When I opened my heavy eyes the next time, I noticed a red spotty mug of milky tea on the bedside table in front of me. My blurry vision went in and out of focus. I was thirsty, but too sleepy to stretch my arm out to pick up my drink. Drowsiness was overpowering me and my eyelids started closing again.
It seemed like only seconds had passed, but the next time I forced my eyes open, the tea had gone and a sandwich and glass of water was in its place. How long did I sleep for that time?
Those first few days after the accident passed in a hazy dream. Falling in and out of my slumber, day and night lost all meaning; the only way I knew time had passed was by taking notice of the contents of the bedroom. Drinks and plates of food would appear and then disappear, reminding me that Mum had been in and out of my room whilst I lay asleep.
Grasping at the bedside table, I tried to get the sandwich but my left hand was clumsy. It felt as if it were encased in a heavy cast, weighed down, and as I tried to pick up the sandwich I missed and knocked over the glass of water.
'URGH!' I groaned and tried to dry off my wet arm on the duvet cover.
The simplest of tasks seemed impossible. It was like being drunk, whilst on a ship in stormy weather: my body wouldn’t do what I wanted it to.
Looking at the sandwich I focused my still-sluggish eyes: creamy-yellow hunks of cheese with a floppy lettuce leaf poking out messily. It reminded me of being a kid and opening my lunchbox at school ... then, seeing the contents, wishing I could have a hot school dinner instead. Poor Mum, she wasn’t the best cook and I think from the reactions of Simon, my dad and me, she knew it. Hunger pangs tickled in my belly as I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten something. Bile burnt my empty stomach but the throbbing in my skull stopped all desire to eat, I knew that trying to chew would just make it worse. I’d been taking painkillers intermittently, but the crushing feeling was still tormenting me.
Slumping back into the comfort of my pillow, I once again closed my tired eyes. Almost immediately, the cosy comfort of sleep washed over me.
The next time I woke, Mum was sitting at the foot of my bed. It felt like she had been there for some time. Her face was highlighted by slithers of sunlight that had escaped through my closed curtains, illuminating her blonde hair. The radio was blaring downstairs.
It must be morning, I thought.
'I’ve made an emergency appointment with the doctor,' she said softly, 'I’m going to drive you there in half an hour’.
With the pang of my headache still echoing around my brain, I was reassured by the thought of a doctor. They would be able to take a look at my head and find the cut that was causing the pain. Mum had looked dozens of times to no avail but I was sure she had missed something. All the soreness was coming from the top of my skull, so I was convinced I must have banged it in some way when I fell down the hill.
I started to get up. But simply pulling myself out of bed and walking towards the door exhausted me; my legs tingled and my mind was muddled. I put it down to having been in bed so long. Mum helped me fold my arms into a jumper; I had jogging bottoms on already. Mum then bent down and guided my feet into some shoes.
I can put my bloody shoes on myself, I thought.
But when I went to pull the handle of the front door with my left hand, I somehow missed, brushing against the lock instead.
'Oh, I’ll get that,' Mum said helpfully, pushing in front of me.
I haven’t woken up properly yet, I thought. It was like I had the world’s worst hangover. I felt useless.
Mum drove us to the doctor’s, just as she’d promised. I sheepishly let her guide me through the door of the doctor’s surgery and we went straight into our appointment.
In the treatment room Mum wasted no time explaining what had happened.
'He’s a big kid,' she tutted, 'rolled down a hill and hasn’t felt right since’.
She rattled through my symptoms with the doctor as if she were ordering a takeaway from the local Chinese restaurant.
'Constant headache, he’s drowsy, no energy or appetite,' she listed mechanically.
The middle-aged doctor nodded with each word.
'Let’s take a look then,' he said, opening his hands towards my head, motioning for me to move it towards him.
'Nothing there, not a scratch.'
He smiled as if it were good news.
'What’s causing the pain then?' I asked.
Sensing my frustration, he said, 'don’t worry, Chris, we are going to get to the bottom of this.'
The warm feelings of reassurance settled in my stomach. He seems pretty confident, I thought, he will know exactly what it is and then they can make me better.
'Firstly, I want to do a couple of simple tests, just to check your coordination,' he said casually.
'With your left hand, I want you to touch your little finger with your thumb, like this.'
He demonstrated in one easy movement, before nodding towards me. Dutifully, I lifted my left hand with a frown.