by Ed Jackson
Rich held up one of my T-shirts. ‘He’d ask why you have a Jurassic Park T-shirt with “Raptor Trainer” on it?’
‘Stag do. Anyway, Tom would say that he wouldn’t want to be you right now.’ I grinned at him. ‘There were three of us. Tom died, I broke my neck; what’s going to happen to you?’
Rich rolled his eyes.
‘I’m just saying that if this was a film, you’d be screwed.’
Rich laughed. ‘Like in that film Final Destination?’
‘Exactly. I’ve had my accident and survived, so you’re next.’ Rich started patting his pockets.
‘I think I left my phone in the living room,’ he said. ‘I’ll just go and get it.’
‘Mind the stairs!’ I called out after him.
Lois had returned from New Zealand with half the chocolate supply of the Southern Hemisphere and, with her return, I felt that another piece of my life had slotted back into place.
A week later we were off to a friend’s wedding. I had missed a lot while I had been in hospital. Through social media I had watched as holidays, stag dos, birthdays and weddings passed by without me. This was the first social event that I’d sworn to myself that I would attend.
A weekend away was a daunting prospect and required some stringent planning. We had spent three days laying out everything I’d need. My days of chucking some pants and a toothbrush into a rucksack had firmly passed. Lois and I had talked through various scenarios and how we would deal with them. It was fear of the unknown that made us nervous. Simple things such as a narrow doorway needed consideration. I was most worried about my catheter slipping. I knew everyone would laugh it off, but if the truth be told I’d rather not wet myself during the wedding ceremony.
Fortunately, this didn’t happen and the weekend went well with only one hiccup. I had managed to drop the power unit for my FES machine, that lifted my foot, down the toilet. It was therefore a wheelchair for me until the bride’s father managed to dry it out overnight in an airing cupboard. Everyone had made me feel welcome; no one mollycoddled me or made a point of singling me out. My rugby friends had treated me as if nothing had changed. They made me join them on the dancefloor in my wheelchair, never let me have an empty glass and took great pleasure in making me explain in detail the more explicit side to hospital life – the more intimate, the better. I had relaxed, joined in with the celebrations, drunk perhaps a bit too much and generally enjoyed myself.
The next day, waving goodbye to the other guests, Lois pulled out of the driveway. Out of nowhere, I burst into tears. I was sobbing so much that Lois had to pull the car over to check on me.
‘What’s wrong, Ed?’ she asked, leaning over. ‘I thought you had a great time.’
I smiled at her through the sheet of water that now covered most of my face.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ I gulped, trying to calm my breathing. ‘It’s just there were so many times in the hospital when I wondered whether I’d be able to enjoy a weekend like this. I thought I’d never do this again …’
Lois leant over and hugged me. ‘I thought those days might be over for us too.’
I straightened and wiped my face with my sleeve. ‘Sorry about that, I don’t know what came over me. Normal service has resumed. McDonald’s immediately.’
She smiled at me before starting up the engine.
It was a few minutes before I spoke again.
‘If we can attend someone else’s wedding … then why don’t we attend our own?’
Lois stared at me. ‘Do you think you could do it? We were going to be in Italy for two weeks.’
I nudged her arm. ‘Eyes on the road, please. And yes, I don’t see why not. We’ll just have to leave six weeks free to pack everything …’
I smiled at the woman I’d hopefully be marrying in a year’s time.
I had attended my first wedding since the accident, and got through it, and the following weekend I went to my first rugby match, to see my old team, the Dragons, play rugby in Wales. I wasn’t just watching this one either; I’d been told in advance that I would be interviewed down on the pitch and hosted in the President’s box – the full five-star treatment.
Peering down at my former teammates from the best seats in the stadium, I watched as they ran onto the pitch. I was excited about seeing them back in action. I’d already popped into the changing rooms before the match and had wished them all luck. As they took to the pitch, the roar of the crowd was deafening and the atmosphere electrifying. A wave of sadness rolled over me. I would never experience that moment again of trotting out in front of a crowd of thousands. I would never be part of a professional sports team again. I was going to miss that.
The moment was only fleeting. I wouldn’t let it linger and ruin the rest of the game for me. All things come to an end and often quite abruptly. That’s life, and I was okay with it. I’d had a decade playing a game that I loved with some great memories and, even more importantly, some great mates. Two things that couldn’t be taken away from me.
Lois nudged me and pointed up at the large screen at one end of the stadium. ‘Look, it’s you!’
I glanced up. Taking up the entirety of it was my slightly gormless face. At least nothing close to regret had passed across my features in that moment – I’d take gormless anytime over that. I gave a wide grin and a wave, but the cameraman had already moved on to someone else.
If you ever want to feel like a celebrity, I recommend turning up at Heathrow Airport in a wheelchair with a catheter bag hanging off the side. Queues evaporate, side doors open and luggage is magicked to its destination.
The consultant had given me the all-clear, and Lois and I had been packing for a week – we were off to New York. Yes, travelling to another continent less than four months after having nearly severed your spinal cord is not what most would do, but I wanted to live again. Fortunately, I was now able to walk a bit with my crutches so had decided to use these during the night and a wheelchair during the day.
When I’d first been given the tickets to see Fleetwood Mac, the overriding feeling I had was fear. How hard was it going to be? What if I had an accident over there? What if they wouldn’t let me fly? It was fear of the unknown again. It had to be beaten into submission every day or I wouldn’t recover the life that I wanted.
As Dad unloaded our suitcases from the back of his car, I stared up at the huge glass doors of the airport from my wheelchair. I swallowed. Maybe this was too much …
Lois came up behind me, obviously sensing my nervousness. ‘What did we say our mantra was?’
‘Just go for it,’ I responded, smiling up at her.
We had spent weeks planning and I knew we couldn’t have done any more to prepare for it.
We’d only been in the airport for a few minutes when we were swept off by the staff who looked after everything for us. The same level of care and service continued throughout the flight and our arrival at JFK airport. Leaving the slick, air-conditioned building, the full blast of sweltering New York sunshine signalled that we were on our own. We ordered our Uber and waited for a larger one that could accommodate my wheelchair and got going.
Fortunately, my celebrity position was reinstated the next day when we arrived to see Fleetwood Mac at Citi Field – concert arena by night and baseball park by day. Without any delay, I was ushered to the wheelchair section of the front row, right in front of the metal railings. Some people had been waiting hours to get one of these coveted positions. I felt like we had queue jumped, but I consoled myself that I had to find some perks in not being able to walk or pee by myself. Lois and I took up our positions and waited. This was easier for me as I was in my wheelchair, while Lois had to stand for what felt like hours. The crowds swarmed and the sense of anticipation was palpable. The throb of weaving voices swelled before erupting into cheers as the band took to the stage.
They opened with ‘The Chain’ and I couldn’t have been happier. The band moved effortlessly from hit to hit and the crowd was whipped
into a frenzy. When ‘Everywhere’ came on, I pushed myself up, balanced against the railing and bobbed my top half along with everyone else. Glancing back at the crowd of thousands, I thought of how lucky I was to be experiencing life again and all the technicolour joy it could bring. Catching some of the strange looks people were giving me, I realised they must have thought my standing up was a miracle induced by the power of Fleetwood Mac. Or that I was some fraudster who blagged all the best tickets with the help of his prop wheelchair.
It was official – I was now a fanboy of a band who were old enough to be my grandparents. With the encore, fireworks were set off around the stadium, and Lois and I hugged as we watched them in the warmth of the summer evening.
A day into our trip, Lois and I had to adapt our initial plans to travel around the city via cab. An Uber was never more than three minutes away and the SUVs had plenty of room in their trunks for my wheelchair. However, they’re pretty expensive and the traffic in Manhattan is so bad that we were spending half our tourist-time trapped inside a stationary car, peeling our damp legs off fake-leather interiors. I could walk a bit on my crutches but not enough to last a full day out so I still needed my wheelchair with me. From my experience of previous trips to New York, I knew that the subway was the quickest way around. Half of the stations were wheelchair accessible, and these had lifts and were spread evenly over the city.
As I rolled up to the station marked on my map as having a lift, Lois and I stared at each other. It was now or never.
‘What did we say our mantra was?’ Lois said, a little less confidently than at the airport.
‘Just go for it!’ I replied, trying to keep the enthusiasm clear in my voice although I wasn’t feeling it.
One stinky elevator ride later, we found our way onto a subway train hurtling underground in the depths of the city. Getting on the train had been fine. We let a couple of them pass so we could find a position on the platform where the lip of the train doors almost touched the platform. I then flicked the front wheels of my wheelchair over the lip when the next train arrived. People parted to make room for us and a few smiled at me.
Lois and I exchanged glances as we counted down the stops. We were playing ‘platform gap roulette’ and, as the doors at our station slid open, we realised that we’d lost. A huge chasm was in front of us. The only way I’d get my wheelchair to the other side was if I had a thirty-metre run-up and pole vault. Added to this was the fact there was a timer on the doors that was beeping its impatience.
Hauling myself to my feet, I lined up my crutches and turned to the man standing next to me. I then did something I was still getting used to.
‘Can you help us, please?’ I asked.
‘Sure thing, buddy,’ he said, as he grabbed my wheelchair and lifted it onto the platform.
Lois took my arm and helped me take the large stride required.
The man then hopped back onto the train just as the doors were closing.
‘Thank you!’ we both shouted as I settled back into my wheelchair.
As I was waving a crutch at the departing train, I realised that the idea of using the subway was much scarier than the reality.
This was the thing about New York. It defied our expectations again and again. The kindness of busy city dwellers was abundant. Many people would offer their help in a calm, polite manner. On the few occasions people didn’t because they had their heads buried in a newspaper or eyes closed in half-sleep, I only had to ask for it. The vast majority went out of their way to help me and Lois with a smile and a wave. I am a firm believer that there is more good in people than we give them credit for.
That Saturday night I was in New York, shuffling around a hotel lobby on my crutches with a jovial smile and a slightly drunk Lois, celebrating our last night in the Big Apple. By Monday morning, I was back in Salisbury Hospital for an appointment about my catheter. It should have been a bump back to Earth, but actually both were equally exciting. I’d finally been given the news that I had been waiting for – my catheter could come out. The source of most of my medical issues since the accident would be gone. Eight tubes, three urinary tract infections, two cystoscopies, one false passage and a flesh wound, all in the space of four months. Good riddance to it.
I now had the challenge of retraining my bladder to full fitness as it had forgotten a lot of what it had learnt during my adult life. I would therefore have to keep myself close to a toilet at all times over the next few weeks. I would happily risk a few accidents in exchange for a functional bladder. Like most things, I had to put in the effort to reap the rewards.
When I opened the door to the waiting room, Lois looked up at me from her chair. ‘The wedding venue has just emailed. They’d saved our original date, even though we’d cancelled. We can still get married there!’
I offered her my arm. We had some planning to do.
Chapter 13
The Only Way is Up …
‘You’re making me nervous,’ Pete said, staring up at me.
‘Come on now. You were the one who suggested that we try some hill climbing.’
‘I said “in a few weeks’ time”,’ Pete responded. ‘It’s only been a day since I said that.’
‘At least it’s Monday, so technically it’s next week.’ Pete shifted his weight between his legs and I buckled. ‘Okay, how about just some uneven ground this week, and if it all goes well, a bit of a slope next week.’
‘Deal,’ Pete said. ‘And you’re putting the harness on.’
Wyn bent down to dig around in the oversized bag he carried everywhere, before producing what looked like toddler reins.
‘Deal,’ I responded.
Wyn looped the reins around my waist and took the end of them. He was a big guy and the idea was that if I stumbled he would either keep me upright or help reduce the speed at which I fell.
It was four months after my accident and we were standing at the edge of a local field. I had two walking poles for support that worked in a similar way to crutches and two pretty amazing physios as backup. I couldn’t have been better equipped. Taking my first steps, I realised that walking on uneven ground would not only be a physical strain but a mental one too. Every step had to be considered for both foot placement and timing of the FES machine. The weakness in my left-side core muscles also made my left leg wobblier, so I walked better with the help of a crutch, walking pole, or a hand. The main problem was that my left foot didn’t lift very high, so the risk of tripping was always present.
The point of this new exercise was not only to get those reluctant muscles working again, but to also start firing up the neurological messages from my brain. When you put yourself in a precarious situation your brain works overtime, shooting messages to different areas of your body – preparing you to fight off danger, or run away from it. I needed those messages to start reaching their destinations, so even a walk over an uneven field was helping my neurological recovery. I had a goal in mind: I wanted to be able to walk down the aisle at my wedding without using a crutch or walking pole.
An hour later, after a large circle of the field, we decided that I’d done enough. I checked the distance tracker on my watch – 500 metres. It didn’t sound like much but I put it into context. Two months ago, I couldn’t even take a step without Lois lifting my foot for me.
Later that week, I had an appointment with Mr Barua, the spinal surgeon who had saved my life at Southmead Hospital. As I’d made my way past Costa Coffee in the hospital foyer, I smiled as I imagined myself lying in my hospital bed sucking a frothy coffee through a straw. Things were different this time; no one paid any attention to a man walking through a hospital foyer with a crutch. I hadn’t been stared at and it had felt great.
When I entered Mr Barua’s office using only one crutch, his expression momentarily revealed his shock but he quickly recovered.
‘Well, I’ve got to be honest, I never expected this!’
I had thought about this moment for hours. What do you say to som
eone whom you don’t really know, but owe your life to? In the end I hadn’t said very much. I had thanked him profusely, of course, and was quite pleased with myself for not trying to hug him. But when I’d got home I thought that perhaps it hadn’t been enough, so I’d tapped out a post on Instagram about my visit:
Seeing his reaction today really made me realise just how lucky I got and how close I was to this being a completely different story. Neil, if you’re reading this I couldn’t really articulate it earlier but thank you … thank you for making the decision to operate immediately, thank you for being so good at your job and most of all thank you for giving me a fighting chance.
Ever since I was discharged from hospital, I knew there was somewhere else I had to visit.
It was a bright sunny day as I stopped for a moment to steady myself at the bottom of the stone steps that led down to the pool. The only sound was the rippling surface that swirled out from the water feature. I’d already taken my FES machine off at the house and, with the aid of both crutches, I made the final shuffle to the edge of the pool. Balancing my weight, I tried to tug my feet out of my unlaced trainers. The right one came out smoothly but I couldn’t lift my left leg high enough to free the foot from my trainer. Persevering with it, I repeated the action but I still couldn’t get the angle right.
‘Shall I get that for you?’ Lois asked.
I nodded.
With no further comment and minimum fuss, Lois leant down and pulled my already unlaced trainer off. Next was my shirt. Balancing on my left crutch, I undid the buttons down the middle with my right hand and pulled out each arm in turn. In my first month at home, I had quickly learnt not to bother doing up cuff buttons on my shirts if I could get away with it – I struggled to undo the buttons of my right sleeve as my left hand didn’t have the dexterity to deal with them.
Lowering myself to the ground, I landed heavily and with little grace. I unhooked my arms from my crutches and slid them along the side of the pool. Supporting my weight with my arms I leant to the right as I lowered my body into the shallow end of the pool. The water lapped gently against my chest but I could only feel it in certain areas.