Just a few days ago I had the pleasure of being told by the Physio that there is little more she can do for me, its time to get on with life. That is not to say my recovery is over, my rehabilitation will never stop. The trauma I received from my accident will always be a hindrance to me. But with this news I thought it was time to update my blog, fill in the 3 and a half month gap since my operation.
The first two weeks after the operation were a blur, I remember little due to the fact I was on enough pain killers to sedate a baby elephant. It was a blessing for a while until the painless days turned into scary dreams and horrible trips, a cocktail of morphine and tramodol will do that to you. It came to the point where I was choosing between a clear state of mind or being painless. I chose sanity, still on pain killers but a much lower dose. I was finally able to start listening to the doctors and surgeons and start understanding what I have been through medically and emotionally.
The first question I remember asking my Neuro surgeon responsible for my spinal operation was whether I would ever be able to walk again? play Rugby? MMA? The answers were short, and seemed pretty cold at the time, yes, no, no. One of the many times I have broken down in tears since my accident, but at least I can always tell people I had my priorities straight.
Every day seems to blur together at this point, I found it almost impossible to keep any concept of time for the first month after my operation. But there are very distinct moments from those first few weeks post-op that I remember clearly, one of which was when my parents arrived and saw me for the first time, I know they were upset to see me in such a state but they held it together for my sake, both played a heavy role in keeping me sane in the months which followed. Another time was the first of many visits from Izzy and Jade, unfortunately or fortunately they were the first volunteers to come and see me in hospital. At the drop of a hat they came all the way from Swaziland to come and cheer me up, they were most definitely a god send as the days were always better when they were around, for a few hours a day I forgot I even had an accident. (They were the first but definitely not the last of the volunteers, Olivia, Anna, Amy, Linsey, T, Jake, Phil, Rachel, Erin and Melisa. Big love)
The most prolific of memories however was when I was first introduced to the two Physiotherapists, Sharron and Ugesh, who were assigned to look after me and help me recover. They both arrived with smiles on their faces and it was the first time that my confidence was lifted to the fact I was going to be ok. They told me that the road ahead was going to be hard and painful, but as long as I'm willing to push myself there is no reason why I can't return to the same physical condition I was in before. A statement I have had to repeat to myself a lot.
How long after our first encounter I'm not sure but they returned with a back brace, and what followed after I can only describe as being extremely f*****g painful. In order to put the brace on I needed to roll onto my side, the brace was then half stuffed under the side I was lying on from which I rolled back onto the brace. This was so that it could be secured over my shoulders and across my abdomen. Please remember this was all done only a week after my operation, my discs were still fusing with the accompaniment of 8 screws and four rods holding them together. On top of this I had had many open wounds scattered across my back like patchwork, nerve endings once covered by skin were now open, covered only by dressings. The slightest of touches was agony, morphine didn't help in the slightest.
Every time the Physios returned we pushed a little further, the brace routine ensued and then it was time to sit up. The next encounter was time to stand up and so it continued. Two steps became ten. Five minutes in a chair became 30 minutes. Before I knew it I was walking round intensive care (much to the shock of all of the nurses), everyday I continued to grow stronger.
But just as I'm starting to think positively its time for my skin graft operation, time to patch me up. This was not a problem, it was the 5 days that followed the operation which flattened me. In order to let the grafts settle I was not allowed to put the back brace on in case the grafts were disturbed. With each day that passed I felt like I could feel my progress slipping away, I was properly depressed. Turns out that I shouldn't of worried, other than a little stiffness in the legs I was actually stronger coming out than I had been coming in, about fit enough to climb stairs in fact.
Now in step Professor Wolf, had no idea at the time how blessed I had been to have his company. He is a Clinical Psychologist, come to talk to me about my mental state. I've never been any good at putting my emotions into words, but after what happened this was going to be inevitable. He came to me many times to talk to me, and he even bought me a Big Mac, absolutely priceless in a hospital (salute). The most memorable exercise he conducted with me was called flooding, which is where you repeat a traumatic event over and over until it becomes normal and rational.
"We're driving down the road, the grass has grown so it's impossible to see either side. Out of nowhere a cow steps out in front of the Land Rover, we try to avoid it but it’s too late. As we hit the cow the windscreen smashes and we're sprayed with glass. I'm gripping the dashboard as hard as I can to hold on but the cars already started to spin out of control, its at this point when I am thrown from the car. I hit the ground hard and roll for almost 15 meters before coming to a stop, just as I stop I look up I find the Land Rover square on toppling towards me. I manage to lift my knees up just in time to save them from being flattened, instead they smash through the window and I take the impact of the Land Rover from the waist up. I start screaming for help but every time I do I feel the air leaving my body, I'm alone and each cry for help becomes weaker and weaker until its only a whimper. At this point Paul jumps from the car and...." 5 times for three nights I repeated my story until it became a scene from a movie, a past experience but not something that would haunt me. My time with Professor Wolf was invaluable, the exercise saved me from what he described as a potential onset of Post traumatic stress Disorder, often associated with soldiers.
As the days rolled by it soon came to the time to move out of Intensive care and onto the ward, another step forward in my recovery, not much changed other than the scenery. I was still pushing myself everyday that little bit further, and eventually came the day when I politely declined the early morning sponge bath from the nurse because I was able to stand, by myself. Walk to the bathroom, by myself. And wash, by myself. Things that everybody takes for granted until you are unable. I will never forget the first time I looked in the mirror, I never had a wash that day, instead I went back to bed and cried. I couldn't handle what I had seen in the mirror. Everyone has an image in their mind, a self perception, but what I saw was not me. Instead I was looking at a frail skeleton due to the two stone I had lost, unable to stand up straight, covered in horrific scars. A sight I will never forget and a state I do not wish to return to.
Eventually the day rolled around and it was time to leave, time to return to the UK to finish my recovery. If I'm honest I was petrified to return to home, I had seen enough of the NHS to know that I could be in for wild ride. Leaving the hospital was also surprisingly an emotional experience, it’s amazing how close you become to those people who help you while you’re at your lowest. Only wish now that I had done a better job of thanking them.
16 hours later after leaving the hospital I touched down in England, I was then transferred to Addenbrooks Hospital until I was deemed fit enough to become an outpatient. Naive of me to suppose that I would be out quickly, that I would receive any Physiotherapy, that my wounds would be taken care of properly and that my room would be cleaned. I'm still unsure why, maybe it was the word 'Africa' that scared them, but I was placed under barrier nursing for 10 days. 10 long days in which I was confined to my room, all the progress that I made in South Africa was gone. My confidence was battered by the time I was finally released, I could barely walk and the only time I was comfortable was when I was lying down in bed.
The first night home was one of the hardest, back in January I had told myself that I would make it back to my project In Botswana. I was going to work my arse off and I set the date of May for my return, not that I told many people, I needed inspiration not negativity because I know I had doubters. But as I lay there that first night at home in early March it all seemed impossible, for the first time I felt defeated. But just like with every other set back along the way I bounced back, slowly but surely with no help from the NHS I built back my strength, walking, stretching, exercising. In no time at all I was back at the gym, and as my wounds finally closed it was time to start swimming, the Physios always told me the key to my recovery would be in the pool.
All of the above has lead me to this point. It’s been a marathon to say the least but knowing I'm nearly at the finish just makes me want it even more. I put my success not down to my strength of will but to all of those people who have been around me to pick me up when I'm down and push me on when I thought that I no longer could, whether it be family or friends, from a distance over social media or right at my side it’s all got me to where I am now.
If all goes to plan the next post you'll see from me will be in May when I have my flight back to Africa, to finish what I started.
