15-17 December, or thereabouts

My memory of the next couple of days is somewhat blurred. Rather like a long journey through similar towns, I can't remember the order of events, and there are gaps in between the memorable places. A few days later I realised that not only was there are problem untangling the days after the op, but also that I'd lost most of my memory of the few days before the crash.

I seemed to be in a pleasant peaceful ward. The nurses would give me morphine and other drugs according to a laid down schedule. They measured my blood pressure and took my pulse routinely; what I now know to be "obs".

I discover that I have "Tib + Fib" written on the top of my thigh in large black indelible marker, and an arrow pointing towards where my tib and fib are normally kept on the end of my femur, and just above the foot. It reminds me of the Voyage to the Centre of the Earth, and Arne Saknussemm who marks his route with the letters AS and an arrow just like mine.

He asked me if I was in good general health and whether I played sports:

A consultant arrived with a small team of followers, rather like the trail of students following the opinionated and self important consultant in "Doctor in the House".

"Fitter than most, and I love kitesurfing, snowboarding, dancing, cycling..."

"Ah. You should be aware that this is a life changing event."

Silence.

He explained the damage and the two options;-

1. A post inserted down the fibia, and some pins across the knee.

2. Some metal rings around the leg, with pins to support the bone.

"The first option will have you up and about quite quickly, but there are more risks because we make more cuts. The second option will take longer."

"Which would you advise?"

"I can't tell you that because it would influence your decision."

Huh? ...Must look up the meaning of consultant.

I asked some questions, and then said I'd have to think about it.

A girl came to ask lots of questions about allergies and diet. I explained I don't drink milk because it gives me migraines. It all seemed OK.

Later that day another consultant arrived, this time without a troop of white coats in tow.

"So, I think we should put two screws in across the knee, and mount two rings around the break. After about a month you will be able to bear weight, and after 4-6 months we'll take the rings off. Then you'll wear a big plastic boot for a month."

It seemed that accepting the extra time in re

covery would insure against long term deformity, and meant less risk of complications. I agreed, and the long wait started. "We might fit you in today, or maybe tomorrow morning." I guess this was Wednesday, the day after the accident.

A very pleasant and friendly young lady wheeled a computer

into the ward and showed me the Xrays and the CT scans:

Tibia fractured with bits of bone surrounding the break.

Fibula shattered into 3-4 pieces.

"Nil by mouth" is imposed, and I wait for the call to the theatre. Late in the day I'm told that I can now eat, because I won't be needed until next day, but that "Nil by mouth" will be reimposed at midnight, so eat.

A guy came to ask me what food I wanted. The menu was brief, and a bit plain, but I opted for the jerk chicken. As it turned out, that was the only reasonable food for several days, or maybe I was just hungry. (The suggested substitute for milk was... you guessed; water! And if I didn't want cereal then I had to specifically request something else. I got toast and butter. errrr wow.)

I can't remember sleeping, or not sleeping. But I can remember thinking "Why haven't I needed to urinate?"

The next morning passed. More painkillers arrived on schedule. I called the insurance company. I spoke to my sister or mother on the phone (can't remember). I suppose I dosed.

Then I hear my name called. I'm not exactly ready to leap out of bed, so I wave an arm. We're off to see the wizard. ...And boy am I scared!

It's a long journey. I ask how many theatres they have, and the porter counts on his fingers. When he runs out of fingers he looks toward his toes. They've got a lot of theatres. As we roll into the pre-op area, the blue clad wizard and his apprentice are leaning nonchalantly against the door posts. "Here he is at last." The anaesthetists begin work. Tubes go into my arm, and as usual, they miss first time. We chat, and then someone is waking me up, I say something, apparently everything is ok.

I have no idea that almost 4 hours have passed since I entered the theatre.

Then I wake up in hell.

The Accident

Normal sort of day... leave the house at about 8 a.m. and chose the Ariel (vintage 1946) to ride to work. I could have used the Lambretta, but the speedo had been making a nasty grinding sound and I need to replace it.

Besides, it was a cold day and thermals under leather seemed a better idea than jeans under waterproofs.

Somewhere on the other side of the world a butterfly flapped its wings...  Trivial thoughts can change your world.

Normal route... up to Clapham North and join the Clapham Road toward Stockwell. No rush., just toodle along.

Normal traffic... well, that is to say that rhe car lane on the right was very slow, and the blue cycle highway was as crowded as ever, with bikes riding two and sometimes three abreast. I tailed a cyclist in the right hand half of the bus lane (yes, motorbikes are allowed) doing 15-20 mph. 

The cyclist in front gave me a thumbs up signal and pulled over to the left, presumably a sign of thanks for not pushing him by getting up close. Nice guy. (Just a second faster, or a second slower... If only.)

Suddenly a car bonnet appeared from the right through the traffic queue. I had no time at all, I barely even braked, and my only thought was "Oh no, not the forks!". I couldn't even say what type of car the bonnet belonged to, or what colour it was. I didn't even see a driver's face.

As it happens, the forks survived, but the bike bounced off the front bumper and my leg got between the bike and the car.

I can still hear the sound of the crash; the plastic bumper breaking, the headlight hitting the tarmac and smashing to pieces. My next thought was that I had landed strangely. (If you fall over a lot, then you get used to breaking your fall by rolling. But this time I slammed into the road surface like a rag doll.) Maybe bashing my helmet on the road pushed my head, or maybe I quizzically looked to where I had come from, but what I saw next was my boot arcing over to hit my knee. That is; my right boot containing my right foot, swinging over to hit my right knee. I grabbed the foot and threw it back to where it should have been. Well, at least it was still attached.

I shouted; "Get an ambulance!"

Then there was the smell of petrol, and someone asking if I was hurt.

"Broken leg, both bones! Ambulance!"

"And leave my helmet on."

A cyclist made a phone call, but amazingly the medics seemed to be there as fast as if they'd been teleported. Lot's of poking and prodding; "Right leg broken, both bones! Nothing else (I think)." The cyclist asked me if he should call someone. I gave him the name of another PM at the company, it would just have been too complicated to try to explain my boss's name.

I'd often wondered how much it hurt to break a bone. The act of breaking it is not painful at all. But few moments later... Argh.

The medic tried to give me gas. I refused for a moment. I got the cyclist to extract my phone from my pocket, and I called the mechanic who fixes the bike for me. "Ned, I've had an accident, come and pick up the bike." "But I haven't left home yet." "Just come and get it please." And I told him where it was. Then I grabbed the gas and breathed deep, deeper and faster than I have ever breathed.

The familiar oily taste of nitrous (it doesn't really taste of anything, it's all in the mind) and the buzzy ears told me that I was now narc'd. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nitrous_oxide

An idiot tried to remove some plastic wreckage from under my broken leg. If I could have hit him, I would have.

The petrol really stinks. The cyclist turns the bike lights off.

"Can we cut your trousers?"

"Cut the ******g trousers!"

"On a scale of 1-10, if 10 is the most pain you've ever experienced, what are you feeling now?"

"errrr..... seven."

"I'm going to give you morphine. Is that OK?"

"Yes, yes, yes..."

I see policemen, and an arabic guy standing around. Lots of people, and stationary traffic.

I've used the term "scraped of the road" before. Now I find that it's true. They use a scoop to gently roll me onto a stretcher. Several people gather round, pick up the stretcher and I'm eased into the back of the ambulance. Something hits my leg, and it hurts.

Then the gas runs out. I can tell because the taste has gone and my head is clearing. I tell the medic. There's some discussion about a kink in the hose, but then they change the cylinder, and I'm cooking on gas again. I'm slightly perturbed to hear the medics discussing the bones in the leg, but they don't know the correct names.

Ambulances were not built for a smooth comfy ride. I seem to feel every bump.

Then we pull up at A&E and I think I'm at Guy's hospital (wrong), but it's changed... I'm wheeled into the A&E and they transfer me off the wheelie stretcher. The scissors come out and my clothes are cut away. Someone says "I'm going to give you Ketamine", and then the ceiling dissolves into dripping blocks of colour and moving lights. A ceiling tile drips down toward me, covered in beautiful patterns...

I wake up in a moving bed, on the way to a CT scan. Into a lift, along corridors, banging doors cause pain. I can see a cradle of plaster enclosing my right leg. Eventually I'm wheeled into ward, given some oral morphine, and left to sleep.