Volunteer ambulance drivers

I had two operations in the RIE - the first a temporary 'external fixator' by Mr Oliver, and the second (with a spinal anaesthetic) - a complex screwing, fixing, nailing and joining by Mr Keanan. I think the latter took around 4 hours - and I remember nothing but the friendly ODOs with their tats and short hair and cheerful banter. It would be several weeks before I would find out whether this operation had been successful - at the time I was promised nothing given the severity of the injury. This was just the start of the extraordinary work undertaken by 2 different teams of surgeons to get me back to the outside world.

On the Friday after the second operation I was told I would transfer to the Plastics ward at St Johns the next day (at the time they told me I would be there 10 days) - and may even have my operation on the Saturday - so I started fasting... But on Saturday morning I missed my ambulance slot because my paper work wasn't ready - and weeping with frustration and fear I begged the staff nurse to find me another slot. The staff nurse was frantic with other things - a Saturday skeleton staff and people off sick. And then Wayne the ambulance man arrived with his trolley and colleague. After their cup of tea, I was on my way.

I was eased onto the trolley with a plastic board, my notes attached, my bags of belongings stuffed underneath that had been packed the night before by my mother and a pal (the rumour was only one bag in the ambulance - just like Ryanair...) . My flowers resting on my legs we set off through the hospital corridors, my view of the ceiling strangely disorientating. Then once I had been carefully loaded into the ambulance I was asked if I liked classical music - I did and it was duly turned on - immediately calming and reassuring.

On the way to St Johns I discover that these two generous and gentle men are driving me in their spare time - doing voluntary work at the weekend to ensure that patient transfers happen. I stared out the window at the motorway taffic, lying on my trolley, packed with blankets, the scent of the flowers pervading the ambulance while Wayne updated me on the route and time still to go. Four days on from my accident this was my first experience of calm - thanks to the patience and empathy shown by these men.

At St Johns we wheeled in through reception - down the corridor and up in the lift to Ward 18 - into the single room with its tiny ensuite immediately behind the nurse's station - met by smiles and welcomes from the nurses. My relief was palpable. The operation would be the next day - and so the preparation for Mr Addington began.

Bedpans and evening ablutions - the RIE

My first port of call following the accident was Accident and Emergency in the Royal Infirmary Edinburgh - my memories are hazy - shouting as my shoes were removed, complaining as my clothes were cut off and then a vague protestation as the Elle McPherson Bra was scissored. There were pain killers and questions and tests on my eyes. The staff were efficient and skilled - but nameless - then, I think following x-rays - I was trundled up to an orthopedic trauma ward. The ward was short staffed and frantically busy - the staff kind but time poor. There were 5 of us in the ward I think - but I only remember 2 - the gentle and very confused woman on my right with a broken hip and the woman across with 2 broken legs (fell down 4 steps). Still on an adrenlin rush I was overly rational and extremely practical. Did I go to theatre that day or the next - I don't remember - what I do remember: the food: the evening wash; and the bedpans.

First the food - well it used to come up from Wales (so the stories go) although I believe the contract may have changed now - but it was still grim, uninviting and inedible. I ate nothing that the hospital provided - relying on the generosity of friends and family - was reminded of hospitals in South East Asia where families often provide all the meals for patients. Could they do better? Yes - the food at St Johns (my next stop for 2 weeks) was nutritious, tasty and inviting - and made on the premises - I ate all of it every time.

Then - the bedpans. Universally hated by patients and staff alike, they are a necessary evil for people on bedrest. But why why are the ones in the RIE so shallow? Is it because someone thought they would be easier to get on to and therefore less stressful? Are they cheaper (less cardboard, less resource)? Were they designed by someone who has never tried them out? So not only the indignity of being helped onto one, and then hanging onto the bed guard rails so as not to fall off, but then the horror of finding them too shallow for just a medium pee. Again I must contrast with St Johns. The bedpans there were deep enough to be safe - and still easy enough to get onto.

And finally - on getting washed. Patients get their main wash in the morning - when there are plenty of staff on and there is time. But in the evening a wash is more rare - and when I asked for one (having been under a truck and still picking gravel out of my ears) I was greeted with surprise. Couldn't I wait until the morning. No I could not. I had my wash - limited by what I could manage - a basin on the bed table - perfunctory but at least I felt more human. This is not a criticism of the staff - the ward was very short staffed due to to staff illness and the needs of more seriously ill patients - and the staff could only do what was possible - but these small things help patients feel better - which surely must save costs in the longer term. So message to those who make decisions on staff resourcing - do you have a wash twice a day at home? And if so, don't you think that people who are ill and vulnerable should have the same opportunity?

A final postscript on the washing - it was a young Polish auxillary nurse who gave me the best wash of my stay at the RIE - I will be forever grateful.

From hospital to Pathhead

Its now one week since I was discharged from St John's in Livingstone - Ward 18 had become too comfortable, the other patients my pals, the nurses, doctors, cleaners, physios all too handy... the end when it came was sudden - discharge note and bag of pills in my sweaty anxious palm, waving goodbyes, wheeled unceremoniously backwards by my mother (there is no way of getting the wheelchairs through the swing doors any other way) - down the long cold corridors, passing the sign to HDU (more of that later) - and into reception area. Parked on my own by the car park ticket machine as my mother goes to get the car - utterly helpless and afraid - noone says hello, they look above, beyond, past...little boys point at my leg - I pretend it isnt mine..

Getting into the car is a trial but possible - leg awkward on a pillow on the floor - am in the front seat - am wary of the traffic - set my eyes to the left - see my first truck and ignore it - fixed on the view from the passenger side window. My mother may be more anxious than me. 25 miles later I get out of the car - stepping into the street for the first time with my crutches - facing the first hurdle - a 3 inch lip on the front door - it takes a good 2 minutes to work out how to hop over it - we didnt learn this in physio...

Hopping through the hall, jittery over the rugs and the cat - I enter what is to be my home for recuperation - the downstairs living room, with bed, settee (too low for me to sit on - would never be able to get back up, a couple of nice chairs, table with cheerful yellow table cloth, large flat screen TV (more of this later), log stove and door to the conservatory - its calm and quiet. I lie down on the bed, stash my pills, radio, phone, water, soft toy (Snowball!!), figs, banana, pen and lip salve into the window ledge - I am ready. The toilet is 8 hops away round a corner. In the hospital we didnt sit on toilets - but enjoyed a commanding view from the commode - how, I wondered, was I going to get down onto the toilet, and, more challenging, back up?

Run over by a truck

On the 19th November I was run over by a 32 tonne truck on the way to work on my bike. I spent just over 2 weeks in hospital - first in Edinburgh's new Royal Infirmary (Ward 108), and then in Ward 18 in the wonderful St John's, Livingstone. Now I am staying with a relative, just out of hospital, unable to go home because I live on the top floor of a Victorian tenement and I cant get up the stairs. I have just learnt how to use crutches but I'm still a bit nervous. I can wash myself and get to the toilet - but I can't cook or clean or go to work - I can't focus for more than ten minutes. I listen to the radio and look at the paper. I talk on the phone, send texts and use my computer. I have full use of my left leg and arms and upper body. But I cant carry anything. I am utterly dependent on my friends, colleagues and relatives - and eternally grateful for their tremendous support.

There is no need to go into the details of the incident - bike versus truck - I thought I was going to die - what more is there to say - but what happened next is perhaps worth sharing. The art of the possible in the surgical and medical world, the NHS in all its gory and glory, the surprisingly intense relationships with other patients, the people who give up their free time to transfer patients (me) between hospitals at weekends, cards and flowers from previous employers and colleagues not seen for years, long terrifying nights in the High Dependence Unit - and the fear of leaving the hospital and that little red lifeline buzzer that brings someone to your bed no matter what time of day or night it is. So bear with me folks - this is the saga of an ordinary person coming to terms with an extraordinary event.

On Spanish trains - with a bike

They're infamous - Spanish trains - especially for cyclists. In Spain's defence, if I had been a fluent Spanish speaker, I might have understood the more sophisticated possibilities (no one I talked to in the stations spoke English).... my Spanish is basic - so here goes...

The challenge - to get from Santiago de Compostela to Santander with the bike in time for the Plymouth ferry on a Monday afternoon.

In preparation I checked first at Lugo station - here I was told (I think) that bikes are only allowed on regional trains - these are slow and inexpensive. The helpful bloke in Lugo wrote down the times of the trains I could catch on a Sunday (would involve 3 changes and 12 hours) - not exactly convenient - but possible.

On arrival in Santiago a quick tour of the public library (free internet access) to check the trains on line - according the website - there were no trains on a Sunday. With this horrifying news, I legged it to the station.

According to the wee man there - there were trains on a Sunday, but no bikes allowed. What about Saturday I asked (well bleated - I had gone white by now) - no, not allowed on Saturday either (at this point I sensed some delight in his tone). So I mustered my best Spanish, looked him in the eye, explained that if I didnt get the ferry from Santander my husband, closely followed by my boss, would beat me - and please please, could he do something?

And indeed he did - with a Galician flourish, he stabbed furiously at his computer - and printed out my solution - depart Santiago on Saturday night - arrive in Ourense in the middle of the night - stay there (finding my own accomodation), depart Ourense early on Sunday morning (before any cafe or shop is open for life saving coffee) for Leon. Change at Leon for Palencia - and then again finally for Santander. Oh, and by the way its not possible to buy a through ticket - so at each station, another queue, new instructions and another ticket. Cost around 45 euros.

Was it worth it? Yes. The trains are slow, the scenery is fabulous, the natives are warm and friendly, and the craic in Ourense was great!

Santander to Santiago de Compostela

The facts:
9 days of pedaling
1 day of rest in Lugo
average distance per day 60 - 80ks
maximum distance (last day) 107ks
terrain: steep and difficult (good level of fitness required)
road quality: surfaces good, some single track roads
accommodation - mostly hostals (limited camping available)
weather: cold, cloud, rain, sun, wind
food: menu de dia (8 - 12 Euros)
language: Spanish (English is rarely spoken in this region)



The route:
maps: Michelin regional Espagne (572 and 571)

• Santander to San Vicente CA 131 (camping at Playa de Oyambre)
• San Vicente to Potes N621 (uphill through gorge) - choice of hostals in Potes
• Potes to Riano N621 Puerto de San Glorio (1609m) - choice of hostals in Riano
• Riano to La Vecilla N621 (over a couple of minor passes) - one hostal in La Vecilla
• La Vecilla to Senra CL 626 (hostal in Senra is the only one in the area)
• Senra to Sisterna LE 493 / AS 212 (hostal in Sisterna is the only one in the area)
• Sisterna to Fonsegrada AS 212 / LU 721 (80ks of very steep climbs) - choice of hostals in Fonsegrada
• Fonsegrada to Lugo C630 (choice of hostals and cheapest pulpo in Spain!)
• Lugo to Santiago de Compestela (take the small rural roads straight through)
  

In praise of travelling with strangers

We've all been there - on holiday with a partner or a close friend or a parent - tempers fraying, walking on opposite sides of the street - stomping into a shop and refusing to come out (and once even hurling the mountain bike into a ditch in Tasmania only to be spotted by an astonished pair of Canadians as they came round the corner unexpectedly in matching red anoraks...)

But not with strangers - with strangers we are on our best behaviour - we show respect, we don't hoard the food or take the last cake, we leave the bathroom clean, we turn off the light at a reasonable hour, we don't curse and shout when they miss the turning and add an extra 10k to the trip, we don't take all the blankets when we are forced to share a bed in some one horse town, we smile gently when they eat pig knuckle even though our stomachs are turning, we murmer contentment when they hang washing all over the shared hotel room, we don't mind that they don't share our penchant for shoe shops or Joseph Beuys exhibitions, we refuse to weep when our tendons have turned themselves inside out and there is still 25k to go, we gaily pedal up mountains in howling gales when we would rather stay in bed and watch Spanish day time soaps, and of course we laugh at their jokes and at our own expense day after day after day....

Take a pedal from Santander to Santiago de Compostela in Northern Spain with an Irish stranger - and this too could be all yours - until the stranger becomes your friend, your behaviour deteriorates and you have to split before the sodding bike is thrown into a ditch....