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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment