Go-fast Shin

The Golden Jubilee. Funny name for a hospital. Especially one in the backend of Clydebank. A walk, a bus, a train, a low level train and another walk from the East side of Edinburgh. In the worst weather for months. Me in full waterproofs. Running into a colleague on the train, a relative at the station, and more colleagues on the low level platform. There's something to be said for this public transport lark.

Dalmuir station is not pretty. But it does have lifts. And signs. Which makes the ten minute walk to the hospital/hotel/conference complex somewhat easier.

There's a vague sense of the Middle East in the hotel. Something to do with the wooden paneling and the tiled floors. Although there, sadly, the similarities end. No wafting spices or honied baklavas. No thrumming drums. No call of the muezzin... This is somewhat of a disappointment, given the original purpose of the complex. I guess it is Clydebank after all.

I am entitled to a free room, and that is all. My complimentary paper will have to be paid for, as will all my meals. I guess this is fair enough, given its the NHS budget, and tax payers have to be protected. But it does feel a bit weird. The 15m pool, though, is part of the deal. With its view of the Clyde (if you stand on tiptoes), its thick white towels and its compact sauna and steam room.

At 3pm I present myself to the pre-op clinic and answer the same questions three times in different order. Provide samples. Get swabbed, jabbed and ECGd. Commiserate with the nurse who ended up in a bed in his own ward after being knocked down on his bike by a car driver.

Later I eat in the cavernous staff canteen that has two options on the menu. Jamie Oliver has obviously yet to reach the west coast of Scotland; the food is vaguely nutritious and entirely colourless.

By 6.30pm I'm bored. I have 17 hours to kill. Too wet and cold to go out. I busy myself with Susie Orbach. Play with the iMac. Examine the toiletries. Pace round the hotel. Swim in the pool. Melt in the sauna. Investigate the rest of the hospital. Which is part of the hotel. Or the other way round. Very hard to tell.

At 11 the next morning I present myself to the ward. Shown to a twin room. Given the statutory gown, paper pants and fancy white stockings. Sign the consent form. Answer the same questions five times. Don a wristband. Meet the surgeon and his assistant. Discuss the likelihood of two return visits. Meet the anaesthetist. Discuss spinal versus general anaesthetic. 'Choose' general because spinals not recommended for afternoon lists (what??). Meet some random other doctor. Meet several more nurses. Get offered lunch by mistake.

Finally walk, with my nurse, to the theatre. In my gown. Foam slippers. And unseen paper pants. The walk of shame. Why am I not wheeled? To test my mobility apparently. Good idea. And saves portering time too. Efficiency gains live at a hospital near you (I hope the Tories are watching...).

The admission room is bustling, noisy and upbeat. I meet more nurses. Answer the same questions seven times. Climb on a bed. And horrors, am wheeled into the theatre awake. Despite being a seasoned professional patient, this is new to me. Where is the little anaesthetic room? Did they forget to build it? Efficiency savings?

I see the nurse open the instrument tray. I bleat a bit. And, embarrassingly, although I am a seasoned professional patient, weep. Clutch at the hand of the nurse from Sierra Leone. And then its over.

In the recovery room an hour later the surgeon tells me he 'got the lot'. Well, most of it at least. Which means that all going well, there will not be two return visits. Hopefully not even one. I am the proud owner of a new streamlined go-fast shin. I have been improved. And it hurts like hell. I hope Susie Orbach doesn't mind.

The Grey Prince

Of course he wasn't really a prince. Nor was he grey. Not in the literal sense at least. And I doubt he had read Machiavelli (or Watkins-Pitchford for that matter), although you never know... He shares a name with a prince though. Actually, not one name but two names. Two names with two princes. How cool is that?

So to protect his identity we will call him the prince for now. Well, The Prince. Capital letters are good. Provide some gravitas. For this is an important, if very short, story.

I first set eyes on The Prince on the 10th of January. And last set eyes on him on the 21st of March. Neither of these dates are important historically. Which is a shame. Because they could have added a certain chutzpah, a cheeky reference for the clever reader to sigh "ah yes... the irony..."

There was still snow on the 10th of January. I remember this because I had to get my stick back out. Walking was harder then. There was no snow on the 21st of March. There were blackbirds though. And starlings on the skylight. And people eating ice creams on Cramond beach. The Prince and I ate ice creams too. With flakes. Even though there was no sun.

The Prince was around, although not always present, for some major milestones. He did witness the first frock outing in 15 months. Frocks, you may remember, are out when you have a thigh on your shin. This is both aesthetic (looks horrid) and functional (can't get orthotics into the boots that on a good day will fit over the thigh on a shin). So successfully wearing a frock involves a painful foot (because no orthotics) - both for the outing (in this instance a burlesque night) and the following day.

The Prince was not present for the visit to the defence's orthopedic consultant. This visit was, in a word, grim. Its one thing spending time with medical professionals when they are there to treat you. Its quite another when its for the defence to use in the forthcoming court case.

The Prince was present for the viewing of the trashed Moulton. This was kind of him. Maybe. Its not exactly a fun day out to look at scrap metal with a basket case in the passenger seat of your car. Although taking a picture of it with his iPhone was mildly odd...

The Prince was also present for 'the dancin'. This took place in the local community centre. Shooglenifty on stage giving it laldy while an ankle/foot that once had to be coaxed to move a few millimetres found itself bouncing around with its healthier partner in (almost) perfect rhythm. The Prince won the raffle that night (a very dodgy bottle of whisky which remains to be drunk).

The Prince saw the thigh on a shin, but never commented on it. Some people are quiet about these things (the quietness, it turned out, was verging on horror). The Prince was big on body aesthetics. As many princes are.....

The Prince wasn't present for the first trip up Seafield Road on the pavement to that junction. He was on a train to Glasgow to look at a new bike. Nor did The Prince witness the first ride up Seafield Road itself. He was present though, for the ride to Cramond. A patient companion. And this was important. Because it was long. It was (mostly) fun. And it came a few minutes after the Seafield Road trip.

The Prince did witness the immediacy of the post Cramond ride. And this was very important. The speechless exhaustion, the buggered knee, the savaged foot, and the turmoil of joy and fear and victory and resolution and frustration and happiness and sadness and weariness and a whole load of other things that happen inside your head that you can't articulate when you've been run over by a truck and you've finally sort of got back on the road and then you sit down and you just want to lay your head down and weep or laugh but you don't even know any more and there is nothing left to say....

This was too much for The Prince. Or not enough. Or something else. Or nothing. Or everything. The Prince leaves the narrative. With both his princely names. And that is the end of the story. At least for The Prince. It is not a sad story. People come and go. And so do princes. So do thighs on shins. And this thigh on a shin has eight days left before it goes under the knife. And a new chapter begins.

Back on the road

Its a weird thing, fear. Impossible to describe to someone else. Difficult even to articulate to myself. What causes my legs to shake sometimes, and my hands at other times? Why does my heart start pounding just thinking about it? Why does simply talking about it bring it on?

Of course, all these things have a physiological reason. Its pretty straight forward, the flight or fight response. And I'm learning the control mechanisms too. Go to the site. Face the fear. Stand there with the bike until my heart stops pounding. According to my psychologist this should be easier every time. Mmm. Even writing it down is unpleasant.

And so to the progress report.

In early March I wake up one morning and decide to face the fear, head on and alone. iPod on (yes, not recommended for cycling, but safer in this instance for its calming effect). Pedal out west along the Promenade, up onto Seafield Road, weave cautiously along the pavement, and stop 30 metres from the site of the incident (I can't use the term accident - so bear with me on this).

Heart racing, palms sweating, and legs threatening to go beneath me, I stand for a few minutes and look at the junction. Note that the world keeps turning. The traffic keeps moving. Just a junction. An ordinary junction. Turn up the music a little. Then pick up the bike and pedal for home. Surprisingly the journey home is worse. Far worse. Still on the pavement but this time with the traffic coming from behind. Hands not firm on the handlebars. Every unexpected noise a terror. And at the same time an enormous sense of achievement. Faced the fear. Over the first hurdle.

Over the next week I grow braver. Visit the site again. Stay longer. Look harder. Get a wee bit closer. Watch a truck come through the junction. Sick with fear. Daren't cross the junction. But hold the line. Breathe deeply.

And then, even bolder, a few days later, I pedal east for a few kilometres, now and again off the pavement and onto the road where it is nice and wide. Still not cycling through junctions but cranking up the possibilities every time. And with these possibilities, new frustrations.

Want to go further. And faster. And up hills. But I heed the advice of the professionals. No hills (because of my knee). And no junctions (because my adrenalin will apparently get in the way of my judgment). And no lorries - definitely no lorries - because when my legs shake I lose power - and when my hands shake I lose control - and neither of these things is a good idea when 32 tonnes storms past within a metre of a small person on a little pink bike...

And on Saturday the 20th March, around 16 months after I was run over, I cycle with a friend safely on my tail along the pavement to that junction. Get off. Cross the road. And then staying on the road, complete the journey to Leith. It is deeply unpleasant. Every vehicle a potential killer. But I do it. Thanks to my patient friend. I am victorious. I have got past that junction. Everything now is possible.

And the next day I do it alone. OK, there are no lorries. I pick a Sunday deliberately. And I am partly forced into it by unexpected and difficult circumstances (more on that in a forthcoming post). I meet a police car with its siren going. And sit behind a large red angry tractor at the lights. Don't undertake it despite the wait. Stopping in Tiso's car park while waiting for a friend I notice my legs and lower lip tremble.

Twenty odd miles that day. All the way to Cramond (and back in the dark). What fun to be back out on the bike, wind in hair and freewheeling down long straight hills on traffic free cycle paths. (How I used to mock!)

And the consequences? Not all good. A throbbing knee. An aching foot. An emotional wreck - poisoned by hours of pumping adrenalin. Unable to string a sentence together until the next day. Exhausted by the sheer scale of the whole thing.

I am not cured. Normal service has not resumed. To cycle to work I will have to contend with lorry after lorry after lorry. I don't know if that will ever be possible. But I can do Sundays. And that's a hell of a start....

A fond kiss

It sounded like a good idea at the time. Well, it was my idea. So it must have been good. Yes? Lets go and have a look at the Moulton. For the first time. The trashed-by-a-truck Moulton. The Moulton that's been moldering in my aunt's shed for over a year.

The same Moulton that careered through the Andes and down into the Amazon basin. That tossed its rider onto the gravel on the steepest downhill track in Ecuador. That whisked along off-road tracks on its little slicks. The perky wee blue thing that raised eyebrows and a smile wherever it went. That stopped strangers in the street. That made its rider friends for life. That wasn't allowed on the London Underground. That was hooted at by smiling waving taxi drivers. Whose suspension was a godsend for anyone with a fear of White Finger.

That went over the Picos with a Thorn that continued on through Africa and is now soldiering on through the Americas. That was inadvertently offloaded from a train in York and almost didn't make it to Cuba. But did. Performing for every street musician and drumming crowd. That was scraped and dented and rarely got a puncture. That flew over the cobbled streets of Edinburgh and was dead staunch when facing off buses in Glasgow. That was allowed inside banks and museums, art galleries and cafes, and even the ESPC on the hunt for a new flat. That had pride of place in the tenement stair - resisting theft at every turn.

And whose final journey was unceremonious, violent and filthy. A dirty junction on a dirtier road. On a light grey day. The day of the Scottish Transport Awards. Oh the irony. An inconceivable end for a glorious piece of engineering. Handbuilt by master craftsmen in England. Top dollar.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. Less damage I guess. Hadn't anticipated the enormous forces that corkscrewed the frame. A folded Moulton. But the experts amongst you will know that Moultons don't fold. Well not normally. The front wheel seems true. And the seat OK. My hands shake a little as I pull it out into the daylight. Dusty and rusted. Suspension ripped apart. Gaping holes in the steel. And here's the rub. The bike is steel. And I am not. How come the bike is fucked? And I'm not?

On the return home on the bypass we sit for sometime behind an ambulance. I curse my bravado. But its done now. And in a few weeks the bits that can't be salvaged by The Bike Station will go to the great metal scrapheap in the sky. There will be no formal ceremony. Its just a bike after all. But there will be a quiet salute - and a gentle whispering of those famous lines:

A fond kiss, and then we sever;
A farewell, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

The operation date that wasn't

Oh, it was so close. The letter came in. The good news: a date for the clinic and the following day an afternoon slot in theatre. Even get to have breakfast. The bad news: as anticipated, the operation is scheduled for the Golden Jubilee - 50 miles away.

I phone the hospital.

Check who the surgeon is. It wouldn't do to run out in a flapping theatre gown when you discover on the operating table that they've given you someone else just to meet the waiting times (they haven't).

Check whether its a day case or an overnighter as the letter doesn't say (its a day case).

Check whether I have to go to the clinic or whether as a professional theatre patient I can just give it a miss (no I cant give it a miss).

As a sop, am offered free hotel accommodation for the night between the clinic and the operation (food not paid for).

So. All systems go. Need to take a week off work post anesthetic (based on the last experience). Start clearing diary and canceling meetings. Need to find a way of getting to the hospital (door to door its a bus and two trains). Need to find a way of getting back from the hospital (a bus and two trains is not going to work after a general anesthetic).

In the midst of all this, some 20 minutes after speaking to the waiting list manager, I get another call. The operation is off. Surgeon cancels his list that day. An emergency. Head in hands at my desk.

All systems go. Start reinstating meetings. Canceling the cancellations. Breathe a furious sigh. Then hesitate for a moment.

Operation number six is technically cosmetic. My 'thigh on a shin' will become a shin. Just a shin. With some minor scars. I have been wanting this for a long time. Not even questioned wanting it. My thigh on a shin is hideous. The photos don't lie. Nor does my mirror. OK the scar itself is very neat. Good stitching. Great job by a fabulous surgeon. But people stare when it pokes out from under my jeans. Sheer vanity means I don't wear skirts. And sheer bulk means no boots. It shakes a bit when I swim. A strange piece of flab clinging on for dear life.

But my thigh on a shin has had, and continues to have, critical functions. It saved my leg. It put skin where there was no skin - and soft tissue where there was no soft tissue. It protected my bones as they healed. It took precious nutrients to where they were most needed. And its been a cushion over a place that badly required some protection. Both physically and emotionally. I haven't seen my shin for over a year. Which is probably just as well in the circumstances.

Pause again. Stroke my thigh on a shin. Actually, its going to be more complex to give this up than expected. The clever man who put it there is going to take some of it away. This is necessary and important. But the loss shouldn't be underestimated. By me at least. And had I not got the operation date that wasn't, I might just have jettisoned the thigh on a shin with a barely a second thought. And no doubt paid heavily later.

My thigh on a shin lives on for another day. We find our peace somewhere in the realms of co-dependency. And I will quietly mourn my loss when the end finally comes.

Moving Well

My mobility, it seems, is not just my business. In the last couple of weeks 'you're moving well' has become the opening gambit of friends, colleagues, strangers who have heard of me, shopkeepers in my high street, health professionals who know me, and a few others not in any of these categories.

On a couple of occasions, people have looked openly surprised. Smiling. A minor medical miracle strolling into a meeting room, standing watching a gig all night in The Caves, wandering round Scotmid nonchalantly, daring to cross the road against the lights, springing off the bus without hanging onto the guard rail, no longer sitting by the right hand aisle in the cinema....

What few see of course, are the clumsy orthotics, the daily grind of physio, the twice weekly biodex machine hammering me to hammer my quads, the visits to the psychologist, the (largely) hidden skin graft scars, the ongoing pain in my knee and ankle, meetings with lawyers, discussions with HR about sick pay, the angst of trying to do a full time job effectively with all this other rehab stuff, and the fatigued collapse at the end of the day from sheer bloody mindedness in making all this happen.

I am not cured. I cannot run. I can't yet attempt a Munroe. I'm still not back in the traffic on my bike. But I am far further on that anyone thought possible. Some would call this a miracle. Lucky. High quality NHS results. But actually this is now all down to physio and hard graft. My physiotherapist. Her assistant who operates the Biodex machine. And me. Collectively we are taking on the world. And winning. And if there's a moral to this story, its simply that.

Folks - if you are told to do your physio or related exercise, do it. Don't put it off for another day. Don't be frustrated by slow progress. Or lonely in your endeavours. Or angry about 'why me?' Or think someone else will do it for you. Just get on with it. Because the results are not just for you. They're for everyone else around you who is just itching for your success.

The Waiting List

Christmas and new year passed with snow, ice, champagne and not a single fall. A visit to a French ski field (without the skis of course) was a harsh lesson in 'look what I can't do (yet)'.

But it was also a victory in 'look where I can go now'. Walking on snow. Jumping into a moving gondola. Climbing up the icy steps to the restaurant. Not being run over by an errant snow boarder... Strolling to the next village.

Walking round Geneva for five hours, with its $500,000 watches and the International Red Cross Museum (what an extraordinary combination) was a lesson that lasted nearly a week. Ill nae do that again...

Safely back in Scotland, to my disappointment, there is no letter from St Johns. Ten weeks after the clinic appointment. I ring the waiting times manager and leave a message. Astonishingly, he rings me back. Polite, helpful and generous with his time.

It seems that, unusually, my plastic surgeon operates on Fridays. As Christmas and new year fell on Fridays, two operating days were lost. Then there was the snow. And emergencies. And he has to take some leave this year because he didn't get much last year. There are new HEAT targets, but its not clear which operations they apply to (presumably not cosmetic surgery to improve my ego and help me get a pair of boots on) . And suddenly Houston, we have a problem.

Would I consider going to the Golden Jubilee in Glasgow? I am reassured that I would still have the same consultant. Of course I say (ever helpful). Without asking where it actually is. Or how I am going to get to the other side of Glasgow for 7am. (Later I discover it is near the Erskine Bridge. Getting there will be one thing. Getting back post anesthetic will be something else indeed).

So. The waiting list manager knows who I am. He will speak to my consultant about the Golden Jubilee. But I do not have my appointment. Which means I cannot plan. Anything. Any time in February, March or April. No theatre tickets. No gigs. No holidays. No major work events. I am in a waiting list limbo. With an Erskine Bridge logistics puzzle. And a physio regime that suddenly requires gym equipment rather than a couple of ankle weights at home. This, it seems, is the nature of rehab. Just when you have mastered the exercise regime and the time and motion practices required to make it happen, a whole new thing has to be developed, learnt, and built into one's life. Is this manageable? Of course. I think of Haiti. And I crack on.