I wasn’t going to do this, but writing is therapeutic for me and I feel the need to get it all out. In part one of my examination of my recent accident I look at the physical aspect: what happened and how I got fixed
A note on photos: the first photo is just my leg in a bandage. It’s suitable for all. At the very end of this piece there’s a photo of the knee after the stitches came out. This is more 12A than U. If you’re squeamish you might not want to look. The photos of the open wound are definitely not for putting here, but I’m happy to share them if anyone wants to see them …
AS some who read this blog already know, a couple of weeks ago – on 22 November – I came off my bike. I’ve fallen off a few times before, but nothing like this. I’m not entirely sure what happened. One minute I was cycling along going onto the cycle path from the road (surely a safety-conscious move?) and the next I was sliding along the pavement unable to stop myself.I hadn’t hit the curb (it was a drop curb) or a rock or wet leaves. I wasn’t going overly fast. I wasn’t weaving in and out of traffic. The bike just went from under me. All I can think is that I hit a patch of diesel. Part of me wishes I had been doing something stupid or dangerous; at least then I could look to what I’d done and not do it again.
I hit the ground hard and my momentum dragged me along on my left knee. A woman taking her kids to school stopped and offered to call an ambulance. A couple of police officers offered to call their van to take me home. I declined both. I wasn’t far from home and was sure I could easily get back. Some schoolgirls even stopped and offered me a drink of water. Walthamstow really is lovely sometimes.
So I walked for a bit and then got back on the bike and cycled home. I honestly thought that all I’d done was skin the knee and knock it about quite badly. I even sent a text to my boss saying that I’d just fallen off my bike and I’d be a bit late for work. It wasn’t until I got my cycling leggings off that I realised how wrong I was. There was gaping hole in my knee about 13cm across, 5cm wide and almost down to the bone. “I need to go to A&E,” I told The Chap, in a somewhat understated manner. He took one look and panicked. He tried to phone for an ambulance but couldn’t remember the number …
He did manage to get through but they wouldn’t come out, so we had to call a cab. We also needed to wrap the wound somehow, but have any bandages so had to rip up a T-shirt and tie that round my leg, Rambo style. The drive was awful. We were in peak drive-the-kids-to-school time and there were roadworks; every bump in the road jounced my leg, causing me agony. I didn’t cry, though.
A&E was much like you’d expect: lots of waiting around while I was seen by a succession of nurses and doctors. I was given some codeine for the pain. The wound was x-rayed and properly bandaged. We also took some photos so that different doctors and nurses could see what had happened without removing the bandages every time. I’ve still got the photos; they’re grim.
Eventually we got to see the orthopaedics doctor, and that’s when the bombshell was dropped. The wound was too big to sew up under a local anaesthetic, I was going to have to have surgery. “And I want to keep you in overnight,” she concluded. This was when I started crying. Up to this point I was convinced that they were just going to stitch me up and I’d be back at work within the week. It didn’t occur to me that I might not be going home that day. I’ve never had surgery, never even had local anaesthetic never mind a general, and never spent the night in hospital. I was terrified.
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| My bandaged knee after the surgery. You can see the bruising and where they had to draw an arrow to make sure they operated on the correct knee. |
The doctor added that she would be happy with me going home if we promised that if there was any change or if blood came through the bandage we would come straight back. She left the room to give us a bit of privacy. I was sobbing. “I just want to go home,” I said. So that’s what we did. It wasn’t my best decision. I settled down on the sofa, had some lunch and was about to turn on Netflix, when I thought I should just check the bandage, just in case there was some blood, convinced there wouldn’t be. You can probably guess the next bit. The bandage was soaked.
“I think we need to go back to A&E,” I said. So for the second time that day The Chap called a cab and off we went for more sitting around. When we saw the orthopaedic doc again, she looked at me and asked “Can I keep you in this time?” I could only nod. So we waited in A&E for a bed to come available. It took hours; apparently there’s a shortage of beds across the whole of the NHS.
It’s weird being in hospital overnight. Lights go out at 11pm, but it’s never truly dark. It’s never truly quiet either and I’m so very grateful for a friend’s advice to take earplugs. The nurses were also taking blood pressure readings and so on at regular intervals through the night. They’re very careful but it’s hard not to wake up. Another thing I’m grateful for, as it meant I was awake at 2am, the last time I could eat anything in order to have the surgery that day. I had a banana.
The doctor who was to perform the surgery visited me on his rounds that morning. He assured me they would try to see me in the morning, but they couldn’t promise anything. I was also seen by an anaesthetist who turned out to be a cyclist too – the first thing he asked was if the bike was ok – and the pharmacist, who was pretty hot, so that cheered me up somewhat.
I spent most of the day in a blind panic about the operation. I even had to do an emergency calm mindfulness meditation, which really helped and I’d recommend it to anyone in a similar situation. I use the Calm app and it really does work. I’m currently working through the 21 days of calm meditations. In the end I went down for surgery at 3pm, by which time I’d not eaten or drunk anything for 13 hours.
I was totally blown away by the professionalism, compassion, respect, patience and kindness demonstrated by everyone with whom I came into contactThe anaesthetists put in a drip, which was an odd experience. I’d been feeling very dehydrated but almost immediately that went away. They also asked how I was feeling. “OK,” I said. “Just very scared.” They reassured me that they would look after me, and they really did. In fact all the staff were fantastic. I was totally blown away by the professionalism, compassion, respect, patience and kindness demonstrated by everyone with whom I came into contact. It might be self-evident that people in caring profession are likely to be, well, caring, but it’s not until you actually experience it that you realise just what that means.
After I’d come round, the cycling anaesthetist came over and agreed that it was indeed a very bad injury. Then I was wheeled back to the ward. The Chap was already there. My notes said I could go home if safe, but there was no way that evening. So I had another night in hospital. And the next morning brought more sitting around as I waited for orthopaedics to release me. One nurse: “I’ll phone up to them again. I’m so sorry – I wish I could do more.” I went home around lunch time.
So now, almost three weeks later, I’m confined to the sofa, being looked after by The Chap. I’ve had the stitches out; the knee is constantly painful and I’m on all kinds of painkillers. I still can’t walk without crutches, but I’m trying to keep bending my knee, ankle and toes just to return a bit of movement. It’s not easy. It hurts and I’ve been very emotional; I’m going to talk more about the psychological aspect in part two of this post.
Below the line is a photo of the injury after the stitches came out. If you don't want to see, turn away now.
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| It's not that bad, but you can see the extent of the wound and the bruising around it. |
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