Recovery

“A pessimist looks at his glass and says it is half empty; an optimist looks at it and says it is half full.” – Gabriel Wells

The glass half full/half empty question works as a metaphor but not in reality.  But the accident did provide a genuine insight into my state of mind.

“You must feel so lucky you survived,” people would say.

“No,” I’d reply, “I feel unlucky that I fell.”

In an earlier post I wrote that I had completed a journey of 1000 miles.  Despite leaving me depressed and unable to move, it was the skiing accident that started me on that road.  But it was 3 months before I could take a single step.

The days after the accident passed in a morphine-induced haze.  It wasn’t as fun as it sounds.  One week later I was judged fit enough for surgery.  Well, the surgeon judged me fit enough.  The anaesthetist didn’t agree.  After a huge argument, much of which was carried out at my bedside, the surgeon won through seniority.  This is unusual as it's the anaesthetic that presents the danger.  This didn’t do much to put me at ease.

After 5 hours in surgery I emerged with bionic feet: my heels now contain as much metal as bone.  The next 3 months passed very slowly.  Here are the highlights (in the movie of my life this will be an awesome montage despite inevitably being accompanied by 'Broken Heels', Alexandra Burke's anthemic tribute to ill-shod women everywhere):

The month following the accident was spent lying in a Swiss hospital bed.  I couldn’t roll over let alone stand up.  After 4 weeks it was decided my condition was stable enough to fly and I was returned to England by Air Ambulance.  (Probably the first and last time I will ever have my own private aeroplane and I slept through the whole thing.)

After a few days in hospital in England they got me into a wheelchair and allowed me to return home (where I remained in a hospital bed - although in more familiar surroundings).  I spent the next 2 months between the bed and wheelchair.  Highpoints included attending my sister’s wedding and going to Wimbledon (each made more challenging by being in a wheelchair).  On the plus side I got a great view at both.

Finally, fully 12 weeks after my accident, I was allowed to weight-bear.  A mark of my determination (or impatience), as the clock struck midnight I decided to stand up.  “I think we should just wait to go to the hospital” my Mum advised.

“Well I’m getting up with or without you, so I suggest you help” I replied.  Definitely impatient...

As I tentatively stood up, with more than a passing resemblance to Bambi, I felt more positive: the glass of milk I’d been drinking was beginning to appear half full.  I was through the worst, I thought, and from here it would be plain sailing.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Besides, the glass of milk was neither half full nor half empty: It was just half a glass of milk.