Discussion Groups / English Usage / January 2007

I was reborn, totally unable to walk, on 2nd December 2006 at  0730. I
had been working in my office, which is attached to my house, revising a
nearly complete and long-overdue novel, when I decided I’d had enough.
I switched everything off, stood up, and promptly fell over. Thinking I
was more tired than I imagined, I had another go at standing up and
flopped across the cat’s chair. My sense of balance had gone
completely and my left leg felt like a sock full of custard.

I crawled into the house and yelled for my wife. I clung to two things:
a bookcase and a belief that I was over-tired and that everything would
be put right by a bit of shuteye, but Christine insisted on calling for
a doctor. Early on a Saturday morning? Some hope! Nevertheless she
called NHS Direct. Her description of my symptoms to their operator and
her answers to his questions resulted in him calling for an ambulance
immediately. Wonder of wonders, it arrived in double-quick time.

Convinced that I’d never see my beloved home again because I was by
now quite ill, vomiting like Old Faithful, I was whisked off to the
Royal Surrey Hospital in Guildford. An hour and twenty minutes after
Christine’s NHS Direct call, I was in the hospital’s A and E unit to
begin initial stabilizing treatment, then I was moved to the Medical
Assessment Unit to start two days of rigorous tests. CAT scans, MRI
scans, X-Rays, and  endless blood pressure tests, skin sensitivity and
strength tests –– I had the lot. Every move from one machine to
another that required me to move my head resulted in me being violently
sick. It was a grim time. After that there were many tests to determine
the extent of the damage to my nervous system. Being told that I’d got
off lightly, that I could’ve lost my power of speech etc, was small
comfort when the slightest attempt to move my head had me heaving.

There were moments of joy when Christine, and Richard and Joanna visited
me.

I spent about two days in the MAU unit in a drugged stupor, hardly
eating or drinking other than by drip feeds. I vaguely recall my bed
being moved at night through long corridors. A kaleidoscope of overhead
signs slipping by on the fringe of my consciousness. I think one said
Mortuary --  not that I cared.

Morning revealed that I was in a six-bed high dependency ward which was
to be my home for the next two weeks. The doctors' job in this new ward
was to stabilize me -- to stop my pulse and blood pressure from
galloping off in all directions. Christine visited me every day despite
the awful journey on the A3 during that period of winter fogs that had
much UK air traffic grounded. I even had a surprise visit by my agent,
Philip Patterson. I’d forgotten that he lived near the Royal Surrey.
Fears that he’d come to scoff ten per cent of my grapes were
groundless. I was most touched by the warm messages from the agency and
his colleagues.

The results of all the tests was the deduction that I’d suffered a
brain stem truncial ataxia stroke. The intriguing magnetic resonance
images of my brain showed several sites of haemoeraging. The area of my
brain that looked after balance was completely buggered but I was
assured that other parts of the brain could be trained to take over such
functions if I was sufficiently determined.

I was determined all right. My physiotherapy started in earnest with my
being propped up in bed like a baby, so that I could learn how to hold
my head up. After that I learned to sit up in a chair without keeling
over. About a week later Christine was thrilled to find me sitting up
and dressed in a chair. The initial physio sessions were tough with the
physiotherapists goading me into doing things that I was convinced were
impossible -- such as pulling myself to my feet and clinging to my
Zimmerframe. Once I could do that, I had to learn to take a few clumsy,
shuffling steps. These early sessions usually ended with me vomiting
into a sick bowl.

My progress was consistent so the decision was taken to move me to
Milford Hospital’s Rehabilitation Unit. This was wonderful news. Not
only was Milford (near Godalming) only four miles from home, thus saving
Christine a nightmare daily drive on the A3, but I’d be in hospital
that was focussed on healing stroke victims.

I was moved a few days before Christmas. My disappointment with the
hospital was immediate. The professionalism and dedication of the staff
was above reproach, but it was the holiday and staff sickness season.
When the NHS works, it works well, but there is no slack in the system
-- if a key member of staff such as a physiotherapist is absent for a
day then their work/ appointments for that day are lost. Sickness and
holidays meant that I had many frustrating days when I had no physio
sessions other than my own exercises such as standing up, holding onto
my Zimmerframe. Over the new year period I went nearly a week without
any physiotherapy. This was particularly infuriating because my progress
when I did have sessions was so good. With my walking frame I had
reached the stage that a child reaches when it gets around by holding on
to a wheeled toy (In my son’s case many years ago it had been a big
wooden engine).

In the new year a talented physiotherapist, Jenny, proved herself
brilliant at pushing me beyond what I thought were my capabilities. On
the 4th Jan 2007 she suggested that I walk the ten metres of the gym’s
parallel bars with my hands hovering above the hand rails -- not
actually holding on. A crazy suggestion! It was impossible for me to
walk without hanging onto something but I tried it to please her. To my
astonishment I WALKED! I actually walked. Upright. One foot before the
other, hands off the rails. Furthermore, she moved some ten metres from
the end of the security of the parallel bars and told me to keep coming.
How I made it to her I’ll never know. I used a clumsy gait that could
hardly be called a walk but it worked. Christine was present in the gym
at the time. I was so overcome with emotion that I collapsed into her
arms and wept. By some strange quirk of memory a line from King
David’s lovely 23rd psalm clamoured at my reason. A line that was
never meant to be taken out of context yet I couldn’t help it:

        HE MADE ME WALK.

My elation was damped by the conditions in my ward. Being a relatively
old man, I was put in a ward with other old men who were also stroke
victims. But they had all given up; they spent the days staring blankly
into space when they weren’t being washed or fed. I had no one to talk
to. I had to convince all the nurses -- wonderful, dedicated men and
women -- that it really wasn’t necessary to shout at me. The geriatric
cases in my ward were bed-blocking. They were only kept in the hospital
because there was no one at home to take care of them. They were
languishing in hospital, waiting to die. Poor Christine was alarmed to
see me sinking into a state of abject depression.

I ached to be allowed home. She and son Richard had worked hard to
prepare the downstairs of our house for my home-coming. A bed had been
installed in the library. Special equipment fitted in the loo. It was
all part of the hospital’s home stroke team that ensures that home
care patients get all the support of the hospital with drugs etc but
without the patient actually being in hospital. The trouble was that the
home facilities had to be inspected and approved before I could be
discharged. It was a bureaucratic step that was cancelled several times
and so reduced me to black despair. By now I was convinced that I’d
never see my home again.

On the 9th January Christine’s patience snapped. She marched into the
hospital and announced that she was discharging me into her care and was
taking me home. Richard accompanied her. Thanks to the understanding and
support of the doctors and nursing staff, who had been concerned about
my condition, the self-discharge step wasn’t necessary because the
doctor seized the initiative and discharged me there and then. The home
inspection was carried out retrospectively. Christine’s actions were
on the advice of friends in the know who said that with the National
Health Service, it’s squeaking wheels that receive the most oil. A
long-term patient needs someone on the outside to fight their corner.
Christine, who is not a pushy person, proved herself to be an admirable
champion with an unsuspected streak of assertiveness to get her own way
when necessary.

Christine and Richard trundled me out to the car in a borrowed
wheelchair. Twenty minutes later Chris pulled up in our drive and I gave
way to tears because I’d reached a state of depression in which I was
convinced I’d never see my home again.

I’ve now been home for eight blissfully happy days. The district nurse
has now called twice, My cousin Valerie has taken over the role of
supplies officer and has been busy on-line so that each day brings a
delivery of an aid designed to make life a little easier. Yesterday my
handling harness arrived so that the one loaned by the hospital could be
returned. It’s a Peter Pan broad, padded belt that goes around the
waist. It's provided with loops so that a carer needs only a light
touch to correct wobbles as I stagger around. Such a simple device and
yet it gives so much confidence. Richard comes in once a week to carry
out various fine-tuning of the house to make life easier for me.
Yesterday he arranged the office so that I can reach everything from my
castor chair.

I’ve got wonderfully supportive neighbours who include a stroke nurse
who has been an invaluable source of help and guidance. Another
neighbour is a physiotherapist!

I’m now getting regular private physiotherapy treatment from a
remarkable lady who has done much to help me along the path to proper
mobility. She’s confident that I’ll be walking normally in about
four months.

So maybe by June I’ll be able to donate my walking frame, crutches and
handling belt to the hospital, and return the wheelchair to the Red
Cross because

HE MADE ME WALK.