The Bionic Man
A few years ago I was cycling for the purposes of my health, when I had an accident and smashed up my elbow. Literally smashed it up. When I say ‘literally’, I mean literally literally. Not in the way kids use it these days, as a way of emphasizing a statement like “I literally died laughing” or “I was so angry my head literally exploded”. To which my considered response is usually, “So, how are you telling me this exactly?” Anyway, my elbow was ‘literally’ smashed into tiny pieces. As a result I now have a.) a six inch scar running down the back of my arm, b.) an elbow joint which resembles the snout of a bottle-nosed Dolphin, c.) an arm that extends to about 90% when I attempt to straighten it and d.) so many metal wires and pins in it that I tend to set off Airport Security Scanners.
So, it occurs to me that when doctors and the general media are eschewing the virtues of exercise, hospitalisations are some of the ‘minor’ details they tend to gloss over. Another thing I discovered about biking is that having an accident on a push bike is not nearly as glamourous or as rock ‘n’ roll as having an accident on a motorbike.
Motorised Rock n Roll
When people asked me what had happened to my arm, I’d generally say I’d come off my bike. When, during the ensuing conversation it became clear it was not due to a motorbike accident but was sadly nothing more exciting than a bicycle, their interest would suddenly wane. “Oh,” they’d say with just a hint of disappointment, “Not a motorbike then?” “No,” I’d reply, “Just a bike.” And pointing towards my plaster encased arm I’d state, “But the injury is just the same.” Then I’d watch as they would attempt to back peddle (no pun intended), think better of it, wince, consider their current predicament then decide to brazen it out and say, “Yes but, well……..it’s not…. (pausing for thought)….you know, it’s not quite the same though, is it. Bike. Push Bike. Motor Bike.”
The Dook
And of course they were absolutely right. It’s not quite the same. Additionally, there were other, similar conversations with various people who I allowed to go away thinking I had come off a Ducati 950 at 150mph whilst being hunted down by a wild group of Hells Angels (Tolleshunt D’Arcy Chapter); others were not quite sure whether to ask for confirmation on the form of two wheeled transportation I’d been riding at the point of impact and so, during these types of conversations I ensured I kept the description as ambiguous as possible. For my own entertainment purposes as much as anything.
I’m Floating In The Sunlit Sky
And for the avoidance of doubt, I was merely cycling for the purposes of exercise and enjoyment, because exercise is supposed to alleviate some of the symptoms of stress and depression. So, whilst cycling along a quiet, Essex country lane on a warm, sunny August day, I suddenly found myself being thrown over the handlebars. During my inaugural mission to the stars, it occurred to me that, a.) this was not supposed to happen, b.) it was not going to end well and c.) flying was nothing like they professed it to be in The Snowman.
And so, I sailed through the air as if someone had secretly installed an ejector saddle onto my road bike and thought it’d be fun to pull the lever. And as the world around me took on a dreamy, slow motion, art cinema view, I watched in horror as the grey tarmac of the road suddenly flew up to meet my face with a rather unfriendly and resounding thud! But instead of using my face to break my fall, I had curled my body slightly and my right elbow hit the ground first and took the full force. The nobbly bit on the end. The Olecranon.
Elbows
Between you and me this is not good news for elbows. Because, elbows are generally good for bending arms, for leaning on when you’re bored and for nudging people out of the way when you’re in a hurry. Also, they tend to fair less well in cushioning the weight of a fully grown man who happens to be a little too well upholstered around the midriff. Luckily, I’d had the foresight to wear a skid lid or my beautiful fizzog may have also been scarred for life too.
The Good Samaritan
And whilst I lay in the road trying to decode what had just happened, I heard the sound of a car approaching and I listened as it stopped, the handbrake was applied, the door was opened and footsteps approached me.
“Are you all right chief?” a man asked.
“Urgh,” I replied, winded.
“Let’s get you up,” he continued.
“Urgh,” I said. I still didn’t know what had happened.
Next, he scraped me off the tarmac and helped me to the side of the road where I sat on the grass verge.
“What happened?” he asked.
I shook my head.
KFC Bargain Bucket
After a minute or so I got my breath back and was able to mumble something to him regarding my state of confusion. He said he’d seen me in the distance and then all of a sudden I just upped and flew over the handlebars. I started to complain about my elbow and on inspection I noted it had already swelled to the size of a satsuma. Well, that lump wasn’t there earlier, I thought.
I use the example of a satsuma to derive the impression I had a healthy outlook to food. In reality I didn’t (I’m much better now). Because what I should’ve said is my elbow was the size of a Big Mac, or a bargain bucket of KFC. Additionally, had I wanted to give the impression I was a little bit above my station I’d have said my elbow was the size of a small packet of organic Quinoa, or an artichoke heart with a white wine and cream velouté.
Academia
But, you can tell a lot about people from the language they use. I remember working on a project in my Data Sciences days 1 with a technical guy who’d spent his university years at Kings College in Cambridge. He used the word ‘academic’ to refer to something which was ‘neither here nor there’ or ‘irrelevant’. So in a discussion regarding a problematic server he’d say something like, “Well the reason it failed is academic, our first objective is to get it restarted.”
IBM’S #95M BID PRE-EMPTS DATA SCIENCES’ FLOTATION – Tech Monitor
This word gradually dropped into my own vocabulary without me realising it until I was on a journey to a football match with my Dad. We were on our way round the A406 (North Circular) to see Spurs. The journey was slow and the road was also gridlocked (as usual) and my Dad was asking where I intended to park. Without thinking I said, “Where we park is academic really, we have to get there first.” My dad’s response was “Academic? Hark at him with his flash words.” That’s when I knew I had started to get ‘above my station’.
The Good Samaritan
Anyway, the reason I was lying in an injured heap at the roadside was academic. I had to get home now with a broken body and a broken bike.
“Where do you live?” the good samaritan asked me.
“About a mile away,” I replied.
“I’ll give you a lift,” he suggested.
“Don’t worry,” I responded. “I’m fine. I’ll walk.”
“What about the bike?” he asked.
“I’ll just push it back.”
“No that’s ok,” he responded, “I’ll take you.”
This toing and froing went on for a few minutes before I conceded that pushing a bike with a front wheel that would now only go sideways was probably going to be more trouble than it was worth.
“Ok,” I said listlessly. “If you’re sure.”
But He Seemed So Normal
He plonked me in the front seat and whilst he lay the bike in the back I wrestled one handed with the seatbelt. He got in the driver’s side, gave me a hand with the seatbelt and that was when I noticed it. The West Ham United FC crest on his shirt. I had to fight a sudden urge to get out of the car and run as fast as I could. I couldn’t understand it. He seemed so normal as well.
He took me home and I thanked him most profusely for his help and off he went. Never to be seen again. I dumped the bike on the ground, went in the house and phoned Vikki.
The Fingernail Theory
I explained what had happened and also that my elbow was now resembling a grapefruit in size. I thought, “I’ll just have a bath. It’ll be fine later. Just a bit of bruising is all.” I assumed the shock of the fall and the injury had pumped my system full of adrenalin, as I really couldn’t feel a thing.
I have to say in my experience breaking your elbow is much less painful than say cutting your fingernails. I always manage to nick the skin in the corner and my finger is sore for days. Breaking your elbow on the other hand (or arm) is a walk in the park by comparison. Admittedly I’ve never spent three days in hospital due to the trauma of having cut my fingernails incorrectly but this is getting away from the point. And the point is our bodies are wonderfully attuned to survival. And if survival means pumping your system with the equivalent of a large bag of happy pills, then so be it.
Tea & Biscuits
When Vikki got home she took one look at me and said, “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”
I sort of curled up my lip as if to say “Stop being so dramatic” and then said, “Stop being so dramatic.”
“Lee, your arm is the size of a balloon. If it gets any bigger you’ll float away. We’re going. Come on.”
“The swelling is fine. It’ll go down in minute,” I countered. “It’ll be fine. I’ll have a cup of tea instead. Come on, put the kettle on.”
That’s when she gave me the look. We all know the look. The look. The head tilted slightly to one side. The unflinching stare. One eyebrow slightly arched. Hands on hips, foot tapping impatiently. The body language that said, “Stop wasting my time.” I knew it was futile to argue.
“Perhaps we can have some tea at the hospital instead,” I suggested.
The Behemoth NHS
She rushed me to Broomfield Hospital in Chelmsford and what happened next was the NHS kicking into gear in the way it should. I went to A&E, saw a nurse, had an X-Ray, saw a consultant, was admitted into hospital, operated on the next morning and was discharged the day after in a plaster cast that ran from my shoulder to my fingertips. You see, for me at least, that’s how the NHS should work. Turn up; get treated; go home.
The Surgeon
The conversation with the orthopaedic consultant was quite amusing now I look back on it. Along with the consultant and his sidekick, we were ushered into a small meeting room. The following discussion went something like this:-
“Mr Adams. Please sit down. I’ve got the results of your X-Ray which is what you can see here on the screen.” He indicated the photo of my bones and continued. This is the X-Ray of your arm Mr. Adams and you can see here,” he pointed to my elbow on screen, “where the Humerus meets the Radius and the Ulna, that the crush fracture has occurred.”
“Oh yes,” I said looking at picture and the several, shattered chunks of bone that had once been my elbow. “So, all those tiny white dots, what are they?”
“They are minute elbow bone fragments. We can wire and pin the main parts back together, clean up the rest and have you back to work in no time.” He looked down at his notes and then continued. “And we can operate on you tomorrow morning I think.” He glanced up towards the other doctor, who nodded silently in confirmation.
I’ll Get Me Coat
On one hand (ha ha) I was thankful my injury was getting the warranted attention, but it was clear I still hadn’t fully comprehended the predicament I was in. That, or the adrenalin/painkiller cocktail was over compensating and this was the real reason I had no idea what was going on and didn’t really care either.
“Ok thanks,” I replied getting up to go. “So, I’ll just come back in the morning then shall I?”
“Oh no,” he replied, indicating I should remain seated. “You’ll be admitted now, they’re getting a bed ready for you and we’ll operate first thing. Well, around 9.30 – 10 o’clock time.” He smiled, “You can have a lie in.”
“Oh,” I replied, just a little surprised at the amount of attention my elbow was getting. All the cogs and wheels of the gigantic behemoth of the NHS were being primed for action. “And when will I be out of hospital then, assuming all goes ok?” I asked hopefully.
The Weekend Stops Here!
“Hmmm,” he studied his notes once again and then looked up. “All things being equal, probably by the weekend I would think.”
“The weekend?” I repeated, becoming a little animated at this news. “But I’m going on holiday at the weekend,” I said, now a little concerned for the first time. “To Jersey,” I added to really push home the seriousness of my predicament.
“Correction Mr Adams,” he replied laconically. “You were going on holiday.”
“But…but…I’ve got news trousers and everything,” I said despondently.
“They’ll keep. You won’t be doing much travelling in the near future. In the meantime we need to get your elbow sorted out. That’s the real priority here.”
I looked at Vikki. She looked at me. We stared at each other glumly for a few seconds whilst the penny dropped.
“Did you buy any holiday insurance?” I asked her eventually.
The Cast
The next thing that happened was I went off to have a cast put on my arm. My arm (now the size of a small village in Hampshire) was too big for a standard arm cast, so they used a leg cast instead. I was then wheeled up to a bed on a small ward, and while Vikki went home and picked up some essentials (cigarettes, alcohol, recreational drugs) I was given something to eat and drink. At about midnight the nurse came round, woke me up and gave me a shot of Morphine. I assumed the medical staff were concerned that my natural state of perpetual euphoria wouldn’t last the night, so they gave it a rather large top-up.
On The Table
The next morning at about 9 am (I did have a lie-in) a whole gaggle of doctors came round and started asking questions, prodding me, talking about me as if I didn’t exist and drawing on my arm with felt pens. I knew the NHS was struggling with funding but running out of paper really forced that message home. About an hour later a porter turned up, started messing about with my bed and then wheeled me off to the operating theatre.
In the prep room a woman asked for my name, date of birth and also what operation I was having.
“Why do you want to know?” I asked, “Don’t you know already?”
“Well we like to double check. Wouldn’t want to get you mixed up with a transgender operation would we?”
“It’s Lee Adams!” I replied quickly.
Panic!
Next thing I knew I was having the anaesthetic and a few hours later I was waking up. The only discernible difference was, I was in a different room and I had a different cast on my arm. It wasn’t like on the telly. I never saw the Operating Theatre. Nor the doctors. I was out of it when I went in and other than my elbow, much the same when I came out. And that’s when I panicked.
“I need to get out!” I started shouting. “Get me out!”
“It’s ok,” a voice was saying calmly. “You’ve had an operation, you’ve just woken up.”
I really didn’t like this room. It permeated evil and death. I was on the killing floor. I needed air. Fresh air. I needed it right now. I was having a panic attack. Bang. Straight in, no messing about.
Let Me Out
I was trying to get up but I was still groggy from the operation and I couldn’t move. That panicked me even further.
“Let me OUT!” I was shouting. “Let….Me…Out!””
A young nurse appeared and said “It’s ok Mr. Adams. We can’t take you outside just yet. You’ve just had an operation on your elbow. But you’re fine now. Shall we take you back to your ward first?”
“Yes,” I said. I remembered the safety and security of my ward. “My bed is by the window. Put me by the window. I want to be by the window. Can you put me by the window?” I wanted to be by the window. I think she got the message.
Oxygen Of The Gods
They got me ready and took me back upstairs and put me in a chair by the open window. I gulped in oxygen like I’d been underwater for the last half an hour and the cool, fresh air filled my lungs and mind with such jubilance and wonder, that my panicking disappeared; I think it went out of the window and down the street.
The nurse sat with me for a few minutes, she asked if I was ok (I was) and left. I sat for some time in a complete haze from the anaesthetic, staring out of the window and breathing in the air. It was as if all the potential joys in life had decided to camp in my head for the weekend. I couldn’t have been happier.
The Nurse
Later on in the afternoon a nurse appeared at my bed.
“Hi Mr. Adams, how are you feeling now?” she asked.
“Fine thank you,” I replied. She seemed a little over familiar to me, like when someone invades your personal space and gets too close and it puts you on the defensive.
“That’s good,” she smiled. “You seem much better,” she added.
I smiled, a little confused as to who she was. She noted this and continued.
“Sorry, I should explain. I was in the Post Operation room with you this morning. You were a little agitated and anxious when you came round. You were panicking and claustrophobic. I thought I’d come and see how you were,” she explained.
Then I remembered. She was the nurse who’d been talking me out of doing a runner from the hospital.
“Of course you are! Yes, I remember you now. I’m fine thank you. Much better for sitting here. And thank you for helping me earlier, and taking the time to come and see me.” I’d forgotten all about the panic attack.
Random Acts
”I’m so pleased,” she continued. “I’ve been worrying about you all day, so as soon as I had my break, I thought I’d come up and see how you were.”
I almost burst into tears. She was spending what little break time she had coming to see if I was ok. The compassion of these people really did take me by surprise.
“I’m fine thank you. Really I am. Thanks to you. I don’t know what happened. I just needed to get out.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Coming out of any operation can be quite traumatic.”
Are You Not Entertained?
We sat and chatted for a few minutes before she said she had to get back to work. I thanked her once again and she left. This random act of kindness left me totally overwhelmed. I say random but it wasn’t really was it. People who work in hospitals are doing things like that all the time aren’t they. Making a difference to the poor unfortunate souls who come through their doors, day after day. When Vikki arrived for visiting I told her what had happened with the young nurse.
“That was very nice of her wasn’t it?” she said.
She didn’t appear to be as overwhelmed by it as I was. I was a little disappointed. Maybe I was just very emotional after all the trauma. Anyway, I was discharged and went home with my ‘shoulder to fingers’ cast the next day.
Here’s a picture entitled “Chirpy geezer in a hospital bed”
Can you see how elated I am to have been hospitalized?
Dressing With One Arm
So after a few days I’d learned how to dress myself pretty much with one arm, some things though stayed steadfastly impossible to do. Pulling on socks was one of them. Admittedly I generally have enough trouble with two arms.
Why I Like Physiotherapy
So, after four weeks I went back to the hospital to have the plaster cast removed. I couldn’t wait for them to remove the thing so I could scratch the skin without the aid of a ruler. Then they replaced it with a lightweight plastic one and after another 4 weeks had that removed too. I have never been so keen to go to a hospital.
Although I thought I’d be elated when they cut it off (the cast that is, not my arm), again panic set in. My injured arm suddenly had no protection and it sent me into a whirlwind of alarm. I was so fearful of somebody touching it or coming within a 50 yard radius I couldn’t then wait for them to put another cast on. At least this one was a lightweight plastic one. I had that on for another four weeks then I started 8 weeks of physiotherapy.
For anyone who hasn’t broken their elbow, what happens after having a cast on for 2 months is your arm stays bent at the elbow and steadfastly refuses to bend unless you force it to. And even then it still doesn’t want to go anywhere. And it lets you know about its intransigence by sending messages to your brain like “Stop. It hurts. Don’t do that! Help, I’m being molested!”
Small But Mighty
Then the physios get you to hold a dumbbell and lower it, so as to force your arm to straighten under the weight. I had about 8 weeks of physio and every time I went to the hospital it was like a glitch in The Matrix. I saw quite a few different physios and they were all young, attractive, blonde, highly trained women. It was like the Stepford Physios. I have nothing against female physios, the ones I met were all very professional, caring and very knowledgeable.
I was just a little surprised because I imagine I was expecting to meet some gorilla of a man who was going to bend me back into shape by force if necessary and then I discovered a production line of considerate and understanding female physios, none of whom could have weighed more than 9st. And I thought, how on earth are they going to get my arm back into shape? That’s when I discovered they were surprisingly strong for people with such small frames.
Physical Injury v Mental Injury
That was the NHS in all its glory: managed, controlled, swift and efficient. Why then does it take about 5 years to get to see a CBT therapist if you have a mental health issue? It took me about 2 hours to see the consultant about my elbow. Would it have been any use if they’d said, “Yes, come back in 18 months, we’ll look at it then?” I very much doubt it.
So, why is a broken elbow more of an emergency than a person on the brink of suicide? I have no idea and neither, I imagine, do the politicians who hold the purse strings. But there is something seriously wrong with mental health prioritisation and it isn’t going to get any better on its own.
Vanguard
It’s not that I want to be at the vanguard of modern day mental health politics but someone has to say something about this subject and someone has to do something about it. I feel like the people that run this country, and by that I don’t just mean the politicians, I mean the establishment, the unelected elite. They need shaking up. Living in their cosy Victorian era, where serfs were shoved off to the workhouse or Australia if they caused trouble, like wanting to eat for example. It’s utterly unacceptable how they treat the people who work so they can live in luxury.
But here we are in the 21st Century, paying National Insurance contributions and people are still expected to wait 9 months to see a therapist. And the people that can make a difference, don’t.
This is Fairstead Road in Essex. Just before I reached this point on the road I was having a weekend away to the Channel Islands; just after, I was having a weekend in Broomfield Hospital.
Holiday Insurance
And no further injuries have occurred since I started cycling again. I never got on the road bike again. It sat in the barn gathering dust until I gave it away. It was an Italian bike. An old Concorde Aquila. Lightweight frame, funky handlebars and Shimano bits on it. I never had the same desire to ride it again.
And I never did discover how I came to invent a new form of Triathlon: Cycling, Diving, Lying Down. Did I hit a pot hole? Did my laces catch in the chain? Or did the gears jam? Who knows? What I do know is nobody ever took me up on my new triathlon idea. They’re clearly not visionaries like me.
And I’ve still not been to Jersey either but the good news is Vikki did buy Holiday Insurance and they paid out too. Yes, even Insurance companies sometimes do the right thing. Who’d have thought that was possible?