April 2007 - Freedom Come A' Ye'!

My last night as a patient of the spinal injuries unit there was a little celebration among the patients for me. Pizza was ordered in and while I was grateful for the send off, and for the last six months of achieving and camaraderie, it was also the case that I was in too bewildered a state to allow myself to believe that, like everyone was telling me, it would all be alright. Relaxed I was not.

The spinal injuries unit had proved to be a sanctuary. In essence, my existence since my surgery had all been contained within a sort of safe little commune and I was part of a cult where no one on the outside could possibly know just what It was to be a part of a group all pulling together over many months, for the one extraordinary goal. 

The thing was that this cult did not require any Waco style armed siege to break out of. There was no David Koresh keeping us against our will. It almost felt like it was too easy to leave and as I sat with my peers that final night, there was reluctance on my part to consider life outside and to be leaving this very safe but admittedly false environment.

I was full of self doubt that I was ready for outside. I felt ill prepared all of a sudden. I had been showing a level of competence and confidence propelling my wheelchair and manoeuvring on my crutches and calliper for some time which justified my physios and my peers (my fellow patients) faith in me. But I had my doubts that this alone accounted for every pitfall which awaited me, all on my own and away from here. Outside still felt a very hostile environment to the likes of me. I knew Glasgow but Glasgow, it seemed, didn't know me anymore. I long harboured the impression that I didn't belong anywhere but the unit. 

In the final month or so as a patient I was able to experience a little of what to expect outside. I was challenged to propel myself in my wheelchair to the local Lidl. We were taken in the unit minibus to whizz round Braehead. Both under supervision but nevertheless it had felt great. I began to think about how I would manage everyday tasks like the weekly shop. At weekends mum and dad accompanied me as I pushed myself to Braehead and back. I soon developed a "don't push me" rule as it was my parents natural response not to see me struggle. I felt that I had to learn for myself. It did feel straightforward for the most part but how I would cope on my own was still a great unknown. 

I was being discharged to Aberdeen Royal Infirmary which was another comforting thought of sorts. But I was homeless and, although a couple of viewings of property had been arranged for my return to the Granite City, I was torn about where my future lay. I was wrestling with my return to Aberdeen. The memories of my time there had undoubtedly turned sour due to my injury occurring there and my more recent split from my girlfriend. My friends there meant an awful lot to me and I was looking forward to going back to see them. I just knew in my heart of hearts that it would never be the same. 

I left the spinal injuries unit having dispensed a bunch of the most heartfelt thank you's to the patients and flowers for the staff while my patient transfer vehicle crew attempted to hustle me out the door. I was delaying the inevitable. The journey back to Aberdeen was subdued.but at least I could see out the window this time. I sat most of the journey in silence. For the first time in many months I felt like I was entirely on my own. It was too quiet.

My first hours spent back in ward 40 in Aberdeen i just felt an emptiness. I still had the buzz of constant din and exhilaration from six months spent In the spinal unit fresh in my memory but found this sudden quiet too quiet, now that I had the experience of that all-time high of life in the spinal unit. Changed days and I was a changed man from that first day on admission to the riotous ward in Glasgow.

I quickly found I now had too much time to think while I waited for things to happen. There was just me now in my own room again, but only me, with this massive void of uncertainty threatening to overwhelm me.

Life was boring all of a sudden. I mean really dull. The main news stories covered the aftermath and ongoing investigation of the death of Alexander Litvinenko from radiation poisoning in London. I obsessed over this now, now that I didn't have the gym to go to or any peers to encourage me and be encouraged by. I was rooted to my usual spot, sat in front of the TV, crisps and juice in hand, in fear of any wrong move I made because I felt utterly alone. Nothing I had learned in the spinal unit had prepared me for this. TV passed my day and I was so restless but I really had nowhere else to go. Not until suitable accommodation was identified. I was in a rut. All enthusiasm for life according to what I had learned from my time in the spinal unit was at risk of imminently evaporating and being rendered utterly irrelevant. 

Over a few weeks there were a few halfhearted visits to view properties out in the sticks and the shire of Aberdeen. My heart simply wasn't in Aberdeen anymore. The truth was I felt stuck up there now and from the properties on offer, there was a threat I would be stuck out of the way at a time when I was realising, with each passing hour of each passing day, I really needed to be close by to those I loved most, now more than ever.  

I don't remember now how it all came about. I just remember my cousin Scott arriving one morning having driven from his home in Dundee to collect me. He has a grin which lights up any room he is in. The instant he arrived I knew everything would be ok. I was ready for his arrival and so delighted to see him. He was driving me back to Glasgow and to my parents place where I had done all my growing up, in the shadow of Hampden Park, and with this daft twist in my spine no one had cause to mention back then. 

My calliper and crutches aided me to reach their third floor flat and for the first time in weeks I felt some inner peace. It was just like old times. It was familiar but it was not. I had my old room again and I could manoeuvre on my feet. I knew fine well it was temporary but it gave me a chance to trial how easy in practice I managed with the calliper and crutches around an ordinary household set up. It wasn't. I couldn't hold anything in my hands and kitchen cupboards and washing myself at the bathroom sink were fraught affairs trusting my balance as I basically had to dispense with the crutches to achieve anything. The likes of bending down to flick a power socket on or off I just didn't bother with. I was asking my parents to do an awful lot for me. Everything took a lot longer than normal otherwise, and often ended in failure on my part. It was frustrating.

I went outside only when there was real reason to. It was quite a rigmarole to get up and down all those stairs on my callipers while my dad loyally carried my wheelchair down or upstairs behind me. The stairs were tiring affairs. I could walk but it took ages and it proved to be fraught from all the cracks and undulations of a typical pavement to even get 100 yards to the top of my old street. There was no hurry to be anywhere so it was concerning to feel so tired and jaded so quickly.

I had lost so much weight while I had been in hospital. None of my clothes fitted me properly. One occasion while I was stood up my trousers fell down. I had no means by which I could pull them up again. A passer by and I enjoyed a good laugh at my predicament while he secured my trousers to my waistline again. 

The crutches and calliper combo I quickly realised would not be a long term solution or benefit me or my struggle for independence. They would be largely redundant by the time I moved into my own place. 

My wheelchair was a completely different kettle of fish. I found that once down those stairs at my parents there was no stopping me. It was a thrill to be buzzing around the southside of Glasgow again. There was a real urge on my part to explore my old haunts. As I came to realise there was very little to stop me from doing so, I was spending my days increasing my mileage and exploring further and further afield. I had always loved to walk around the parks and the streets and an obvious part of me might have been thinking that those days were behind me. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

The further I pushed the more the adrenalin was kicking in to increase my limits further. One of my favourite places to visit in my childhood was Queens Park. I had many happy memories of family times there. A round of Putting or Pitch and Putt, playing conkers, kicking a ball about, high jinks in the snow or just for an ice cream at Ginesi's on Victoria Road. it had been a routine of mine throughout my teens and early twenties on Saturday mornings, while my pals slept in, to take myself up to the flag pole, one of the highest points on the southside, to sit with a breakfast roll and just take in the magnificent views across the city. I was determined I was going to do this again in my wheelchair. 

From the bottom of the park to the top it's quite a long, windy and at times steep climb skirting up the back side of the Victoria Infirmary. It was one thing just getting myself to the park gates from my home and as I built up my endurance I put little markers down for the next time, extending in increments of little landmarks I had identified. I was well aware I had to push back again the way I had came and the last thing I wished to do was risk calling on my parents, or another passer by again, for help from my exertion. I was basically extending my distance one lamppost to the next over a number of days and weeks. I was determined I was doing this in my way, in my time. I found I had a level of discipline I had rarely displayed before. Strategic thinking had never really been an area I had excelled in up until this point!

A target was set to reach the monument of Mary Queen of Scots and The Battle Of Langside which sat roughly midway in terms of elevation to the flag pole and adjacent to the park itself, nowadays a busy roundabout. 

Just as I was pushing the first metres of hill from the bottom gates of the park, a man in a bunnet appeared from nowhere, for there is always one! The man in the bunnet. Just as it's said when a Robin appears a loved one is near, so too it could be said in Glasgow when a man in a bunnet appears they never take no for an answer! "I've got you son! Nae bother! That's some climb! Is there no' a bus that could take ye'? Ach I'm going that way masel'..." 

He's got me! The man in the bunnet always means well but in my experience once he's got you it's very difficult to escape his clutches, even more so now I'm, to him, in obvious need in my wheelchair. I have had cause over the years to come to the conclusion that I just seem to attract these people. It was inevitable the drunk or the rowdy would choose to sit beside me on the otherwise empty bus or train for instance, which to a large extent became the reason for me to walk everywhere as often as I had done in life. It aided reducing my chances of attracting unwanted company I had found. But out on the street lurked the man in the bunnet. A different but no less unscrupulous kettle of fish. He went out of his way purely out of kindness. He too just seemed to be drawn to me. Strangers all of them. You would never tend to meet the same man in the bunnet twice unless he was your grandad or local neighbourhood man in the bunnet! Every neighbourhood had at least one. Like guardian angels. The Glasgow Clarence from Its A Wonderful Life.

One memorable occasion, the man in the bunnet asked me for directions and just came along with me, going well away from where he claimed he was, for the sake of a walk to pass his time. He then got to a point after an hour or so where he jumped on a bus going back the way we had came from! I was left to wonder whether he was disappointed in me for not having invited him in to any of the local hostelries - his natural habitat - we had passed for a pint. I also wondered after seeing him getting on the bus if he would return to the same point he had met me and just do the same thing again with some other unsuspecting pedestrian? Was this the way he chose to pass his day? Was this his way of getting his next pint? Very sociable characters.

This man in the bunnet I was now glued to was a pro! No word I was allowed in edgeways, no protest possible. He hardly took a breath as he pushed me at a lightning pace further up the hill. I'm putting my hands on my push rims in an attempt to make it harder for him, I'm  attempting to reach for the brakes. Nothing can stop this man in his tracks. I'm his good deed for the day. I imagine I'll be his topic of discussion later in his local. He's telling me he likes his wee half in the Georgic before he's up the road. I am trying to tell him I don't think the Georgic is accessible for the likes of me! I have a real fear he's pushing me all the way in to his local! I have had to concede and consign this day of achieving as amounting to nothing more than a false start. We part eventually on good terms by the monument and after his life story, by which time the thrill and any sense of achievement has gone for me. Another day I would try for the flagpole. 

It was nice just being out and about at all of course. As my confidence and the range I was able to propel myself was increasing, so too was I feeling ever closer to my end goal of a workable independence. Independence is how we all perceive it to be as individuals of course. We all know our own limits. I thought I knew what mine were until my accident. Now I was attempting to get back to as close as what I knew despite nothing being the same. For the first time in a long time I had the feeling of there being no limits. Ironic given how limited my mobility now was.

I knew that living on the ground floor was a non-negotiable fact of life now. My parents did a grand job of making me feel as welcome and as comfortable as possible but I knew for my own peace of mind and for the sake of my independence I had to accept certain obvious limitations my disability now placed on me. Sometimes the easy way out is no bad thing!

I had been put in touch with various housing associations and charities. If memory serves there were over 60 in Glasgow at the time. One afternoon a volunteer from one charity came to the house and completed a housing application form on my behalf. From which she then applied the answers to the other 60 housing association application forms, in her own time, to give me the very best chance of acquiring a suitable property. I was flabbergasted by her level of personal sacrifice on my behalf. 

Offers from housing associations, it's fair to say, trickled In. One came in for a house in Castlemilk. It's where my sister lives but if you know Castlemilk you know it's located on a steep hillside, and in practical terms, it would prove in all likelihood to be as practical as living up three flights of stairs has proven to be. It would discourage me from any sense of free movement. It was ok to use a hill as a means of some occasional achievement but living on a hillside as steep as Castlemilk's would just be putting unnecessary barriers in my way.

The second offer came from the Govan area. A nice tidy wee one bedroom flat in a quiet cul de sac with ramp access. It was close to the Clyde and the last remaining working shipyard and only a mile or so from the Spinal Injuries Unit, and the Lidl's and Braehead I had become familiar with while I was a patient there. The Unit had became something of a home away from home during my time there and this property in the vicinity had that home, away from home, away from home vibe to it. I snapped at the opportunity. There was a comfort being so nearby where I had come to know so well less than a year before. I felt like I knew the streets better than anywhere. There was a sense of inevitability about this, it felt it was meant to be. In the circumstances it was a nigh near perfect scenario. 

I didn't know Govan that well but I found the Govanites to be warm, kind and perhaps most importantly non judgemental. The terrain was flat and I loved pushing along Govan Road and the Clydeside into the city or heading across the southside and stopping off in Shawlands or Langside. I felt a sense of liberation living there. I loved being woken up each morning by the call to work of the shipyard horn which meant there was still work on the Clyde. 

I spent a bit of time in that initial period at the local library. I like to read up on my locale and any history I might find. There, I got to know a man in a bunnet who spent most of his mornings reading his paper (before he attended to his good deeds later in the day, no doubt!). The probability was I would see him any time I visited the library. He had 30 years service behind him at Fairfield's and was a font of knowledge and stories about the yards and the ships he had a hand in making seaworthy. His hands were still blackened. He came to be a sort of chaperone to me. He took me (willingly) to a local hostelry Brechins for a lunchtime pint and told stories over a pie and chips about the men in the pictures on the walls. He had worked with them all. I asked him why he didn't feature in any of the photos? "Always too busy working!" It was fascinating to spend that wee bit of time with him. It was mutually beneficial. He had no family left and I was just starting out again seeking confidence wherever I could find it. 

I also learned from him about the incredible history surrounding the preservation of the Govan Stones.http://thegovanstones.org.uk/ 

I would take myself up to an odd Benburb junior football game or Cartha Queens Park for some rugby. The idea was to experience everything, to not be afraid of just being out there and to "go for it" as the fella patient in the spinal unit often said. My life was as busy as ever and I was finding new ways of keeping busy. 

At times it was poignant. At times I had my doubts. Lifelong friends and family, I was more awkward about meeting them than they turned out to be meeting me. Psychologically, my whole life now evolved round this wheelchair. I had times feeling embarrassed rolling up and meeting anyone who had known me before my surgery. I only just held back from apologising. I found I was now questioning my entire life prior to my surgery. While the streets were fine to wander round, I found it difficult returning to former workplaces and avoided the bars and even some of the Galleries I once loved to visit. I was afraid of bumping into people I had previously known on my feet, afraid of the inevitable questions. It was still in many respects too raw. I was running away from the possible consequences of blubbering in front of old pals. There was a definite psychological barrier between my old and new life. Like I was running away from myself. I would have to justify my existence and I missed my old life, of that there was no doubt. I just needed some time. The doubts went so deep to the extent that I had let my friends and family down being this way now. I felt like I had been living a kind of lie all along on my feet. All in my head.

It was the motivating factor I took myself off on these long days out. Just to be anonymous on my own pushing myself from one street to the next without any destination in mind. Glasgow was a sprawling metropolis and it became fun to discover new landmarks which just so happened to be on my route that day. Establishments which had no connection with my past. My mind was undoubtedly playing tricks on me but I did take some comfort from the space and time I gave myself.

My overriding ambition was to be King Of The Pavement. I soon came to discover pushing myself for miles without hindrance - the odd occasion with the man in a bunnet aside - brought great joy. My parents now lived on the opposite side of the Langside monument from me now that I lived in Govan. There were various routes to go to and from my parents. On the way home one day, after seeing them in what became our usual coffee place in Langside, and fuelled by coffee and cake, I made it to be the day I reached the summit of the flagpole. It was to be a day the man in the bunnet respectfully left me to my own devices. The Gods were with me. I was hell bent that day. My own little Everest. I could see Ben Lomond in the distance. I could have carried on beyond the flagpole that day. I could have summited Ben Lomond that day. I had conquered Glasgow. The saltire flew in the stiff breeze above me as, like Mary Queen of Scots had in 1568, I viewed my battleground which, unlike Mary I had conquered. I felt as if I could see the whole of Scotland from there that day. All my doubts seemed to carry off in the breeze. The world now well and truly was my oyster. 

Next time - Glasgow 10 Miles 

Glasgow - There Are No Straight Lines In Life.

I came down to Glasgow from Aberdeen on a stretcher in the back of a patient transfer vehicle. I was accompanied by a woman in a wheelchair attending an outpatient appointment at the spinal injuries unit I was about to become a patient of. 

I was nervous and irritated lying on my back for the 3 hour journey but she was chatty and we spoke about how we sustained our injuries and, as she had already been a patient of the spinal injuries unit, the ins and outs of life there, although I'm not sure I took any of this in given the amount of anxiety I was experiencing on the way. After a month in the hospital in Aberdeen I was attempting to savour every moment of being out on the open road again while dreading every mile we got closer to Glasgow. I couldn't see a thing outside from my bed I was strapped on to. The journey seemed to pass by in the blink of an eye.

I had been having quite a tranquil time of things since my surgery. I had spent almost a month in the ward in Aberdeen waiting for a bed to become available in Glasgow. That time was spent in a single room with books, magazines, music and movies to entertain myself with, in between visitors and casual trips to the gym. I had been enjoying having my own room and It was as close as I have ever come to treating a hospital ward like an all inclusive hotel. I was left to my own devices and to fend for myself by the ward staff, only needing to return for mealtimes, which because the food was uncharacteristically so nice, I never missed! 

I was grateful for the space and the time to fend for myself as I learned a surprising amount about the challenges I could expect to encounter as a full time wheelchair user. As one nurse said "none of us (nurses) honestly know what it's really like!" (to be in a wheelchair) "best you go and experience that for yourself". Manoeuvring around the aisles and the obstacles of stock boxes and display material of the hospital shop, a typical WH Smiths became a lesson in persevering, adapting and learning to swear under your breath. I was already seeing the everyday in a whole new light.

I was having some strange, awkward and downright embarrassing occurrences with my bowel and bladder which caused upset but only to be expected apparently as my body continued to settle down and acclimatise; otherwise I was fit and well and I was finding it to be remarkably easy and enjoyable to go to along the corridors and get in the lifts which took me to the aforementioned WH Smiths or the cafeteria in my wheelchair. I didn't feel self-conscious about the wheelchair I was now propelling myself in. That had been the part I had been dreading experiencing most ever since I slipped on the ice. I felt comfortable enough for the wheelchair to soon become emblematic of my freedom and independence. I came to see it quickly as being my friend in many respects. It actually helped me feel closer to normal. (Whatever that might be?).

I was learning quickly about how to manoeuvre my wheelchair in tight spaces, how I could shower myself and make my own bed and to prepare myself for unexpected events, and make allowances (as far as my bowel and bladder were concerned!). It was fun and games for the most part but in the hospital I could afford to make mistakes having the help close at hand should I require it.

I felt confident and assured by acquiring what I assumed to be a workable level of independence not too long after my surgery, which gave me great motivation to experience and achieve so much more. Relief from having had my surgery; it now being a thing I could look to put behind me, also helped my mood and my mindset.i felt relatively unscathed psychologically.

Every task I was encountering it seemed I had to adapt to a new way of doing. I had to look at everyday things in a new way. Everything just had the feeling of being radically different being seated full-time. Nothing I had experienced before my surgery seemed relevant now. This was challenging but in a fun way. Learn from your mistakes. I found myself having to question even the simplest of everyday tasks. The toaster and the kettle on the regular kitchen worktop for instance, I now found I sat beneath and i made a cup of tea largely blind to how much water was the required amount to fill a cup with. With the heightened risk of spillage there was much more risk around what once constituted 'simple' everyday tasks. 

How I got my hot mug from A to B while manoeuvring my wheelchair was another quandary I continue to find i struggle with to this day. My hands are already occupied pushing.myself to the coffee table - I still find the easiest way is to manoeuvre carefully with my cup between my thighs carefully balanced in the narrow gap of visible seat cushion between my legs while manoeuvring at a snails pace! Everything still has to be carefully considered and adapted. 

In a conversation I had with a nurse, I mentioned what I was experiencing thus far in my wheelchair was not unlike the regular game in The Krypton Factor where contestants pfaffed around a small space trying to make blocks of various shapes and sizes fit precisely to fill the given space! It looks easy and like something you feel you have encountered before (at school?) but just as square pegs don't fit round holes, wheelchairs don't manoeuvre particularly well around a built environment which is, more often than not, hostile to its use. 

It was one thing feeling reasonably confident in hospital. In all the time i spent waiting for my transfer to Glasgow I wasn't willing to leave the hospital itself. Attempting to navigate the surrounding streets and the unsuspecting obstacles I was bound to find as a new wheelchair user I didn't give much, if any, consideration to. The physios certainly didn't encourage me. Kerbs and cracks and the many forms of pavement undulations, and the fact Aberdeen Royal Infirmary sat on a fairly steep hillside made me uncertain I was strong enough to push myself back uphill again if I ever got myself down the hill in the first place. I was acknowledging that, in many respects, I knew the hospital was a false playground for all that I might experience outside for myself. For a start I knew I would need to build my arms up over time as they were my primary means of mobilising and it wasn't as if I lived in Benelux! There was no question I was still weak post surgery. I had never been strong up top in any case, never having entered a gym for strength or conditioning workouts. As I assessed the terrain of almost every big town I knew in Scotland, I knew fine well it was not pan flat.  

The prospect of my imminent return to my hometown of Glasgow to rehabilitate was comforting  because I never had an issue in Glasgow with my mobility before and it was only after I left Glasgow - regular readers will know I had my accident in Aberdeen - that I had encountered my issues with my mobility. I developed an idea in my mind that my hometown of Glasgow had its arms around me in keeping me safe in all the 30+ years I had lived there and that it served me right for leaving in the first place. The reality was of course that I had many bumps and bruises from my time in Glasgow. Just not anything as major as that which just so happened to have occurred in the otherwise beautiful city of Aberdeen.  

Now Glasgow was being asked to look after me again and as I traveled the road and the miles from Aberdeen I was eager for its warm embrace. My family and friends there would rally round me too for sure.

On arrival I must admit I had major cause for concern and anxiety from the first minute I was patslided in to my bed in my new ward. From the solitude and the peace of my single room at Aberdeen to the chaos and the noise of a six bed, men only ward in Glasgow. There was good natured but high octane, high decibel arguments and argy-bargy, and even the nurses were in on the commotion too. I was introduced to the rabble as "fresh meat!". I had my doubts right enough! I arrived between lunch and dinner and a limp tuna sandwich was handed in to me as "all there was!" while I was already furiously plotting my escape. The first chance I could I called my parents to say they needed to get me out of here. 

No sooner had I eaten what little there was to the sandwich, the physio was by my bedside introducing himself and running through his checklist Q and A in his low dulcet and somewhat reassuring drawl, I could just about make out over the incessant din. By now my transfers to and from my wheelchair were nigh near perfect and I was soon out of bed being whisked around the spinal injuries unit on a tour of my new domain with the physio talking me through the equipment I would use. I was most impressed by the gym. There was every conceivable strength and conditioning piece of apparatus you could possibly wish for. There was even half a car to assist with practice transfers. Attention to even the most minor detail seemed to be taken into account here which I took considerable assurance from. By the time the tour was over I had made a vow to myself that my sole reason for being here was to eke out every shred of benefit from the facilities and the expertise on hand. I wasn't here to make friends. First impressions were why would I want to make friends among this lot anyway? 

There was a substantial dayroom which became my sanctuary of sorts from the incessant noise of the ward and I would come to pass time playing pool or just finding a quiet spot to read or spend my loose change in the vending machine. Chocolate was a comfort too! It was also a place for casual introductions and for family to gather during visiting hours. It always felt the most sane part of the entire unit.  

Patients came from the whole of Scotland and often had no connections with Glasgow. I was most fortunate in this regard in having family and friends so close to hand. Many patients received few visitors. Phone calls home were long and often emotional. We all had our arms round our fellow patients shoulders in support from time to time.

Over time I got to know the stories of my fellow patients and how they had ended up in here. Poolside slips, rugby scrum collapses and horse riding falls along with industrial accidents accounted for most. I was taken with how matter of fact and without any visible lack of emotion, so soon after these occurrences, that most managed to deliver their recollections of how they had ended up being here. 

Everyone had a 'level' of injury, meaning where the trauma had occurred on the spinal cord. (See the diagram above). Every impact from the injury was unique to the individual person. I was T(Thoracic)11-T12 (base of the spine) Incomplete while others had neck level and complete injuries. 

We all encountered it seemed the same issues with our bowel and bladder function which also seemed to be the area we all bonded over most. Talk of piss and shit was never off limits and indeed dominated conversation and the self-depricating humour from haphazard and often slapstick instances of being caught, not only short, but completely unawares, or until the smell just hit you, became our coping mechanism - if you couldn't laugh you'd likely cry, much much better to laugh. 

Soon enough I found myself to be a part of the most motivated most inspirational most dynamic most uplifting most rewarding and most achieving bunch of broken but unbowed misfits and halfwits I have ever had the pleasure of being encamped with. First impressions were soon turned entirely on their head. These were among the most impressive and inspiring individuals I had ever had the pleasure of meeting. 

Little miracles were occurring every single day. It was impossible not to be encouraged by the resilience, determination and the sheer will to succeed among us. One of the patients I would frequent the gym with, his catchphrase became"Go For It!" over time and we just did! We all came to celebrate each of our own personal small victories as our own. Adrenalin coarsed through everyone's veins.  The energy in the gym every day would have powered the entire energy needs of Scotland if we all had been dialled in to the Grid! Small steps in the right direction for any one of us was met with whoops, applause and high 5's.

I was sized for my own wheelchair and a full right leg brace within 24 hours of my admission to the spinal unit. These would be manufactured for me. My left leg I could, by now, fully weight bear on but my right leg was entirely paralysed. My leg brace would enable me to walk again albeit with the aid of crutches. My first big win was to stand up in between a set of parallel bars for 10 seconds before the strain overwhelmed the ecstasy of achievement. Those parallel bars would support many of us to manage our first miraculous steps post injury. I also had a circuits weight programme I would complete daily to improve the strength and tone of my arms. By the time of my discharge I had added two inches to my neck size and had never been in better shape physically. My upper body was cut! Biceps I could crack walnuts with and a neck like Mike Tyson's! 

The consultants meanwhile were grumpy so-and-so's and often delivering Tyson-like school of hard knockout blows to any hint of an ego developing among the patients or getting too comfortable in our surroundings, God forbid! We were all on the clock from day one as far as discharge was concerned. The consultants were always under pressure for beds and accidents were occurring across the country on a daily basis of course, many of which would end up here for surgery and/or rehabilitation. In a 32 bed ward, which served the whole of Scotland, there was always pressure on the staff and no slacking allowed by the patients - the ethos was to be admitted and then discharged in as quick a time as possible no matter the scenario. The consultants were cold, calculating, dispassionate and 'operated' without any visible or vocal sense of emotional empathy. It was mental torture whenever they approached you. They would always stress the importance of nutrition while plainly ignoring the lack of any in any meal that was being served up to us on the premises. (Thankfully the nurses acknowledged this and kept a stash of Govan's finest takeaway menus in a drawer on request). 

One consultant, not my own, checking my notes on his rounds one morning and noting my spina bifida told me "I should never have been born!" which I still find myself occasionally reeling a little from to this day. To continue with the boxing analogy, he had me on the ropes with that one! (`And every single day of my existence since I celebrate as a 'get it up ye' for making such a remark!)  

Note (For a long time, parents were often advised that the preferred clinical option was to terminate in the womb on detection of spina bifida. I don't know if this was offered to my parents around 50 years ago and I still don't really want to know! This option would seem outdated now given the advances in medical science https://www.ucdavis.edu/health/news/spina-bifida-clinical-trial) 

This was no attempt at humour. Even the accompanying registrar rocked back on her heels a little. We all had to develop a thick skin from these regular jabs. The ward rounds were joyless, certainly uninspiring, often condescending and downright rude affairs to be endured.

Thankfully there was enough to keep our minds occupied and positive and these jabs we were all experiencing from the consultants only served to empower us all the more.They worked, in a sense! 

I was worrying about my housing situation and my prospects of ever returning to work. My parents would visit daily and they regrettably became my sounding board for my worry and frustration to be aired. Visiting was the only time I had to stop and think because, out with these times, the race was on to achieve your personal targets and get away on discharge.

We were all seeking out the means to improve our personal circumstances by whatever means possible. One guy actually hooked himself up to the mains every evening for a short session of electro-stimulus - every night the rest of the ward would be left in fits of giggles as the shock regularly went through him and would inadvertently leave via his vocal chords "OOHYABASSA...OOHYA...!!" It did him no good whatsoever from what we could tell.

My leg calliper took around 4 weeks to arrive from the manufacturer. It was a quite considerable piece of work. It was a mix of leather and steel with an ingenious lock which locked my knee in and kept my leg straight when I was up on my feet, but it could be unlocked during times i sat back down again. I had around two to three weeks learning how I manoeuvred in the brace and on crutches. The pressure going through my hands and arms on my calliper was always intense. It was never less than gruelling. Perhaps the most difficult part was to trust the process to sit down from standing, at a point of exhaustion, with a straight leg in my calliper, and falling back in to my wheelchair, letting gravity decide. A few times my wheelchair toppled back with me. The physios ensured it then became an exercise of me getting myself up off the floor and back in to my wheelchair. Every single scenario imaginable played out. 

My own wheelchair took more like 8 to 10 weeks to arrive. It was properly sized to my body weight and shape and was ergonomic which was a buzzword I soon came to learn as a fully paid up member of the disabled community. Once acquired I had to perfect the art of the wheelie and finding my balance point on my rear two wheels. This manoeuvre was the manual wheelchair users key to life outside. It allowed you to overcome drop down kerbs and other small obstacles. It took hours of practice to perfect and to reprogramme your brain over many failed attempts to once more trust the process. The physios would loyally walk behind you for miles, like walking their dog at home, with a short rope curled round your backrest frame to support your balance should you find the balancing point on your rear wheels. It took hours of back and forth the length of the gym. Once perfected we spent most of our own time balanced on our rear two wheels while watching TV in the dayroom. The sensation was quite something, I thought not unlike the first time you experienced your first take-off onboard a plane, that fraction of a second feeling of weightlessness, or pulling and holding your first wheelie on your bike. It became our Blue Peter Badge, that we now belonged in the wheelchair community, and, yeah, a little bit of showing off to the newbies was always great for the ego. It may also have been a visible reminder to our physios and our consultants that we were now ready to 'graduate' and be discharged. We still came a cropper from time to time. We would all have to pick ourselves up off the floor from overbalancing, to the extent that it just became another aspect of ward life and, so used to the spills had we become, we barely took notice when they occurred. 

Away from the TV there was much to take notice of away from the gym. A good number of the patients were on a permanent bed regime with complete injuries and some were veterans of their disability and had seen it all and done it all but now returned to the ward due to minor indiscretions. They were great for advice. Some had overcome the impact of their injuries by finding inventive ways of expressing themselves. A patient who was in a neighbouring bed to mine for a time had painted with his teeth for many years and was by now producing remarkable landscape work which he would sell for many thousands of pounds. It was incredible to watch him work and he had great advice too for adapting to your circumstances (I still find I call upon to this day).

Another lad (who never took his bunnet off, even in bed), had taken up drawing late in his life and didn't let being incapable, due to his naturally shaky hands, of drawing straight lines put him off from drawing fantastic depictions of various, and what's more, instantly recognizable Glasgow landmarks. "There are no straight lines in life!" became as much a metaphor for our own prospects as Robert's outstanding drawings, one of which I since bought and hangs pride of place at home. I was inspired everywhere I looked from often the most unlikely of places. 

We also enjoyed access to wheelchair sports every weekday afternoon. After the strenuous morning physio sessions it was good to unwind with some team sports. We learned we could play basketball and murderball, both of which proved to be far too gruesome for me, catching your fingers among your opponent's spokes while you scrambled for the ball only made me realise how precious my fingers were as a wheelchair user. There were individual sports too like bowls and tennis which were more my scene.  

Weekends were always quiet in the unit as many patients took up the option of weekend passes to return home, if they could, or maybe spend a weekend away in a hotel with friends and family. My housing situation was dire. The flat I shared in Aberdeen with my girlfriend was on the 3rd floor and tiny. Occupational Therapists would usually assess the property for adapting but I told them there was no point, even if I could access the flat there was no way I would be able to mobilise around it, being such a tight, confined space. 

It was weird knowing that I would not be returning home. It was a worry to be homeless. My girlfriend and I argued alot about this during long, long distance phone calls and, while not being a scenario I could ever envisage - leaving my flat the morning before my surgery being the final time it would ever be my flat and that we parted ways towards the end of my time in the unit - both came as something of a relief in the grand scheme of things as it allowed me much, much greater scope to begin life again like a blank canvas and find suitable accommodation for myself and my needs. I had to develop a thick skin and a selfish streak in the circumstances and I undoubtedly still had an awful lot to learn for myself without burdening anyone else. It worked out for the best!

By now in any case, I didn't have long to ponder or dwell on things before my discharge but at least I felt as though I had more options than I had before. After spending 7 great years in Aberdeen my first choice was instinctively to return there. I felt I had unfinished business with the friends I had made there. The city was flat for the most part and the beach and the town itself seemed reasonably accessible. I could see myself getting around town without too much difficulty. 

The OT's went to work on my behalf applying to various housing associations in the city but I knew my discharge from the spinal injuries unit was looming. The physios had done everything they could. I was proficient mobilising in my wheelchair and on my crutches and there was no benefit to me remaining a patient. I was ready to go home but I had no home. My parents place in Glasgow too had 30+ plus stairs to access. Physios and OTs agreed that this would be more of a hindrance than a help to my ongoing rehabilitation and advised against what was, on paper at least, the most straightforward option. 

The final few weeks were a whirlwind of bureaucracy, negotiation and form filling. I had quickly agreed a medical severance package with my employers, arranged my benefits with a disability employment advisor and my OTs were putting me in touch with various housing associations. It became clear there weren't many options for accessible housing available in Aberdeen. None of this was easy.

One morning I heard that Aberdeen Royal Infirmary had agreed to take me back while I waited for suitable housing to become available in the city. Within a week I was back in a patient transfer vehicle and back on the road and the miles to Aberdeen. 

I had spent just close to 6 months in Glasgow at the unit and while I knew it was time to leave I was sad to be leaving the safety and the security the unit provided, and the people who made it tick. Since those inauspicious first few hours in the unit I have developed close relationships with fellow patients and staff, many of which continue today, still laughing, crying and learning together. Only we know what we have gone through to be where we are today.  

Next time - The first month's after rehabilitation.