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 undoubtedly 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 with everyone being granted specialist attention which attempted to educate each of us on how to navigate and negotiate the likely scenarios which await when the inevitable time comes to be responsible human beings again.
I had become part of a cult where no one on the outside could possibly know just what It was to be a part of such a group who had each experienced life defining injury; 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 felt I wasn't ready. For the first time in my life, I didn't want to leave hospital
On my eve of discharge, I was full of self doubt. I felt ill prepared all of a sudden. I had been showing a level of competence and confidence propelling my wheelchair and manoeuvering on my crutches and leg calliper for some time which justified my physios and my peers (my fellow patients) faith in me. But I had my doubts that every box ticked clinically accounted for every pitfall which surely 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 to be in this unit where I was mollycoddled and everything was purpose built with the wheelchair user in mind.
In the final month or so before discharge, 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 supermarket. We were taken in the unit minibus to whizz ourselves round the local Braehead shopping centre. Both were under supervision but nevertheless it had felt great. I began to think about how I would manage everyday tasks like the weekly shop.
It did feel a little unnerving these first occasions to be out in public but the brief was that we experience as much of life in the time we had and to see for ourselves how wheelchairs operate in a neutral setting. I was to learn to navigate the aisles and rails, food stalls and counters as well as the lifts and bathroom facilities. It was a very useful exercise i was boosted by. I also took more notice of just how numerous fellow wheelchair users are in this environment.
At weekends, feeling motivated, mum and dad accompanied me as I pushed myself to Braehead and back. It was a break from the ward and a nice treat at the end of a week of rehab. I was soon to develop 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 impatiently 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, solitary. It was all 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 suddenly boring. 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 nothingness.
I was cast asunder. I didn't really know what I was meant to do. I didn't want to just go outside on my own - what if i came out of my wheelchair unaccompanied, and i couldn't ask a nurse to accompany me. I felt like I was bed blocking, the nurses now had little to do with me and I was loathe to call on them. I came to make my own bed by way of practice for home. But where home was and how long it would take to find one were still no clearer. 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.
After a few weeks of this soul-sapping, mundane life, there were a few blind visits arranged via a social worker to view properties out in the sticks and the shire of Aberdeen. My heart simply wasn't in Aberdeen or its surroundings anymore. The truth was I felt isolated 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 kindly driving me back to Glasgow and to my parents place where I had done all my growing up, in the shadow of the national football stadium, Hampden Park. I knew the area like the back of my hand, or did I?
My calliper and crutches aided me to reach my parents 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 useful to see how things work in practice, but, for the most part, oh so 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 with the aid of my calliper, my trousers fell down. I had no means by which I could pull them up again as I would simply collapse to the floor if i unclipped at the knee brace. A good Samaritan 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 came quickly to realise, would not be a long term solution or benefit me or my struggle for independence. There was just no great practical use for them. I was slow and quite cumbersome mobilising using them. The pressure through my hands onto the crutches also had me reluctant to use them. 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 South side of Glasgow again. There was suddenly a real urge on my part to explore my old haunts around town as I came to realise there was very little to stop me from doing so, I was spending my days steadily 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. What joy!
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 Queen's Park. I had many happy memories of family times there. A round of Putting or Pitch and Putt, playing conkers, kicking a ball about or riding my bike, high jinks in the snow or just sitting with an ice cream from 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 south side, to sit with a breakfast roll and just take in the magnificent views on a clear day across the city. I was determined I was going to see this view again, only this time 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 now 'old' 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, for my peace of mind. I found I had a level of discipline I had rarely displayed before.
I set myself a target 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 road junction and 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 the wonderful 'Its A Wonderful Life'.
One memorable occasion, the man in the bunnet asked me for directions and just came along with me anyway, "for the walk", he said, despite my direction being the opposite way from where he claimed he had been intended. He then got to a point after an hour or so of his telling me his life story, 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 Glaswegian men in bunnets
This particular man in the bunnet I was now being pushed by, whether i liked it or not, was a pro! No word I was allowed in edgeways, no protest possible over his constant babble. He hardly took a breath as he pushed me at a fair pace, for an old fella, 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 a feeling of being ever closer to my end goal of a workable level of 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 to what I had known while able-bodied, despite it no longer being relevant. 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 increasing 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 lived also, 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 exercise and 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 in a wheelchair 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 too, 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, and his pint, 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 soon 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 i suppose!" 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 fellow patient in the spinal unit often said. My life was as busy as ever and I was finding new ways of keeping busy. I was happy in my life again.
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 to be 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 Pavement Pounding. 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 living settled 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.
The Gods were with me. It was to be a day the man in the bunnet respectfully left me to my own devices. I was hell bent that day. My own little Everest. From the top of which I could see Ben Lomond in the distance. I could have carried on beyond the flagpole that day. I could have summited Ben Lomond itself 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 'Bloody 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
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