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.