On the road again

Please excuse the Willy Nelson lyrics, but it works for my swimming experience last Thursday. I was out of town again and finding it hard to fit in much training. I managed a run and a couple of swims between last Sunday and the Friday just past (partly because I was a bit crook on Monday and Tuesday, but mostly because I travelled much of Wednesday and spent all day in a conference on Thursday and Friday).

Thursday morning's swim was an interesting one. You see, I was in the small town of Blenheim and I got a very clear indication that I was firmly in rural New Zealand when I visited the local 25 metre pool. Part way through my session the Seniors aquaerobics class took over half the pool and the stereo started pumping out both kinds of music - yep, you guessed it country AND western. I should have guessed something was up when two of the old dears hopped into the pool with cowboy hats on and the poolside instructor turned up wearing cowboy boots, denim shorts and checked shirt. Needless to say, I kept my head down and bum up so I couldn't hear John Denver and Co singing and twanging away and rest intervals were a little quicker than the norm so I could get away from the pool as soon as possible.

Friday's exercise class wasn't quite as off-putting, but the 1980s hits from what sounded like the 'musac-remix' tape (you know, that awful trash they play in elevators, malls and cheap hotel lobbies) weren't exactly to my taste in music either. The pool also got a bit overcrowded with teenage girls more intent on gossiping than swimming clogging up the only available lane. Despite this, I managed to plough through and get two 2.4km sessions done and I was especially pleased with my long swim session where I took almost 2 minutes off my 500metre time.

Five days after my accident in 2001, I was also on the road again as they moved me from the Austin & Repatriation Hospital to the rehabilitation hospital (Bethesda) at the Epworth in Richmond.

26 August 2001 (five days after the accident)

Last night the nurses told me that I'd be heading to Bethesda today. I have to say that I am quite excited at the prospect of moving to a new hospital as it means that they think that I am on the improve. However, I am not at all keen at the prospect of being moved from one bed to another and then into an ambulance. To be honest, I am petrified!

The swelling on my upper legs and torso has continued unabated since I have been in the ward and any movement is extremely unpleasant and can be quite painful. I am concerned that the sheer mass of the swelling is going to cause some major pain for me and some significant issues for those trying to move me. I have also been confined to this bed for the last four days, only being rolled from one side to the next for dressing changes and the occasional sponge bath (and no, unlike the movies, they are not at all erotic). Moving off the bed is a huge unknown for me and the pain that just rolling me from side to side causes, means that the anticipation of a larger (albeit still small) move is sending me into a mild panic.

A nurse comes into tell me that they will be moving me later in the morning and that they will leave my dressing changes for Bethesda to do. What a relief, I can't bear the thought of having the matron doing my dressings again (see A bit sore). Carleen is here so that will take my mind off the move for now, but it is always there in the back of my mind and my nervousness continues to bubble away below the surface.

A couple of hours pass and by now I am extremely apprehensive, so that when the nurse comes in and says "Okay, its time to pack up and get ready to go now", I am completely beside myself. "Okay", I say putting on a brave face that wasn't convincing anyone. "You'll be fine", one of the nurses reassures.

A team of staff come into the room (a couple of nurses and orderlies plus the two ambulance drivers), ready to transfer me to the ambulance gurney. "Don't worry mate, we've done this a thousand times before," says the larger of the two ambos. His size should be enough to reassure me, but I can't help but have images of being dropped between the bed and gurney flash through my head as they prepared the slider (a plastic board used to slide patients between beds).

They work to manoeuvre the blankets and slider into position and they are all strategically located around the bed ready for the signal to move me. "Cross your arms across your chest, mate," directs the ambo. 'Does he mean that I should be saying a prayer?', I smile to myself. I cross my arms, take a deep breath and close my eyes. Then on the command of the ambo the whole team, in unison, begin lifting me. "Stop!", I exclaim. Something doesn't feel right. "I think something is caught." They look underneath and move some of the blankets and try again. This time I move effortlessly (but not without pain) to the gurney.

The ambos commence strapping me onto the gurney starting with my feet and working their way up. I feel like I am in some kind of magic act. Are they going to bring out a saw and cut me in half? I don't think that would be wise, I am sure that swelling is hiding something nasty and we wouldn't want to get that all over the floor.

They are at my waist now, trying to figure out how they are going to strap that part of me in. I am way too big and there is this whopping great scaffolding sticking out of my pelvis - four titanium pylons drilled directly into my pelvic bones connected on the outside by a criss-cross of beams that held it all in alignment. If you lift my glamorous hospital-issue night gown, my (hairless) pelvis looks like a huge marshmallow that is about to have a bridge built across it. There is no way that you can put a seat belt and buckle across their. With a bit of pushing and shoving and an extension strap they manage to shove as much of the bulge as they can underneath the strap and they clamp it shut. A most unpleasant exercise, but at least I haven't been dropped on the floor and I shouldn't roll on to the floor of the ambulance.

Being on the move again, is weird. I had thought that it would be weeks, if not months, before I was going to see the outside world but, for a fleeting moment at least, as we exited the hospital and I was wheeled into the rear of the ambulance, I could breathe fresh air and hear the sound of the city around me. 

In the back of the ambulance, I find it disconcerting being so high up as I feel like the gurney could topple over at any second. I heard the wheels clip into place and the safety brackets clamp me in place, but it still doesn't feel right. As we move off ever so slowly I am also now fully aware of how uncomfortable this short journey is going to be. The forward momentum of the ambulance mans that all of the fluid that has built up inside me surges towards my feet. Oh my God! What a seriously weird and very painful sensation, especially as the fluid moves through my pelvis and across the still mobile fractures. It's nowhere on the scale of the pain of getting my dressings changed, but painful nonetheless.

With every corner, every minute tilt of the ambulance left or right or forward or back and every acceleration and every deceleration the fluid surges left, right, forwards, backwards. "Can't you drive any smoother than that!", I call out to the driver. He just laughs. But I'm not joking. "No really, please, please it hurts a lot!", I plead. It doesn't seem to make any difference though and I continue sloshing for the whole 15 km journey.

At Bethesda (which is just a couple of blocks from our house) they unload me onto the forecourt and I can feel the warmth of the sun on my skin for the first time in almost a week. It somehow feels very reassuring. For some reason this place seems to make me feel much more secure too. Perhaps its just the fact that Carleen will be close by and that I am one small step closer to home.

Inside things are very different to the Austin too. Everything is new and there seems to be more staff around. I am informed that meals are ordered from a proper menu and I can have anything that I want any time of the day. While I know that my stay will be far from fun, this place is not going to be too bad at all.