The weekend before last I completed my first race in a couple of years and it felt great to achieve something truly physical again. The time won't set the world on fire (1:00:33 for 10.3km - 189th out of 374 male runners), but it is a start.
I am still very overweight and I had a lot of people encouraging me ("oh you are doing sooo well, keep going" kinda thing). Little did they know that this wasn't actually that much of a big deal for me in terms of physical achievement. In fact, a few people where quite clearly surprised when I would pass them shortly after they had passed me on a hill.
The reality, though, was I was absolutely exhausted at the end of the race. Well actually, I was pretty shagged by the first drink station (4km) and it was about this time in the race that I started to think about other times that I have felt so exhausted, yet so completely happy to be so.
Briefly, I recalled how I felt on the run of Challenge Wanaka. Completely drained, cramping and literally screaming in agony. Ten hours into a 15 hour race and I was nearly completely out of energy, but I pushed through and got there. In fact at about the 10 hour mark I was somewhere around the Gunn Road hill and I had to turn around and walk up the hill backwards to avoid the chronic cramps that had plagued me for the preceding 90 minutes.
However, it was the recollection of 10 seconds of physical activity that lead to total exhaustion and collapse that stayed with me for several kilometres on the race the other weekend.
10 September 2001
It has been almost 3 weeks since the accident and nearly a fortnight since the surgery to remove the massive swelling that had afflicted me since the accident. By now I'm a bit of gun in my wheel chair and, mercifully, I have been able to get outside on the balcony and even managed a meal at a restaurant to celebrate our wedding anniversary. I can transfer myself to and from my wheel chair and even things like getting on and off the bed pan have become somewhat of a routine.
(A bit of a side note. It was actually 9 days post-accident before I had a bowel motion. The agony of being constipated for that long can't be underestimated, nor can the relief of clearing out the system.)
Today is my biggest challenge so far. Today I am going to take my first steps and I am extremely nervous. How will my pelvis cope? What if I fall over? What will happen to my legs, there are no muscles left?
I have spent the last 10 days working bloody hard in the hospital gym building up my upper body strength so that I can attempt this and the physios are happy that I am ready, but I am not as confident as they are. My calf muscles have almost completely atrophied so I am really worried that I haven't got enough strength in my arms to compensate.
I haven't slept very much as I am worried sick about the possibility that I might fall over. The worst case scenario is I fall forward on to my external fixators and re-shatter my pelvis.
Adrian (my favourite nurse) and Mary-Lou (the registrar looking after me) have been great at reassuring me, but it really hasn't helped my nerves.
Its 10am and the physio has just arrived. "I am not sure that I want to do this", I say. She reassures me, "You will be fine. You have worked really hard to get this far. Lets go." I slowly lift myself off the side of the bed and on to my wheel chair and head to the gym.
Carleen's sister, Deb, is with me and she comes along for moral support. She heads to the far end of the parallel bars and I take up position at the near end. To be honest, she looks nervous too, but she manages a smile and I feel encouraged.
"Ok, this isn't going to be easy", says the physio, "but, we will take as long as we need and we will only go as far as you are comfortable with." "Its likely that you will feel very faint as the blood rushes to your legs, so we will be behind you to catch you if you need to sit down again," she reassures me as she introduces me to the orderly that is there to help. As much as this was supposed to reassure me, its just served to make me even more nervous and I start to sweat uncontrollably and I swear that my heart could be heard on the other side of the room as it pounded out of my chest.
"Now, take it easy, shuffle to the edge of your chair and put your hands on the bars." I freeze, I do not want to do this. I look at Deb and she smiles a nervous smile. "Take your time, when you are ready," says the physio. I shuffle forward and grab the bars.
"Ok, now lean forward and use your arms to push up. Try avoid putting too much weight on your legs and don't lean too far forward." My hands clench around the bars, my knuckles turn white and I push, but nothing happens. "I can't do it." "In your own time, Richard. There is no rush. Just when you want to."
I take several deep breaths and start again. My hands grip tighter than before and I push again. Still nothing! Then I give an almighty push and I lift off the chair. As my head reaches for the ceiling, I feel the blood rush from my brain in an instant and my legs feel like they are being filled with cement. I make one last push and I am upright. But as soon as I am vertical I hear a loud piercing white noise in my ears, I become very clammy and my vision blurs. I need to get back in my chair NOW!
As I come back to consciousness, I begin to weep uncontrollably and I look up to see Deb there still in support. She has tears in her eyes too and we share a silent moment that I will never forget - a moment of support that took nothing more than a smile, but which meant so much.
I have been out of my wheel chair for no more than 10 seconds (maybe only 5 seconds on my feet), but I am totally and utterly shattered. I am spent. "That's enough for today," says the physio and they wheel me back to bed. Deb and I share another teary glance and I weep again, partly in joy that I have started the journey to true recovery, partly in fear of what lies ahead.
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[Thanks again, Deb. I know I said so before Challenge, but your support for Carleen in those early weeks and for me on that day makes me forever in your debt.]
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