My Head Injury and Me - The Knock on Effects
My Head Injury and Me
Part One: Bashing My Noggin
As the late great Tommy Copper often quipped, ‘I walked into a bar-owch; it was an iron bar’. For me, it was a wrought-iron fire escape. I’d retrieved some post from a communal postbox and was about to put it through my own letterbox, but I didn’t get that far. Instead, I walked directly into the undercarriage of the fire escape that led up to our first-floor flat. I instinctively fell to the floor in a delirium of shock and pain. From my bemused state on the grimy alley floor, I felt blood trickling down my face. With my right hand, I reached up to my head, and my fingers went inside my scalp. Oh dear, not good, I told myself.
I’d previously worked in the field of disability at the NHS for approximately nineteen years, culminating as a Day Hospital Manager for the last nine years. I had seen my fair share of accidents and was determined not to panic. I gingerly got to my feet, feeling that my survival rested upon me finding help and not passing out. It was early, and nobody was around, so I shouted for help. My shout seemed distorted, probably because my head was split open. I noticed a brief nosebleed, which I assumed was from the physical impact of banging the fire escape. I hobbled to my nemesis, the fire escape, and sat on the second step. My wife came running down from our flat above, still in her dressing gown, and ran about wildly, wondering what to do. I picked up my mobile phone and called for an ambulance while holding my head together in a pincer movement with the stair rail and my free arm. At this point, I didn’t have a clue how bad my injury was.
I was told that an emergency crew had been dispatched, and the telephonist said she would stay on the line until they arrived. My two teenage daughters appeared and took turns holding my head together. A swarm of thoughts circled my throbbing head. I pictured myself on an operating table. I wondered if I was going to die and was busy talking to my wife and making plans as to how she and my daughters would cope financially without me (which they couldn’t). I apologised for various past actions, especially to my eldest daughter, with whom I’d had a frosty relationship. She told me not to be daft and started singing a song I used to sing to her as a child.
One Hour Later
Yes, it took the ambulance one hour to arrive. By then, a few other people from the local community had come along to assure me things would be OK. I’m a six-foot-five, twenty-stone giant. A small, middle-aged, lady paramedic took one look at me, and I swear I could hear her pray that I could walk. Fortunately, I could, but my legs were almost dead from my crouched position on the fire escape. I gingerly walked to the ambulance in the street outside and stepped inside.
For Whom the Bell Doesn’t Toll
I laid on a plinth (just about) as the paramedic asked me questions and bathed my wound. I felt queasy when she remarked ‘Ooh, I can see a bit of skull.’ Images of the coconut shy at the fair came to mind. I wasn’t brave enough to ask if my skull was cracked. My wife was in the ambulance, politely laughing at my garbled jokes. The ambulance moved off and ten seconds later I knew that I probably wasn’t going to die, as we weren’t breaking the speed limit and the siren wasn’t sounding.
The A & E Waiting Room
I was ushered into the waiting area and then a small curtained area where a nurse took my heart rate and blood pressure. To my surprise, both were utterly normal. I acquired a band around my wrist with my salient details printed on it and was asked to take a seat in the waiting area again. Blood was still trickling down my forehead, which I dabbed with gauze given to me by the paramedic. I took time to look around at the other people waiting to be seen by the hospital medical team. Honestly, I felt like I was the most injured out of the lot of them (not that it was a competition). A chap next to me kept grimacing and looking at a bleeding thumb. Opposite a lady was trying to sit comfortably in a chair with a leg in a cast. I looked around more for fellow head bangers (to be confused with headbangers who dance in a frenzied way to Heavy Metal music), but there were none. A trolley came round with tea and coffee, but I was advised not to have any until I’d seen the doctor. I was really parched and hadn’t had anything to eat since the night before. Several screams came from a nearby treatment room.
That Sinking Feeling
After about an hour a young bearded doctor appeared and ushered me into the room where I’d previously heard the screaming come from. He watched very closely as I put on the best possible show I could to walk in a straight line (I didn’t want to stay overnight in the hospital). I took my top off and the doctor examined me thoroughly, checking for blood in my ears and gauging whether I’d lost any strength in my limbs. The doctor was a little concerned that I might have had a nosebleed (I began to wonder if I’d imagined it myself as it lasted a split second). I was asked to lean over a large sink and the doctor left the room to get some bags of saline to wash my wound. When he came back, I asked him to change his gloves. Once an NHS Manager, always an NHS Manager. He kindly obliged and began washing my wound. This seemed to take ages until the doctor was happy.
Following a Staple Diet
The doctor dried my wound and then told me he wasn’t going to use stitches to repair my head and would instead be using staples. As it was quite a long gash, the doctor told me I would need seven staples. He apologised to me that it wouldn’t be worth me taking an anesthetic as it would take too long to kick in and he needed to fix my head quickly. I wondered for just a brief second if the man was a sadist. I told him to go ahead and he produced what looked like a miniature ray gun. I was warned to brace myself and he applied the first staple to my wound. Both the doctor and my wife, who was sitting in the corner, were amazed that I didn’t wince or cry out in pain. I calmly took all seven staples and it felt like the doctor wanted to shake my hand afterwards. He told me that I had managed the pain much better than the other patients he had seen that day. He asked me what the pain of having a staple felt like. I told him to imagine somebody had stuck a comb into his tangled hair and then driven away in a Porsche still holding the comb. He laughed, but I meant it. I was asked to go back to the waiting area, while he discussed my potential nosebleed with a consultant and the possibility of a brain scan.
Waiting Room-The Sequel
So I was back in the waiting room-in the same chair actually, staring at the same unhappy faces. I could see people looking at my head, so I decided to visit the bathroom and take a look. There was a five-inch long gash with staples running along it. My hair was a mess, still partially blood-soaked and some of it seemed to be trapped under the staples. I looked pale and for an instant, I thought I saw Frankenstein’s monster gazing back at me. I sighed and rejoined my wife in the waiting room. I was summoned by a nurse to have a tetanus shot. Compared to the staples, this was like being tickled by a soft feather. I even joked with her that I was ready for the jab, but knew full well I’d already received it. The doctor reappeared and told me I could leave. his parting gift was an instruction booklet on how to deal with head injuries and also a staple remover. The latter was for two week’s time when I would need to visit a doctor’s surgery to have my staples removed. Apparently, the surgeries never had staple removers (goodness knows what they use-screwdrivers?). I thanked him and we left.
The Long Drive Home
We hailed a taxi and set off home. I sent my daughters a text to say I was on my way with seven staples in my bonce. I can imagine the relief and exhalation that must have come from them receiving that text (there was no signal in the hospital). Nothing ever seems to happen to me without some kind of drama. If I looked up my family coat of arms, I’m sure the Latin inscription would say something like ‘Always a drama’. The taxi we were in threatened to conk out several times, just about making it up a not-so-steep hill. At one point I jokingly offered to get out and push. When I finally got back to my street I noticed half a dozen curtains twitching. I had to walk past the fateful fire exit, which seemed to make my head throb as I looked at it. My eldest daughter had thoughtfully cleaned up all the blood. I tiredly scaled the steps and was greeted by my two beautiful beaming daughters who couldn’t make enough fuss of me.
The Show Must Go On
Any normal person would’ve put their feet up and had a cup of coffee. Not me. I still hadn’t had anything to eat or drink or taken any painkillers. My wife and I run our own business and I insisted, much to her annoyance, that we get our orders for the day dispatched. I’ll be honest I wish I hadn’t started the latter. Everything seemed twice as hard as usual. I struggled to focus and I put this down to tiredness. In truth, it was the first sign that all was not right in the state of my head. Little did I know what was in store for me.
I put my feet up and hungrily devoured any food that my wife or daughters put in front of me, which included a large pork pie, a chicken sandwich, and a Toblerone. I’m surprised they didn’t lose a finger or two. I felt like the tiger who came to tea.
End of Part One…
Thanks for reading
Matt, AKA Chillchap
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