![\"10003539_10153978543005512_512559740_n\"](\"http:\/\/bikeme.tv\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/04\/10003539_10153978543005512_512559740_n.jpg\")
Behold my work, ye mighty…and despair<\/p><\/div>\n
I discovered later that my surgery had taken two-and-a-half hours, involved 10 pins in my ulna and a plate that looked like a flattened dessert spoon with holes drilled in the wide bit. It also involved some surgical swearing at the radius, which would not co-operate by sitting in the mangled socket it\u2019s meant to sit in. Eventually it was persuaded to do so, but the intricacies of this were never explained to me.<\/p>\n
And I really didn\u2019t much care. All I wanted to know was if it was fixed.<\/p>\n
\u201cAm I fixed?\u201d I asked the small herd of doctors assembled around my bed.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d one of them said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWere you the one who operated on me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho operated on me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDr Balalla.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich one of you is he? Or her?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNone of us.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pondered this through a haze of un-nameable chemicals. Anaesthesia is a wondrous thing. Coming out of it leaves you retarded, vaguely contented, and somewhat disturbed.<\/p>\n
As a veteran of hundreds of nights spent snorting tequila in outlaw motorcycle clubhouses, I was not unfamiliar with this state of mind.<\/p>\n
\u201cFair enough,\u201d I finally said. \u201cSo am I going to be crippled?\u201d<\/p>\n
The doctors consulted their notes.<\/p>\n
\u201cProbably not.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about my neck?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe C2 fracture is stable.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is good?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, this is good.\u201d<\/p>\n
They left and Florence woke up.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d she demanded.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy C2 fracture is stable,\u201d I advised her.<\/p>\n
Then I must have passed out.<\/p>\n
I awoke some time later to see my wife, my son and a gaggle of mates standing over me. I was in a neck brace, my arm was in a massive bandaged cast and supported on a gallows sling so that it pointed to the ceiling (which was still moving each time I bothered to look at it), and I felt like I had been beaten by polar bears with steel pipes and hate in their frozen hearts.<\/p>\n
![\"1912304_10153978543010512_957241718_o\"](\"http:\/\/bikeme.tv\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/04\/1912304_10153978543010512_957241718_o.jpg\")
And then he poured it onto the back of my head.<\/p><\/div>\n
Everyone wanted to know how I was feeling.<\/p>\n
\u201cLike shit.\u201d<\/p>\n
Everyone wanted to know if I was going to be alright.<\/p>\n
\u201cProbably.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhose there?\u201d Florence wanted to know. \u201cWhere\u2019s the toilet? Nurse?!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t mind her,\u201d I said to the people at the foot of my bed. \u201cShe\u2019s fucken crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n
My son, who is a kind and good-hearted soul looked at me with concern.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow do you know that, dad?\u201d he asked. \u201cMaybe she just needs some help.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at him with love, my heart bursting with pride.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo go help her,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
He walked over to Florence and told her the toilet was just to her left.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d she yodelled. \u201cWhy are the cats there? Why won\u2019t you tell me anything?\u201d<\/p>\n
My son came back. He had a crooked grin on his face. He gets that look when his father is proved right against all apparent odds.<\/p>\n
In real terms, I didn\u2019t have a lot to talk about to my family or mates. I was very uncomfortable, though not in agony. Painkillers don\u2019t remove pain they simply make you imagine it is somewhat irrelevant. My neck was stiff, and throbbed with a dull beat I tried not to think about.<\/p>\n
And I needed to piss.<\/p>\n
When everyone left, I felt I would essay the pissing business.<\/p>\n
Getting into a sitting position on the bed required much grunting, panting and eye-shutting. But I got there. I reefed the plug that powered the drip machine out of the wall, levered myself to my feet and waited for the hospital to stop spinning. Then like a thousand-year-old man, I shuffled the few metres to the toilet.<\/p>\n
A nurse came in and asked me what I thought I was doing.<\/p>\n
\u201cGoing for a piss,\u201d I said to her through clenched teeth.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you manage?\u201d<\/p>\n
![\"3626_G_1348079540750\"](\"http:\/\/bikeme.tv\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/04\/3626_G_1348079540750.jpg\")
If they tried a little, I would too.<\/p><\/div>\n
\u201cFor sure,\u201d I said, not knowing if that was the truth.<\/p>\n
But it was.<\/p>\n
I even managed to give myself a once-over in the mirror.<\/p>\n
Somehow, I looked worse than I did before. My left thigh was entirely purple. My wounded arm was swollen to an astonishing girth, and was equally purple. But what scared me the most was the hunted, empty, almost frightened look in my eyes.<\/p>\n
In 35 years of riding, I had never cunted myself up this badly. I\u2019d dodged death by literal millimetres. I had broken Rule Number One big time, and my reflection was full of recrimination, self-loathing and fear. I had been much diminished. And it would be a good while before I could even begin to attempt to repair the damage I had done to myself.<\/p>\n
I shuffled back to my bed.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d Florence asked.<\/p>\n
I lay back, closed my eyes and sighed as if all the world\u2019s misery now belonged to me.<\/p>\n
Around ten o\u2019clock, Florence started banging her food tray again and making demands about the toilet\u2019s whereabouts.<\/p>\n
The same nurse who wheeled her out to the nurse\u2019s station the night before, appeared, unchocked her bed and wheeled her out again.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow eez your pain?\u201d she asked me when she returned.<\/p>\n
\u201cNine,\u201d I intoned.<\/p>\n
Everyone knows that is the correct answer to the pain question.<\/p>\n
In hospitals, you are asked to estimate your pain on a scale from one to 10; one being no pain, 10 being unbearable agony. The number you provide dictates the amount of drugs you\u2019ll be given.<\/p>\n
\u201cNine,\u201d is the only response ever.<\/p>\n
A few pills later and I was insensate. I was not asleep. But I was not awake. I was just lying there.<\/p>\n
![\"ap688498854190-1a854301544d2cd6c2fb4b56c22fa87633467c02-s6-c30\"](\"http:\/\/bikeme.tv\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/04\/ap688498854190-1a854301544d2cd6c2fb4b56c22fa87633467c02-s6-c30.jpg\")
They work. In oh so many different ways.<\/p><\/div>\n
Then it was morning. I made another toilet trip, but I avoided looking in the mirror. There was nothing there I wanted to see.<\/p>\n
A few more mates dropped in during the day, and I was very grateful for the distraction they provided and for their kind thoughts and wishes.<\/p>\n
My cannula burned and ached, but it was pumping industrial quantities of anti-biotics into me, so I manfully fought the urge to chew it from my hand. Infection was still possible.<\/p>\n
The doctors arrived at seven am.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen can I go home?\u201d I asked. This was day three. I was coping, but my accommodating good nature can only be imposed upon for so long. Eventually the screaming would start.<\/p>\n
They consulted their notes.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re going to need another 24 hours of antibiotics,\u201d one of them said.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo tomorrow then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPossibly. More likely the weekend.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou do not discharge people on the weekend.\u201d<\/p>\n
The doctors consulted their notes again.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe do.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, you don\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll try to get you out on Friday.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat would be great.\u201d<\/p>\n
They left and I went back to my shell of misery and self-reproach.<\/p>\n
Then I noticed the weird-looking Indian kid walking slowly past my bed, his eyes luminous and his expression stern. He looked about 15. I had seen him before, but figured he was some kind of vision brought on by Endone.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho are you?\u201d I asked, half expecting him to tell me he was my spirit guide, thereby launching me into a litany of complaints about how I had always felt my spirit guide would be a black panther or a blood-drenched Cossack warrior.<\/p>\n
He stopped and his eyes bulged wider. I repeated my question.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am here for work experience,\u201d he said softly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is the toilet?\u201d Florence demanded. \u201cWhy won\u2019t you tell me what\u2019s going on?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow\u2019s that working out for you?\u201d I asked, with a grin.<\/p>\n
![\"laki\"](\"http:\/\/bikeme.tv\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/04\/laki.jpg\")
Not a hallucination.<\/p><\/div>\n
He fled. I never saw him again.<\/p>\n
But I kept seeing the offal that was served up to me three times a day in lieu of food.<\/p>\n
Are you people serious?<\/p>\n
On what fucken planet is the dreck you foist upon hospital patients considered food? Describing it as \u201cchicken casserole with vegetables\u201d on a sheet of paper insultingly called a \u201cmenu\u201d is all well and good, but when you deliver a watery grey melange of sludge instead, I\u2019m left thinking you\u2019re just taking the piss.<\/p>\n
I ate it anyway. I had an appetite, so maybe things weren\u2019t all bad. I was also getting the feeling back into the formerly numb fingers of my wounded hand, so that was also a positive development.<\/p>\n
That evening, Florence was once again wheeled out to the nurse\u2019s station, and a girl who fell off a horse replaced the Spanish lady who had left during the day. The Turkish lady\u2019s village of visitors still filled the ward with its chatter for most of the day, but at least our nights were free of Florence\u2019s endless imprecations.<\/p>\n
I would hover between wanting to smash her skull in with my cast, to wanting to help her find her way out of whatever darkness beset her.<\/p>\n
She reminded me very much of my late aunt, who passed away two years ago after also falling and fracturing her hip.<\/p>\n
She spent the next six months in hospital dying.<\/p>\n
Old people die a lot like that. They are simply not able to mobilise after a fall, and spend the final months of their lives in bed as their bodies start to shut down due to lack of movement. The hospital staff try and try to get them up, and the physiotherapists expend every effort to get them on their feet. But it\u2019s far too often a zero sum game. The old person just gives up. Surrender is, as always, death of one kind or another.<\/p>\n
Surrender is also anathema to me.<\/p>\n
And this is what I was telling myself as I waited impatiently for the last of the antibiotic drips to finish so that I could leave.<\/p>\n
When the machine began to beep its \u201cempty\u201d alarm, I was buzzing the nurse.<\/p>\n
\u201cUnhook me,\u201d I said, waving my cannula at her.<\/p>\n
She smiled, un-taped it, and drew its hateful fang from my hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cHave you moved your bowels?\u201d she asked as my wife helped me struggle into a pair shorts. Getting a T-shirt on was not possible, so I was leaving in my off-the-shoulder hospital gown.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I lied.<\/p>\n
I lied because they won\u2019t let you out of hospital until you have moved your bowels. The nursing staff are OCD about this.<\/p>\n
Oxycontin and Endone are partially made from cement, so no matter how glorious your bowel movements once were, a few days of necking happy pills will turn your bowel into a fossilised twist of impacted shit. No exceptions.<\/p>\n
But that was a problem for Home Borrie.<\/p>\n
Hospital Borrie was getting the fuck outta Dodge, obstructed colon or not.<\/p>\n
The sun warmed me like a blessing as I shambled outside to the car.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou OK?\u201d my wife asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cFantastic,\u201d I said. This time I wasn\u2019t lying.<\/p>\n
No-one gets better in hospital. You just get fixed in hospital. You get better at home.<\/p>\n
My couch embraced me like an old friend.<\/p>\n
Only one hurdle remained before my recuperation could begin.<\/p>\n
I had not shit in five days, so I resolved to rectify that on Saturday.<\/p>\n
The hospital gave me a bag of various drugs and a bottle of this disturbing oily glargh called Lactulose.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s the magic bullet,\u201d the nurse told me when I asked her what it was.<\/p>\n
Friday night I glugged some of it down and went to bed.<\/p>\n
Mid-morning on Saturday, there were signals being sent from down south. I hobbled into the toilet, sat down and pushed.<\/p>\n
Nothing.<\/p>\n
It hurt everything to push. My neck screamed and my armed throbbed like a jungle drum being beaten by a Zulu, but I continued to push.<\/p>\n
Nothing.<\/p>\n
I panted like a dog, and rocked back and forth, thinking that action might somehow dislodge several kilos of processed hospital food out of my distended rectum.<\/p>\n
Nothing.<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes and pushed harder. There was now a grunting soundtrack in my throat to go along with my rocking.<\/p>\n
Movement!<\/p>\n
\u201cOhgodfuckingjesusfuck!\u201d I blasphemed, sweat now streaming down my face.<\/p>\n
![\"French-Sailors-in-Breton-Stripes_1\"](\"http:\/\/bikeme.tv\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/04\/French-Sailors-in-Breton-Stripes_1.jpg\")
“Marcel, once more unto the breech, si vous plait.”<\/p><\/div>\n
Whatever had moved in my lower bowel was not shit as I knew shit to be, but something that felt like solidified gravel, and as I bore down, it moved again. I knew it was peeking from my blurter like some satanic turtle\u2019s head, and this made me moan and wheeze like beaten dockside whore.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you alright?\u201d my wife asked behind the door.<\/p>\n
\u201cYep\u2026pant\u2026just\u2026moan\u2026a little\u2026pant\u2026constipated\u2026fuck!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou sound like you\u2019re dying.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI feel like I\u2019m dying, but I\u2019m not.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I do anything?\u201d<\/p>\n
I was on the verge of asking her to bring me a pair of gloves so that I could make an attempt at grabbing the peering concrete turd hanging out of my arse in my fingers and pulling it out manually.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. I\u2019ll manage,\u201d I puffed instead.<\/p>\n
I rocked again. I bore down as hard as I dared. I cursed. I bargained with various deities. And millimetre by tortuous millimetre the most awful shit in my life eased its way into the bottom of the bowl.<\/p>\n
Sweat from my face had drenched the toilet seat. My arse felt like the French navy\u2019s playground. I was cross-eyed in horror and disgust. The stench was poisonous. My wound throbbed and I was scared I had ripped the stitches open.<\/p>\n
Did I dare look into the toilet? Did I dare to behold what I had just voided?<\/p>\n
Yeah. I dared.<\/p>\n
It was about half a metre long and grey. And smooth, like masterfully rendered concrete eel. And it lay there, in the pissy toilet water like the sum total of all damnation. I didn\u2019t dare take a breath through my nose lest I fainted, crashed to the floor and broke all my broken shit all over again, so I mouth-panted and wiped the mess from between my sweat-sheened arse-cheeks.<\/p>\n
Now the healing could begin.<\/p>\n
I emerged from the toilet in fog of half a can of Glen 20 and a nimbus of triumph.<\/p>\n
![\"10149482_627762153945218_1680465681_n\"](\"http:\/\/bikeme.tv\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/04\/10149482_627762153945218_1680465681_n.jpg\")
Where the bones came out<\/p><\/div>\n
![\"10153393_627762150611885_902364840_n\"](\"http:\/\/bikeme.tv\/wp-content\/uploads\/2014\/04\/10153393_627762150611885_902364840_n.jpg\")
Where the surgeons went in.<\/p><\/div>\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My only memory of what happened after I\u2019d been wheeled through a kilometre of corridors to Westmead\u2019s surgery wing was a brief intercourse with two anaesthetists. Most of which occurred between the two of them, and included terms I could not understand. I was only consulted when they needed to know if I had been [&hellip<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":8387,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[68],"tags":[219,67,61],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8378"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8378"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8378\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8427,"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8378\/revisions\/8427"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/8387"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8378"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8378"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bikeme.tv\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8378"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}