chapter 2

I also thought I was invincible.
That was until I had my accident.
I can't remember that much about the incident itself. I was riding my racing bicycle one wet gloomy Sunday afternoon. I cycled around a sharp bend and then my memory is missing several weeks.
I've been told I hit a lorry going the other way. The driver was Polish, he was tired, he was lost and he'd forgotten that he needed to keep to the left on British roads. He had not even noticed me. He had a hefty fine to pay for his dangerous driving, plus a short spell in jail and a driving ban that pushed him into the unemployment queue.
I spent days in an induced coma in intensive care followed by a further two months in hospital. My cycling helmet had protected my skull, otherwise I would have been dead, but, I had a fractured clavicle, a fractured pelvis and internal bleeding that needed to be fixed in intensive care. I had also broken several ribs. I was lucky I did not break any limbs as well. I was lucky to be alive at all!
My family came down from the north to watch over me while my life hung in the balance, but as my health improved, one by one they went home to their ordinary lives. My mother stayed longer than the rest of them. She stayed in my house and kept everything as it should be there while she visited me every day. I had to admit it was good to have someone to talk to who was not just a passing acquaintance.
I don't remember much about my time in intensive care. I heard people talking indistinctly. I heard alarms going off, but felt nothing. As a started to come out of the induced coma all I could feel was pain, everywhere. I could hardly move. I had a tube to help me breathe, a tube to help me wee, tubes in my neck, wires on my chest and more tubes than I'd care to mention sticking out of my abdomen and arms.
One by one the wires and tubes got taken out. Even when I went to the main ward, I still had my piss-pipe and a load of other things I had to remember to carry around with me. The morphine pump helped the pain, but it spun my head into the land of dreams and blurred the edges between what was real and what was not. I was tempted to use more of the stuff, but if I knew that I could not rely on it forever. If I used it too much, I was convinced my recovery would have been slower.
I knew I was made of strong stuff. I was used to pushing myself. I enjoyed the physio visits. I did the exercises she taught me... and more. It hurt, oh yes it bloody hurt, but I was using muscles that had been dormant for days. Other muscles had been cut and sewn back up together. They cried out in protest. I ignored them. I had to get back on my feet. When I could get out of bed, I had to get strong enough to walk. When I could walk, I might be able to go home. Once I got home I could think about getting myself back to work.
My boss had visited. I was under no illusions I would not be as fit as I had been. I would not be able to go straight back to my spinning classes. My body needed time to repair. He was prepared for me to do some administration work in reception while I regained my fitness. I had six months grace. If I was not able to go back to my old job by then, he could not afford to keep me on. He wanted to help more, but he couldn't. All the staff had to spread themselves out to take on a little bit of my work. He might have to consider employing temporary staff to cover.
The pressure was on. I had to do it! Fitness was all I knew. I'd not done well as school. I didn't have a whole host of exam results to fall back on. If I didn't get myself back to full fitness in six months I was in the shit! I'd not be able to rely on free lance work to fill in the gap to pay my bills. I had no choice. I HAD to do it and the sooner I started the better!