Open Writing

For me 1966 was a smashing year, in so much as I smashed my left leg in the December. Some Christmas present. I was using a chainsaw at the time, cutting logs, and one of them fell across my shin bone which, being the weaker of the two, gave way under the strain. The sound of a bone cracking isn’t pleasant, and is even less so when that bone happens to be your own.

The accident incident occurred at the bottom of a deep ravine well distant from any main road, but the weather was fine, and there was daylight -- to begin with. That really simplified matters.

An ambulance crew did its best with the gear available, and I was lashed into a contrivance then used for mountain rescues, along with gormless woodcutters at the bottom of inhospitable ravines. By such means the patient becomes encased in a full-length corset, constructed from canvas and sturdy wooden stays.

This in normal circumstances provided support and prevented movement by the wearer. Only in my case that did not apply, owing to the extra length of legs, with the result that the part of me requiring prop-up received none. And my injured limb stuck out at the end of the strutted casing, whilst the rest of me was rendered immobile. It was an uncomfortable situation, and the ambulance men hadn’t even a bullet for me to bite on.

The ascent was made, however, and at the top of the ravine there was accommodation awaiting my arrival. Chugging away gently was a farm tractor, attached to which stood a large wooden sledge, normally used for transporting farm commodities, but was then utilized in transporting me. In that manner I was dragged across open fields to the roadway and an awaiting ambulance. Knowing my fortune, it’s a wonder it wasn’t horse-drawn with solid tyred wheels.

Duly potted up from thigh to toe, I was discharged after spending three days in hospital -- well Christmas was fast approaching. But, as I was later to learn, that period of time wasn’t really sufficient for the rejoined bone ends to have produced enough ‘stick-em’ to withstand movement. And so, unbeknownst to anyone at the time, they parted company again. I never felt anything because of the pot casing, so that discovery of their separation was only brought to light twelve weeks later after X-ray. “Wait three more months,” said the orthopaedic surgeon. So I did. What else could I do?

Time passed. Another X-ray revealed little progress. There was still a gap between the bone ends, but a filmy grey matter was seen to be forming between them. That, said the surgeon, was new bone in the making. I was to return in four weeks to see what progress, if any, had been made.

More time passed, at the end of which it was revealed that the gap was still the same with nothing encouragingly solid across it. “A bone graft,” said the consultant. “We’ll take a piece of bone from your hip. There’s plenty there. It will be a bit sore.” He was right. It was. It did pass eventually, but it took about twenty years before all sensation finally disappeared, I think.

In the summer of 1967 then, when people were going on annual holidays and paying lots of money for the privilege, I entered an orthopaedic ward -- after my first seven months in full pot and on crutches -- as resident for three weeks, full board and lodgings all paid for, although I was what might be termed a ‘captive tenant’.

One thing about being on an orthopaedic ward I found, was that prior to an operation and afterwards also -- once the effects of all the jollop which one has had pumped into oneself have subsided and the feeling of being civilized returns -- then life, although monotonous in the main, can be seen to present a certain kind of humour, that is if one has a warped outlook on life. I have.

For instance, there was one patient with an injured arm I remember who was a pipe smoker. Unbelievable almost today, but smoking on the ward was allowed at that time. His damaged limb, swathed in cotton dressing and supported by a sling, allowed a limited amount of movement.

He used a lighter to ignite his pipe, and on my first day on the ward I witnessed him whilst in an unguarded moment, ignite not only the tobacco but the cotton dressing also. This act immediately landed the chap on the horns of a dilemma. Blowing on the conflagration only fanned the flames to greater intensity and, due to the tenderness of his original injury, he was loathe to bat it out with his free hand. Meantime, his thumb was surrounded by flames. Gentle dabbing and patting stifled the blaze eventually, but he was left with a very sore, throbbing thumb.

The ward were I was resident held a total complement of sixteen bodies. I don’t remember them all, only the ones who have left a humorous imprint on my memory. Having said that, there was the young victim from a car crash who had been a ward lodger for quite a period and had much further time to go. He had made himself quite at home, during the night anyway, when, with curtains around his bed, the sounds of amorous activity could be heard. In his case the ‘night nurse’ did bring immediate relief perhaps, but not instant slumber.

The times of which I write were those when cartilage treatment entailed an operation followed by ten days in bed followed by a course of physiotherapy. I understand the routine is different these days. In my time, however, there were three such cases I recall. Two were of similar humorous vein to myself. The third was a proper namby-pamby. He was still panic-stricken even after his operation. His young son was a similar milksop who stated his desire to see his father’s cartilage after its removal, having been told that this was permissible. In due course the requested bit of daddy’s offending gristle was presented to his view in a specimen jar. Thirty seconds later the remains of the offspring’s last meal were also exposed for public display. I don’t think that daddy-dear was enamoured with my periodic lunchtime announcement that once again we were being served with cartilage soup.

One innocent youth was petrified of hypodermic needles, so much so that he lied about his pre-op injection, saying that he had received it when he hadn’t. The sister, after consulting records, disputed this and instructed a nurse to administer the dosage. Whilst she went for the toolbox I, because of prior experience in the medical field, was able to pass on some words of comforting advice. “When she shoves t’ needle in, lad,” I told him, “tha mun lig reit still, cos if tha twitches an’ t’ needle breks off inside thi’, they’ll ‘ev ter broddle ter finned t’brocken bit.” When the time for administering the shot arrived, a state of rigor mortis came over the lad. He was no trouble whatsoever. I like to think my bedside manner was helpful.

There always seems to be one moaner on a ward, and it was so in the far-off days of which I write. He was elderly and the bane of nurses, demanding constant attention. In one instance he insisted that he had not received his full dosage of medication. The nursing staff was equally insistent that he had. Oh no, he persisted, one of his tablets had a small piece chipped off. Where was it? My last and lasting memory of the old moaner is the sight of him enthroned on a mobile commode chair, which had small, unreachable wheels. He had been marooned in the middle of the ward corridor. I don’t suppose his mounting frustration and cries for help aided his cause, but the nurses did promise to attend to him as soon as ever they had the opportunity.

Obviously, we were all from time to time during our bed-ridden sojourn obliged to acquaint ourselves with the mobile ‘facilities.’ These were of papier mâché type construction, produced on demand by any one of the nurses and, in emergencies, by two even. On one occasion cartilage case number two decided to start his own private collection of bed-bottles by calling for one at every opportune moment. By the time his game was rumbled and the bed covers turned back, he had amassed seven of the containers, all empty of course. Bed-pan design resembled the distinctive style of American firemen’s helmets, and our hero persisted in sitting up in bed wearing one as such, complete with siren sounds, much to the displeasure of the nursing staff.

Bed-baths were also in vogue for some, myself included. Because of a potted leg, the wearing of pyjama bottoms was out of the question for me. Consequently I was sheathed in what was termed a Bikini. Well, bits of me were. I had also acquired a bar towel, courtesy of a visitor who had used it to help keep cool a quart bottle of Younger’s IPA. Prior to bathing one time, I tastefully arranged the multi-coloured towel in such a way as to hide my modesty, all concealed beneath the bed clothes. The look on the nurse’s face when she removed the top covers was quite a study.

Still on the subject of bed-baths, one anecdote related to me by a staff member was of a nurse and patient who had followed the customary bathing routine up to the point when the nurse would hand her charge his face cloth with the instruction to “Wash where I haven’t washed.” She would then discreetly withdraw from behind the curtains. After a suitable time the nurse would return. In this instance, however, when she re-entered the screens it was to find the patient obeying her instruction by washing the back of his neck.

Some short while after my operation I was told that a haematoma had developed on the hip from which bone had been removed. This was a swelling of clotted blood. So I was transported into a side ward where a sister drew off the offending gathering by means of a large syringe, which she then emptied into a large kidney bowl. As it was around noon when this operation took place, I was prompted to remark that at least there was not the opportunity of producing some good gravy for dinner. Judging from the look I received, I assumed sister was not amused. We didn’t get thick gravy either.

Came the day when I was allowed out of bed. Having spent seven months transporting myself around on crutches, I was full of confidence and quite prepared to swing myself merrily around the ward. I was soon to learn, however, that fourteen days in bed had upset my balancing mechanism. This I was informed of by the lady physiotherapist as she attempted to re-align what must have seemed to her to be the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I was canting over at a dangerous angle without being aware of the fact.

After that episode I suspect it was thought best that someone of sturdier build should act as my chaperone. So I was handed over to a man who, although of stocky build, was eighteen inches shorter than I was. Under his tender care I was shunted to the ward doorway in a wheelchair from where I then supported myself on crutches. A crepe bandage was secured around my waist, and with the physiotherapist holding on to the other end we set off down the corridor. I remember two remarks made by my guide and protector as we progressed. The first was, “For God’s sake don’t fall over backwards.” The other, “It’s like taking a bloody Great Dane for a walk.”

I soon did regain my equilibrium and was them able to ‘rock on’ solo, although I made use of a wheelchair also. I should perhaps mention that my crutches were the old-fashioned wooden type which, of course, were too short. So rolls of bandages were taped to the tops. Even then I resembled Quasimodo as I stumped along.

Still for ten months they were a great support. Yet I felt no remorse when I was able to shed them and the pot was removed from my leg for the last time. The sight of my limb was quite a shock. It was extremely emaciated, but how blissful to be able to sit and soak in a bath after months of slap-dash washing, not to mention bed baths. The idiotic thought did cross my mind, “What if the warm water should dissolve the graft and the break re-occur.” It didn’t of course, and all I had then to do was to get my leg muscles to function and my knee and ankle joints to bend once more, and that is a month-long uncomfortable story.

Time for another kind of break I think.