Compounding the problem

I was telling this story to someone at the aspirants meet and they asked me to write it down. Thought it was worth sharing with members. 100% true.

5ft 2ins, stood in his stockinged feet, and skinny to the point of puny, JP* was about as much use to me, just now, as a chocolate fireguard.

I had not always thought that, mind – 5 minutes ago he was perfect as a second for a big ice route in Wales, light, portable and up for it. 5 minutes is, however, more than enough time to re evaluate your mates, especially when that 5 minutes also proves gravity sucks, that a 40 foot Desmond onto hard ice hurts, and that I, for the first time ever, break.

Having dispensed with the practical physics lesson we had to re – evaluate – up was no longer an option, so down we had to go. Only an hour from the road, the ignominy of a chopper is not an option, so we will have to get me out.

Hunched over JP like Quasimodo’s hump, I hop to his quick step, but in three paces, JP collapses, my foot oozes blood into the snow, and pain jackhammers into my very soul. It takes 5 minutes before I can think straight enough to agree with JP that I need to be recovered. Reluctantly, I dispatch JP to the valley, exhorting him to hurry as this last tumble has jacked up the pain levels, as my swelling foot is now straining the stitches in my boot. I settled in for a cold wait, foot up on an adjacent boulder.

Now in the darkest part of every western, a hero gallops over the horizon, disposing of baddies and saving the fallen. This was to be no exception, as three lads came over the hill, trailing JP, have been hailed by him just a few hundred metres after leaving me. Out for a days ice climbing they seemed quite happy to help – apparently, as outdoor education students it would count towards the practical aspect of the course!

With a minimum of fuss, the biggest of the three, Will hoisted me on his back and carried me down to the road, JP trotting somewhat guiltily at our side. I may be wrong, the day by now beginning to pass me by a bit, but I swear my trusty steed did not stop for a rest.

Now just re read that last bit again – “carried me down to the road” and “did not stop for a rest” – easy to write and to read, but imagine it next time you leap, gazelle like, down from the crag. You are now twice as heavy as when you went up, and your awkward, wriggling load bellows in your ear each time you stumble. Plus, of course, you have just had your day, in some of the best conditions for years, completely screwed up!

Back in Ynys, Will regained his strength with a bracing cuppa, before racing back up to the crag to try and get his route in before dark. JP and I discuss the options – do we race for home 200 miles away, or opt for the local hospital? It is a no brainer, I clearly have a compound fracture, and it is time to take things seriously, as even the simple task of taking my boot off reduces Mr Invincible – that’s me remember – to incoherent shreds.

In Bangor there is a flu epidemic, the hospital is short staffed, and my loyal, diminutive friend struggles to convince an similarly challenged nurse that I am of genuine need. Divided by a common language, and the high admissions counter, agreement is eventually reached that I qualify for admittance. It is just possible my lifeblood dripping onto their nice clean floor might have swayed the day. JP returns from his wheedling to wheel me into the holding pen, but I am no longer there – swathed in clothes more suitable for –5, I have fallen asleep, knocking the brakes of off the wheelchair, as I slump. In the manner of the best Keystone cop movies, this has started to roll across the floor, propelling me, mangled foot up like a lance, towards a plate glass window. My scrawny, and hitherto under utilized friend, races after me and drags me to a halt, inches from the second, transparently painful, stop of the day.

Eventually I get into surgery, eternally grateful to a passing matron who can see the distress I am in, and bumps me up the queue. Blessed relief as I drift off into confused weirdness. It was to get even weirder.

Coming round from a general is always disorientating – in a room of 10 strangers, all in various states of post op cold turkey, it was a box of frogs. 9 out of 10 cats were climbers, the full set truncated only by the obligatory old lady who had fallen on an icy path. The inevitable “what happen to you” stories filled a desultory few hours, of which my recollections are not entirely clear. I do remember questioning the young man with both hands bandaged up with a drip in each fingertip, groaning gently in the corner. Swimming up a snow filled gully, he had lost his gloves, and, after a while his fingers had stopped hurting….

But they were not all strangers, the guy in the next bed was vaguely familiar, and increasingly so as my post op stupor evaporated. Mentally, I played Barbie with him, putting him into various outfits and scenarios, until it slotted into place – he had been one of the Will’s chums who had sacrificed part of their day to get me here. Now very late, but determined to salvage something from the day, they had elected to keep to their original plans, committing themselves to finishing in the dark. As befits our hero’s status, Will had topped out first, and my ward brother, second up, offered to go and pick up the sacks whilst No. 3 completed the route in the dark. The absence of light, the lateness of the hour and the energy expended in rescuing me, probably explain why he stepped off the path, over the very cliff he had just ascended. United with the sacs rather quicker than he intended, there was a long wait until his partners in climb had finished.

We need Will again at this point, although not now as a packhorse, but as a runner – this was clearly a major injury, and speed was of the essence. Duty done, and his friend in the ambulance Will goes home for well earned slumbers – little suspecting that he is figure again in this sorry tale some weeks later.

You will recall that Bangor Hospital’s admissions policy is somewhat strict, that, bizarrely, mere injury is not sufficient to gain entry, and that a protracted argument with an unseen foe needs to be won. Matron, once more spotting real distress, elbows a minor fracture out of the way and inserts our man at the head of the same queue that I had recently leapfrogged.

12 hours later, the two of us were re-united, in adjacent beds, following surgery to repair his fractured pelvis. He did not seem to be apportioning blame, but with ½ days drugs left to distil in him, I suspected his equanimity might shortly evaporate, and signed myself out when he was not looking.

Hours later, I am home, mightily relieved to be back there, even though weighed down with enough stainless steel bolts and rods in my ankle to scaffold St. Paul’s. Not only that but I have a fancy modern cast open at the front and removable for washing and scratching that inevitable itch. Funnily enough what was initially easy to remove becomes less so over the next 24 hours, and the now straining, pulsating gap at the front frames a Dali-esque kaleidoscope of colour, nicely counter pointed by a frieze of mottled bruising – a deep and dangerous infection has taken root.

At my home town hospital, Matron – exactly the same size, shape and motherly concern, I swear, as the one, who rescued me those few days ago in Bangor – takes one, tutting look, and confines me to bed again. It’s a monster, raging infection, threatening bone and tissue, so it is another week of enforced R & R. With nothing to do, but feel sorry for myself, I need to thank my saviours, and with time on my hands, I pen the necessary gratitude’s, heartfelt, and accompanied by a robust cheque. They were students, and Mr Invincible was as grateful as Humpty Dumpty.

Now students, you will not be surprised to know, and cash are soon parted, and this injection of readies was to be no exception, being rapidly converted to beer vouchers. Put vast quantities of subsidised ale into anyone, however big they are, and it often leads to lapses of judgement in any age bracket, let alone students on Saturday night in Bangor Normal. As my money dwindled, so did common sense, and Will, rising to the occasion, did indeed rise, leaping to the beams above the dance floor, to demonstrate his prowess at pull ups. Disgusted at this blatant attempt to show off, his friends – those of them not yet hospitalised, anyway – dragged him, for his own safety, back down to the dance floor. However, as I had also been funding their own out of body experiments, this collective concern for his safety was more akin to a rugby scrum and the resultant thump stunned the DJ into a silence.

Keening through that silence came a thin cry as Will’s ankle, unable to bear the collective weight, capitulated, snapping bone.

Kind enough to acknowledge my monetary contribution to his downfall, Will and I commiserated from our respective beds, nursing our remarkably similar injuries.

*Jean Pierre de Rohan – a man distinguished by having been disowned by both parents separately, and by his racing driver father twice! I keep exotic company.

Dave Viggers Feb 2011