You Have Not a Leg to Stand On (5 page)

Rotherhithe

I later reflected on what he'd said. He was right, of course, not only literally but in any other sense as well. I think this must have been about 1983, seven years after the accident. We were living in our beautiful warehouse in Rotherhithe, just below Tower Bridge in South-East London. So why did I still have this terrible sense of nothingness, pointlessness, uselessness. It's not as though we'd done nothing for seven years; and yet every morning I would wake up feeling sick; I would retch and retch until my stomach muscles ached. We'd borrowed a lot of money to convert the warehouse, but we paid it all back just by selling one floor, completely empty, twenty feet by sixty. In those days we still had bank managers. They would guide and advise and would look back through your financial record, and would let you extend your overdraft, as long as you let them know first. In this case he said, ‘I expect you're going to have to do a lot of hard talking.' We both said, ‘We think it'll speak for itself.' We picked him up in South Kensington, drove him over Tower Bridge, through all the huge derelict warehouses, to the Mayflower pub. The Mayflower ship did actually set sail to America from here, and our little warehouse nestled between two other monsters which soon would succumb to the developers. We pointed it out and he said, ‘Oh I see,' and that was it. We drove him back to South Kensington.

When it was finally finished and friends came to visit, it had the same sort of effect as people had when they first saw Kedong. It took their breath away; at any time, day or night, the tide, in or out, people's jaws would drop.

I should tell you of the immensity of the task upon which we'd just embarked. The owner of the warehouse was a friend of Marriott's called Angelica Garnet, whose husband David wrote the book Aspects of Love, subsequently made famous by Andrew Lloyd-Webber's musical. She asked £45,000 which even then, in 1981, was an incredible, out-of-the-blue, opportunity, to save us from my overriding depth of worthlessness, of my life, not serving any purpose. There was no point in having a survey; the building was a burnt-out, London stock brick shell, with no roof. The thick brick walls were built sitting directly on the clay London is built on. It was probably built in about the 1850s when the London docks were at the peak of their worldwide trading network. But modern building regulations stipulate brick walls must sit on concrete or a similar material as a solid foundation. This seemed to me to be an impossible demand, least of all because the building had happily stood there, with no movement for more than a hundred years. But our very clever new friend and architect, Colin White, who lived opposite us in Marriott's mews, worked out an ingenious, relatively simple way to solve the problem. The clay had to be cut out in arches underneath the brick walls only two at a time, then the arches filled with concrete and allowed to set for a few days. This tiresome procedure was carried out until the whole building was sitting on the top of all the new concrete arches. The rest of the clay, between the arches, was then dug away and filled with concrete. The entire structure of about 100ft deep, 50ft wide and three stories high now sat comfortably, on its new foundation of 300 tons of spanking new concrete.

The design of the interior could now materialise. My wife has a natural eye for design and so has Colin. Two cooks in the kitchen is a recipe for conflict. But they managed to steer gingerly around each other for the next three years it took to create, and the outcome was spectacular.

We had all this and had done all I've described, and yet we were both on the edge. I can see clearly now why it was my poor little wife was in such despair. But then, when I found her curled up on the end of the sofa, sobbing her heart out, I said, ‘What's the matter?'

I was so immersed, enveloped in my own deep misery at being cut in two, tied for the rest of my life to this primitive, cursed contraption of a wheelchair. I couldn't see the devastating effect I was having on the people closest to me. I'd started to drink a bit too much whisky. After a very nice supper with a bottle of wine, we'd watch television, then maybe turn off all the lights and watch the nightlife on the river. My little wife would go to bed and I'd stay in the sitting room, with a glass of whisky, listening to very loud music on my headphones. On the very first night in the warehouse, having moved away from the womb of our wonderful Marriott's house in Notting Hill Gate; the vicar of Rotherhithe arrived, with a bottle of whisky, to welcome us to his Parish. He stayed and stayed and I happily drank and drank. When trying to transfer out of the wheelchair into bed, I collapsed on the floor and, without knowing, my leg snapped in two just below the knee. My exasperated but forbearing little wife, struggled, with all her might, to lift my deadweight back into the chair and on to the bed. It wasn't until the morning, when I pulled back the duvet, the sight of my massive, swollen leg, caught me unaware, causing me to almost pass out.

The ambulance drove me to A&E at St. Thomas' Hospital. There they decided to plate it together, rather than put me in plaster, because of the possibilities of pressure sores. The bane of a paraplegic's life. This whole procedure required a week's stay in the hospital.

It was not possible for my battered, bruised, and now desperate little wife to be completely alone for a week in that warehouse. There was no alternative but to retreat to the safety of Marriott's home in Notting Hill Gate.

Unfortunately we only lived at the warehouse for three years. I think it was during those three years I became aware that the agony I was going through was of my own making. If it was of my own making, why on earth would I want to put myself through this misery, this destruction.

Some time ago Marriott told me that my Brother-in-law had said, ‘Of course, he is very selfish.' I disregarded that as something a brother-in-law might say as a dismissive remark about someone for whom he had no regard. However, it slowly dawned on me during the time we were at the warehouse, everyone around me had done their utmost to make me accept that life was worth living.

I explained earlier, soon after being paralysed, it was as plain as day to me I hadn't achieved anything, I had no talent, I had nothing to warrant any of the enormous love, care and attention that was being poured upon me. I was so engrossed in my own deep misery, I didn't realise the effect I was having on the people closest to me. It was in the nick of time the realisation flooded over me. For seven years I'd been creeping through a dark, wet, clammy, stinking tunnel without any reason to make me go forward. My head bowed, my face just above the mud I was hoping would drown me, when suddenly, without any warning, I looked up and I saw this magical scene all around me. The feeling was as though I'd stepped back in time to my childhood, into our beautiful garden I've described earlier. Everything was there. Why, why did I ever have to leave. Both my Parents were still alive, my Ayah was still alive, our beloved little pack of assorted four-legged super-friends were still with us. But now I had someone else who'd been with me while I'd been creeping through that dreadful tunnel, not caring, not knowing if I was going backwards or forwards. I didn't know she was always nudging me forwards

Quite recently, long after we left the warehouse, there was a story in the papers, of a young man who'd suffered exactly the same accident as me. He had decided, very early on, he would not live a life from a wheelchair because he could not accept the compromises he knew he'd have to make. He was told he'd get used to it, he was only eighteen and another world would open up. He said he didn't want to get used it and he was not interested in ‘another world' opening up. Somehow he persuaded his parents to take him to Dignitas in Switzerland, where he would take his own life. I only recall that story as an example of the extremes people go through when presented with paraplegia as a way of life. Even now, after all this time, knowing all I know he'd have to go through, I can't honestly say he made the wrong decision. So here I was, without the option of going to Dignitas. I had to accept all the love and dedication so many people had given me over the last seven years and repay it by ‘trying', just ‘trying.' Nobody would ask for more.

***

During the time we lived with Marriott, another beautiful little character came into our lives; tiny in stature but with a huge personality. We both came from dog-owning families and while living in the Kedong valley, our great joy was our little pack. Five, wonderful, very different, assortment of the most beloved four-legged friends, only other dog owners would understand. When we had to leave Kenya, it was as if our hearts were being torn out of our bodies. So when this tiny ball of fluff was deposited on my pillow after Marriott and my wife came back from a shopping trip, there was nothing but instant love. She was a miniature Yorkshire terrier called, on her pedigree, Nonsense Lady Rotherhithe; without her I don't think my poor little Wife would have retained her sanity. She gave us fifteen years of pure love and utter delight. When she died, I thought my little wife's heart would break. Before witnessing what was happening to her, if you'd told me someone could die of a broken heart, I would have disagreed with you. But now, I know you can become very ill with devastating grief. Her body was racked with sobbing. Not just for one or two days but for weeks. She had an illness for which there was no consolation. There was no placating, no let-up. We say the love dogs have for their owners is unconditional. Now I know the love some owners have for their dogs, is also unconditional and total.

That little character was with us wherever we went. She'd even sit on my right arm, my accelerator and brake arm when we drove around London. She recognised places where she could go for a run. If we couldn't stop, she'd look back inquiringly. Because of her we became very close to my Uncle and Aunt who lived in East Sussex; they doted on her. So it was with them she stayed when we returned to Kenya to see my mother in the Kedong Valley. And it was because of her, they wanted us to live close to them. So it was because of her they found an old derelict barn in which we now live, and probably will do so for the rest of our lives.

Storm and Stuttgart

I find it difficult to place all the episodes I've talked about, in order of them happening. I can say though if they happened in a good time or a bad time. So from June the 29
th
. 1976 until the end of 1987 was a bad, bad time. There were lighter moments of course, but generally I was deeply depressed and couldn't really find any purpose in living. We did do things. By now we'd moved from our beautiful warehouse and into our derelict barn.It had been transformed into a magnificent four bedroom house with underfloor heating.It was set around a courtyard with raised beds so I could participate in the creation of a wonder. It was only my poor little wife who knew what was really going on. People would say to her ‘He's amazing how he handles everything.' She wanted to throttle them. She knew it was only her who kept the ‘show' on the road. She finally said to me, it was unfair, selfish and deeply wounding to continue with this attitude after everything she, and so many others had done their utmost to make my life worth living. She was right. It was now up to me. I was very lucky, people had put up with me for so long.

So it was 1987, the year of the great storm that swept into the South-East of England, tearing down great swaths of beautiful, mature forest and scattering them about like matchsticks. It was 1987, more than ten years after that accident I seriously began the long fight back to reality and fulfilment. I said to my wife, just the other day, 'how is it we now have so much when we had so little.' The answer is here with me now and has been all the time. How she waited all that time, I just don't know.

***

Soon after I was first paralysed, and still in the hospital in Nairobi, it was suggested, to My poor little wife that I should meet another paraplegic. He'd fallen off a horse and broken his back not long ago. He was permanently in a wheelchair, as would I be. I'm not quite sure why it was thought this meeting would raise our spirits. However, he wheeled himself along to my ward, every inch of wall space covered with Jill Retief's children's school water paintings and introduced himself. His name was Bill Argent. He was a cheery chap of about fifty. I don't know why he thought he was there, he had nothing of any hope to say to me, it was quite evident, that was that. Anyway, we both made an effort to chat and it turned out, before his accident, he was Managing Director of Mercedes-Benz Kenya and amazingly still was.

After eventual admittance to Stoke Mandeville Hospital, I found he was well remembered, ‘as the man who never left his job'. Very unusual. He spent hours every morning on the telephone to his office in Nairobi, running the business from his hospital bed. He'd taken no time to adjust to an entirely new way of living. He didn't consider he had an illness, he might as well have broken his leg, so he only stayed in hospital the shortest possible time. That attitude might have been a useful tool for the short-term, but I'm afraid for the long-term, or even the medium to long-term, it was to cost him his life.

We chatted quite amiably about all sorts of things, other than what life was like living from a wheelchair. Later I was to realise, nobody ever talks candidly about living their life from a wheelchair. It's too intimate and awful to relate. Much of the awfulness is centred around incontinence, the ‘telling' of which, makes normal people uncomfortable. So switch off now, if you don't what to hear any more!

We came back to our beautiful Kedong Valley, almost a year later. Among the many friends we had to see again, who'd been so wonderful to us during the time I was in hospital, was to contact Bill to see how he was getting on. All the dreadful difficulties I now knew so much about had begun to crowd in, but with his strength of character he coped and somehow managed to continue working. On one of our visits, after extolling the design and abilities of Mercedes-Benz engineering, he suggested it would be possible for him to organise a car to be built for me personally. If I could collect it myself from the factory in Stuttgart, there'd be no duty to pay, so the overall cost would be as affordable as most other well built cars. We'd never entertained the idea of having a Mercedes, they'd always been far out of our reach. My father had bought us a second-hand Peugeot 505 automatic, on which he'd had hand controls built, so I could use it when in Kenya and my mother would drive it when we were in England. We didn't own a car in England. My mother-in-law had, incredibly kindly, given us the use of her lovely black Daimler with red leather upholstery. I couldn't drive it, of course, it had no hand controls. Our farm had been confiscated by the government. The circumstances of which I'll tell you about later. For our part of the investment given to my father, would just cover the cost of a personally built Mercedes 300 D with hand controls. So there it was, all set up, an amazing piece of good fortune, arising out of the worst of circumstances. Since the accident, I've come to realise, not soon enough, it's most important to try to find something positive, out of any misfortune. If you can't, it'll weigh you down, and crush you out of existence.

All we had to do now was get ourselves to the Stuttgart factory at the appointed time and date. Easy you may think, but no, nothing is ever easy when newly paraplegic, and nothing would have been achievable without the efforts and determination of my ever stalwart and ingenious Little wife.

By the time we received the call to say the car would be ready for collection, we were back in London living with our wonderful fairy godmother, Marriott. By chance, my wife's younger brother Alexander was off skiing in his camper-van. He suggested, with a small deviation, he could drop us off on the way. Wonderful. Setting off to Stuttgart, to collect a new Mercedes Car, was almost as exciting and daunting as setting off to India to find an unknown Guru to tell me all my ills would be over. For a newly injured paraplegic, confined to the limitations of a wheelchair, to be given the power and freedom of a modern motor car, is as to be given wings.

We'd found a somewhat inexpensive hotel in the centre of the city that catered to our needs. It was from there we sallied forth exploring for a couple of days prior to the collection of the vehicle. That evening, while pushing about the central square, we came upon a very friendly, welcoming little restaurant, whose light white, cold Riesling house wine was irresistibly inviting. I'm coming up to the central component of this little tale, that always brings you down-to-earth, whenever you think you might have got the hang of things. The house wine there had a very low percentage alcohol, so polishing off a litre carafe around delicious food, served with such grace and warmth, was quickly replaced, by another carafe. All too soon we'd come to the end of our lovely evening, so I called for the bill. While taking out the money from my bumbag, I glanced down at the very pretty tiled floor. Oddly, underneath the table and all around us, was a great pool of clear, pale yellow water with a strangely reminiscent odour. I said to my wife, ‘I wonder where on earth all this water...' I didn't finish the question, we just looked at each other and froze. Simultaneously, we knew. Oh God! I slammed down a wad of money, and we fled. We didn't stop fleeing for five minutes. Crashing up and down curbs, racing across streets without looking either way, until we were both sagging from lack of breath. If they'd cared to follow, we wouldn't have been hard to find. A trail of slightly pungent liquid which was now beginning to form another pool led directly to the open tap of the bag on my left leg. I hope to goodness, the wad of money slammed on the table, adequately compensated for the awfulness I'd left behind, and I can now only apologise profusely.

A taxi deposited us at the collection point. It wasn't long before a deep, dense brown, bright new, gleaming, Mercedes 300 D, purred into view and stopped directly in front of us. Suddenly, there it was, majestically awaiting its owners. The driver, with an air of bored nonchalance quickly showed us about the car, as though it were something people did every day. He was right, of course, not only did people do it every day, as far as he was concerned, they did it every hour of every day. As he threw us the keys while walking away, he said over his shoulder, ‘And read the manual before you leave.' Read the manual before you leave, it takes two years to read a manual.

We were alone with our beautiful new car. I slowly wheeled around it just looking at it. Odd, when you come to think of it, an inanimate lump of metal, but for most of us, buying a new car, is one of the major investments of our lifetime. We opened our doors with the softest, almost soundless of pulls, and slowly climbed in. The indescribable smell of new leather upholstery is, well, indescribable, it's like no other, it is simply ‘plush'. It wasn't for another forty years, when our Dear Uncle Peter, five years before he died, said, ‘I'd like you to have the pleasure of smelling the interior of a brand-new car again,' So he bought us a sparkling new VW Passat estate with beige leather upholstery and a walnut dashboard. We sat together in the new car, inhaled, then laughed out loud. There wasn't any point in explaining the joke to the mystified salesman. An expensive joke!

Sitting behind the wheel of this glorious new car produced the same reaction as it did, all those years later with Uncle Peter in the sparkling Passat. We looked at each other and laughed out loud. The pleasure of driving in this faultlessly designed machine, lasted for seventeen, totally trouble free years, covering more than two hundred and fifty thousand miles.

One of the many banes of a paraplegic's life is how to prevent a pressure sore forming, on your bum, from sitting too long in one position. We'd been taught to raise ourselves, by pushing down on the chair's arm-pads, once every ten minutes, and to stay raised for ten seconds. That's all very well in theory, but in practice, it's not really feasible.

In those days, cushions weren't designed as they are today. Then, what was thought to be the best, was thick sheepskin over a softish piece of foam. Sounds ideal, so that's what I had. However, if you don't do your lifting, you'll more than likely get a red patch at the end of the sacral bone, in the middle of each skeletal bum cheek. If a red patch isn't immediately acted upon, by not sitting on it, it could take up to six months of lying on your stomach for it to heal.

By the end of the first day, even though we'd frequently stopped for a ten-second lift, I had a dangerous red patch at the end of the sacral bone on my right bum cheek. If it didn't soften from angry red to a pale pink, within an hour, you have a problem. ‘Ground control, we have a problem.' It still hadn't gone by the morning. Fortunately, my little wife had her driving licence with her, foreseeing such a problem. She took over the driving for the second day while I lay flat, with the back of the passenger seat down, my body rolled to the left to take all pressure off that dangerous red patch. She wasn't used to driving on the wrong side of the road in the right side of the car! So we made slow progress. She did however, enjoy the power and lightness of this beautifully designed machine as much as I did. She drove it frequently when we lived in the East End of London in our extraordinary Warehouse on the River, and there after.

It didn't matter in the slightest making such slow progress, we might as well have taken forever. Our second night stop was memorable for all the wrong reasons. The little hotel had a ground floor room in a very pretty little village, I don't remember where, on the edge of a wandering stream. The menu sounded delicious and a carafe of red wine would go down a treat. The red patch had thankfully started to fade so I'd probably be free to drive the following morning.

Before supper we both thought it would be very luxurious to have a lovely hot bath in the deep, roll topped bath invitingly awaiting. Generally, we shared the same water, my wife would get in first because she liked it very hot, then I'd get in after her when the water had cooled sufficiently for me. A habit left over from my childhood in the Kedong Valley, due to the scarcity of hot water. Tonight though, I said, ‘I'll get in first, you can top it up with hot water if you need to.' One of the many things I was taught by my pretty blonde physiotherapist Sally, at Stoke Mandeville hospital, was to be able to get in and out of almost any bath. The most difficult is a sunken bath. How on earth do you get, from the bottom of a sunken bath, a foot below ground level, back into your chair? I can't tell you but I still, after forty years in a wheelchair, manage, if necessary, due entirely to Sally's teaching.

I ran the hot water and took off my clothes. That's not as easy as it sounds. To take off your clothes while sitting in them, and only moving your legs by picking them up, was again, taught to me by Sally. But it does take longer than just, ‘taking off your clothes'. I returned to the bath naked. It was more than half full. I cannot think why, but I didn't test the water before starting to get in. I faced the bath, on the side, about halfway down, with the taps on the right. I picked up my left leg and placed the foot into the water. I couldn't feel anything, but I noticed it suddenly turned a peculiar colour and the skin was bubbling. I put my hand in the water. Oh God, it was scalding, it might as well have been boiling. Even my fingers, in that mini second, were burnt. I hauled my foot out, but it was too late. The whole foot was a bubbling, sulphurous mass of half cooked meat. I almost fainted at the sight if it. I nearly fell out of the chair, saving myself in the nick of time. My wife immediately knew something was wrong. She came running naked into the bathroom. She took one look at my foot, and sank to her knees with a gasp of horror, holding her face in her hands, ‘Oh no, Oh no, we must put it under the cold tap.' That was easier said than done. I had to manoeuvre the chair to be nearer the taps. I had put my legs down on to the footplates before I could move the chair. It was impossible to lower the level of the water, the plug didn't have a chain. I finally reached the cold water tap and ran the water over the foot. There was nothing else to do. My wife couldn't say anything. Her face was drained of colour. She dressed as quickly as she could, and flew from the room. At the front desk, they realised there was an emergency and she needed a doctor. Quite soon, considering, the doctor arrived on a Vesper scooter. He took one look at my foot, “Oh Mon Dieu,” His first reaction was that I could feel it, and put his hand on my forehead to comfort me. He knew exactly what to do for the foot. He hurriedly wrote a prescription and somehow explained it was for a cream that must be applied every two hours for the next two days. The chemist was closed, but he rang them and explained the dire necessity. The chemist wasn't in walking distance. My poor little wife had to drive our brand-new beast, into an unknown village, in the dark, find the chemist, who expected her, get the cream and find her way back to the hotel.