Chapter 31

It turns out that your body does strange things after a few weeks unconscious in bed. Orderlies had been heaving my body side to side a few times a day and jacking me up with pillows to avoid bedsores, but I had still ended up with swathes of light purple bruising on my back and thighs from where capillaries had burst under the weight of my blood pooling there during the first week.

It also turns out that most people will lose ten percent of their muscle mass after two weeks in bed, which causes the heart’s pumping capacity to drop accordingly as there’s not as much meat to oxygenate. Of course, I wasn’t most people - my body was used to regular strenuous workouts and being pushed to the limit, and my metabolism ran like a runaway freight train at the best of times. Even taking this into consideration, the nutrition the hospital had been pumping into me hadn’t been as effective as the thousands of calories I consumed daily. Later we estimated I had lost close to twenty percent of my lean mass as my body cannibalised itself to make up the loss of fuel.

If the removal of the urinary catheter is supposed to be the easy half of the whole operation, I was supremely glad I was asleep when it was installed. This procedure had taken place after Dr Veit had made early morning rounds and waved off my request for food. He explained that they wanted to be sure I had some mobility before letting me begin eating again. If I was going to be in bed for longer, my digestive system didn’t need any surprises. Catheters only work for number ones. He promised me some bone broth at lunchtime if all went well.

Sitting up was a trip. Over the course of an hour, they gradually raised me until I was sitting pretty much straight up in the bed. The nurse explained that my body had to remember how to regulate blood pressure when the brain was elevated. It then took two orderlies and a physical therapist to help me get to sitting on the edge of the bed. I gripped the mattress whilst my head and stomach spun. I was glad that they hadn’t let me eat anything - it probably would have ended up sprayed over the floor and the physical therapist. She was an attractive brunette in her mid-thirties, but as with all rehabilitation professionals she ran a fine line between effective therapist and asexual sadist. Three hours after the whole thing began, I was standing upright with my feet on the ground for the first time since I had stepped up onto the blocks nineteen days earlier.

They helped me walk to the bathroom where I was allowed to sit on the toilet and urinate (success!), then one of the orderlies spotted me whilst I used the accessibility rails to get myself upright. He then helped me walk back out to the room where I was presented with a walking frame, replete with a rest seat. The therapist explained to me how to move with the frame and assigned me a brisk (hah!) walk around the square loop of corridor outside my room after each meal for the next few days. It took me thirty-five minutes with seven rest breaks the first time, but by the third day I was down to fifteen minutes with only one break. My joints were still stiff but hurt less as the days went on.

I had a brief phone call with Dr Gardener who assured me that my medical expenses were covered by team insurance. “You’re good until they declare you ‘fit to travel’. It may be that in a week they bundle you into a wheelchair and send you home via medical repatriation unless you’re up and around under your own steam. Trust Dr Veit. He is very well-regarded and at any rate, he has you doing all the same things you would be doing back home.”

My mother and father were still around, having cancelled the latter part of their European sojourn and extended their stay in Germany until I was well enough to travel home. They spent time with me at the hospital and accompanied me on my corridor walks. In between, more blood was taken along with a few muscle punch biopsies. Imagine someone stabbing you with a fat hollow knitting needle that cut a chunk of your arm or thigh or bum out. Dr Veit said it was less invasive than actually cutting in with a scalpel, but it was still horrible once the local anaesthetic wore off. I was also having an hour of therapeutic manipulation every morning and afternoon, pushing, pulling, and bending my limbs back through their range of motion. The trainers would have me push my arms and legs back against them, and although the sessions would leave me dripping in sweat, they told me I was making some progress.

The hospital food was surprisingly good. Over the course of a week, I was reintroduced to solid food. Lying in bed on intravenous nutrition had sent my gut into hiatus, so they began with clear soups, gradually adding in light vegetables and protein, finally introducing fruit and more fibrous foods. When the rehabilitation staff discovered I was in the middle of a sports science degree, they began to explain in more detail how they were treating me, and what the rationale behind each element of my recovery program was. I found it really interesting, and it made the whole process a lot more bearable.