We all know the world is ever flooding with an abundance of nob ends. You know, those compete shits who ruin shopping by barging through crowds with their zombie like ignorance. Cretins who walk along with their “yoof” music blaring out of their phones rather than using headphones. Spleens who wait indefinitely to cross a busy road without pressing the button on the crossing, then step out anyway, doing that half hearted attempt at running then immediately slowing to a walk. And middle aged ditsy female drivers in too much of a rush to consider looking both ways before pulling out at a mini roundabout and colliding into ME!!
Yes, I have been involved in an RTA. And been right royally fucked up as a result! Knocked off my push bike, leading to a double fracture to my left wrist, (I’m left handed) that has since been operated on and some metal fused to my skeleton for the rest of my days like a budget Robocop. It’s put me right out of wack for a couple of months, and my wife’s patience ran out the second she realised I could do nowt to help with the baby.
Before I go on, I need to address the sentence “knocked off my push bike”. I agree with your gut reaction to reading that. Yes, cyclists generally deserve to be run over, the spandex wearing arse jiggling self important tossers. Yes I was cycling, but I do not consider myself a cyclist. I cycle to work out of necessity not choice. We simply can’t afford a second vehicle in our household. I am the unwilling cyclist. Refusing to wave back as i pass other self-righteous cyclers who think we have some sort of unwritten bond. Even after three years of reluctantly and resentfully hauling myself to and from work, I still refuse to accept that I’m one of them. I don’t have a road bike, which apparently I should. I wear no spandex, just old combats and a jumper from Next. I have no fancy kit at all, and my bike constantly looks like the one Neil recovers from his bath in The Young Ones. I have no pride in it, nor concerns that I look more like I stole it than own it. My knowledge of bikes peaks at talk of spokey-dokeys. Yes I have lights a helmet and a fluorescent coat, I’m belligerent but not stupid. But my helmet is cheap and plain, as opposed to the smooth pointy ones worn by ‘proper’ cyclists to shave one tenth of a second off the time they should be spending with their kids.
My bike was the cheapest one in the shop, and even then I was resentful. I was such a noob in the cycle society, the bloke in the shop couldn’t comprehend my (admittedly over the top) outrage that more expensive bikes come without pedals! WITHOUT PEDALS!! How exactly is that a bike??!! Surely its an inanimate object without its method of propulsion??? Cars come with engines don’t they? That’s like buying dinner at a restaurant but plates aren’t included in the price. Or going for a Thai massage and not getting wanked off at the end.
Anyways, my accident. I was in autopilot mode as I approached the mini roundabout a hundred yards from my home, just as I had done most days for the past three years. I was looking forward to seeing my two spawn after another demoralising day of policing the human bacteria that mess things up for nice folk. When before I know it, I’m being accelerated at by a white BMW which pulverizes me. Not at any great speed, but enough to hurtle me to the tarmac in a heap, and obliterate the bone in my wrist. The driver comes out, already crying, and says to me “sorry I just didn’t see you!” To which I uncharacteristically reply from the floor “maybe you should have been fucking looking then!”. Probably why she then chose not to help me up and instead stands in the middle of the road sobbing all pathetically like a human cliché.
As people generally say, initially I didn’t feel any pain but knew something was up with my wrist by its new ‘z’ shaped design. My hand was now about an inch above where my wrist ended, but inexplicably still fully functioning, with all five of my digits still able to nimbly dance around my palm like the girls at that Thai massage place I mentioned above. Something I foolishly continued to show witnesses, police and paramedics, who all gave me advice I really should know, namely; “stop moving it you idiot!”
Whilst scattered in the road like a salt trucks load, (good rap lyrics that) I got a rare reminder that some genuinely nice, kind human beings can still survive in this crud world, as they helped me to my feet and off the tarmac, took me into their homes and called emergency services for me and babysat what remained of my bike. I also had a rather unusual reunion with one such Samaritan who I actually went to college with. Thank you Louise. A friendly face was just what I needed. Although your brutal honesty could have waited til the shock wore off when you reassuringly quipped “your wrist is completely fucked”
Then I had to make an awkward call to my anxiety addicted wife, as I try to down play the fact that I may never be able to finger her again, and try to make her think my Zoro wrist is just a bit of a bruise. Then a dizzy spell in an ambulance, a chat with a police officer who was clearly upset I wasn’t someone he knew so he could tell colleagues about my accident, and i was off to A & E, a place I visit in a working capacity on a weekly basis.
Following an Ill thought out text to my parents, (a picture of my arm strapped in a massive great yellow box so I looked like I had been fused with Bumblebee, along with the word “whoops!”) I manage to get them both unnecessarily worried and my dear old Pops comes to keep me company so I’m not sat up there on my own.
X-ray, plaster cast, then on your bike. Pun intended. Then a fortnight working out how to do things with your remaining weaker hand. Like taking a piss. Getting dressed. Making a drink. Washing. Trying to play with your children…. And putting up with every single person you meet making an utterly predictable joke about waking! “hurt yourself waking too much did you?” “does it feel like someone else doing it now?” Uugh. Honestly, if you weren’t my friends and family I would seagull you in the fucking eyes! It wasn’t all bad though. Being mowed down and potentially crippled for life got me my first hand job off the wife in about three years! Man I love me a pity wank! Maybe if I lost an arm she’d suck me off?
Two weeks pass and I’m told an operation will be needed as its not healing right. So operation time!! One that required general anesthetic, which controversially, I was quite looking forward to. Having a nine month old daughter who screams her gorgeous little fucking head off fifteen times a night, I was relishing the opportunity for some unbroken sleep! So, bone re-pummeled, wrist torn open, and eight screws and a metal plate later, I’m a proper shit wolverine! If the police force undertook a bionic man trial to change the face of policing for the better, I would be the outcome.
My appendage did not appreciate this relentless trauma, and post surgery my left hand swelled up to ridiculous proportions. It was like having one of them big foam hands the audience have in gladiators. I was Edward Penishands. (google it). It made my ‘normal’ hand look like a Beadle-hand in comparison! (google it) My hand throbbed and pulsed with every beat of my heart and constantly felt like I’d just come into the warm after building a snowman for the last half hour without gloves. The slightest tap or wrong movement caused such a wash of pain it frequently put me to the floor. It was a tough couple of weeks. And worse still, the waking jokes went on. Every. Single. Person.
It’s only really stopped giving me jip now, two months later. The mobility is still just marginally better than Steven Hawkins, but its getting there. All in all, it’s been an eventful couple of months. Obviously I couldn’t be at work, so most of it was spent at home with my family. From that perspective, it’s been amazing! When else in your life are you going get six weeks of doing nothing but spend time with your young’ens? And over Christmas too! From that angle, I will cherish this ‘bad’ event in my existence. It’s still playing on my mind that I’ve only got about 50% movement in it, but its not affected my main worry throughout; my ability to wind down and forget I exist on the ‘ol Xbox. I was still able to complete Rise of the Tomb Raider, and get a good portion of the way through Arkham Knight, so all in all I am more relieved than when I was at that Thai massage parlour.
I’m left with a tidy little scar which resembles a teenagers snatch. And a doctors guarantee that this wrist will suffer with arthritis in the future. Clearly I’m going to be going through the insurance and at least get a holiday out of it all. But its not been life changing. I’ve not started embracing every moment as if it was my last. If anything I’m even more laid back. Shit happens, as they say. Could have been worse. At least I’m not dead.
And yes, for a couple of days after the operation, it did feel like someone else was doing it!