Driving Out The Demons — The Fear of Driving

Once upon a time I bounced VW camper vans and white Subarus across rock strewn, occasionally goat strewn, desert roads in the remoter areas of the Middle East. Alongside teams of archaeologists I erected field darkrooms and scaffolding towers and measured, drew and photographed artefacts, bones and trenches. Occasionally, I hung out of aeroplanes and rode motorbikes in pursuit of photography. I was very young, but living my dream, and I loved it.

Ten years later, I was a ‘trailing spouse’ in expat terms ferrying a family of five around Europe in people carriers, Rentavans and an original purple Twingo with psychedelic seats. We were a skiing, riding, cycling and very fortunate family.

I had spent most of my working and married life living abroad, scrambling around Europe and the Middle East, living what is usually described in obituaries as "a full and active life."

A New Millennium and the Future was Bright

The world had just entered the new Millennium and we were living in a small town in the Rhineland, surrounded by mountains. I was fit and agile, and one January afternoon, the dog and I set out for our customary run.

The ice and snow had already lain for weeks and it gave me such joy to see how the deep crimson light of that winter’s day drenched the hillside where I was sweating my way up a steep footpath.

As I slipped and fell I knew exactly when my spinal cord met rock. I had experienced some trouble with a disc during our last house–move and when my legs skidded out from under me, I thought, ‘Damn! A disc has gone.’

The Pain Exploded Somewhere Around my Bladder,
and my Legs Dropped into Oblivion

I knew something catastrophic had happened, but at that stage I had not a clue of the consequnces. Time became a blur of white lights, morphine nightmares, pain like I have never known before and all accompanied by the echoey sound of the loudly efficient German doctors.

There were stainless steel apparatus, instruments and other unspeakable things stuck into unspeakable places, and all the time I was feeling so very lost and afraid. A spinal cord injury means pain, frustration, sleeplessness and incontinence, however pristine the surroundings.

Three months passed in clean white rooms surrounded by clean white uniforms and clean white mountains. However, and although my German was better than ‘Eine bier, bitte,’ it was nowhere near able to announce, "I’m about to throw up in your lap and I can’t cough." Throughout that time, and in that place, I locked away an ocean of fright and anger.

Back to the UK and I was Determined Life Was Going to be Good

When it was finally agreed we would move back to the UK we bought a house, found the children day schools and I accustomed myself to my manual wheelchair and a punishing routine of physio. I was determined that this new life could be good; it had to be. However, there were frequent admissions to hospital, constant nagging pain, fatigue and an almost obsessive need to find anything, however off the wall, which might ‘cure’ me.

One Sunday lunch time my speech and my left arm turned to fuzz. At first it was thought to be a stroke, but turned out to be aggressive onset Multiple Sclerosis. More hospitals, more treatments and even more multiple Multidisciplinary Teams.

I Tried to Live a ‘Normal’ Life

I’m ashamed to admit I even tried to drive for a while, steering with one strong hand and pushing my stronger leg onto the foot pedals with the weak hand.

When I ran into the back of a BMW merging onto a dual carriageway I gave up my car. Thankfully, no one was hurt or prosecuted. With hindsight I realised the reason for my irrational behaviour was that of trying to protect myself as a person, my children and my marriage from being blown apart by the reality of the cards life had dealt me. Unfortunately, only the first two survived, eventually.

Over the Two Years that Followed I Had a Very Bad Time.

Initially, sheer fury carried me through rebuilding a home and the lives of three emotionally distraught teenagers. I fought battle after battle, refusing to allow my damaged body get in the way of the needs of my children, always putting their welfare first, but never my own. Then one morning I woke up totally unable to function and was readmitted to the rehab unit, diagnosed as being affected by Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Those were dark times with days and nights filled with nightmares and flashbacks. It was a period of incoherence, but eventually the immediate hell I was experiencing subsided and I began to pick up my life again.

The after effects of this episode were that my confidence had taken a huge knock and each day felt like attempting a black run. Again, driving myself forward I made myself take on new challenges and lead an independent life, as well as being a strong parent for my now student age children. My public face was that of courageousness and energy. When I was on my own, I spent a lot of time grieving over all that I had lost in my life, including the ability to drive.

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