It’s All Shits and Giggles until Someone Giggles and Shits

(10-minute read)

I woke in the middle of the road, twisted up with metal. My instinct was to check for oncoming traffic. The bus driver’s instinct was to call 999.

No cars were coming, so I wasn’t worried. I dragged myself calmly to the pavement without bothering to untangle my legs from my bike.

“…She’s come off her bike! It’s really bad! Her jaw is hanging off…”

Shit, I thought, performing a dazed mental scan of my body, is it really that bad? I needed a measured voice, so I called my partner. He arrived in two minutes flat, took a look at my face and the pool of blood collecting in my wind jacket, and made his assessment: “Fucking Hell”.

Okay, maybe it was bad.

He took over the phone call and talked with the emergency responders so that the frantic bus driver could get her school kids to class. They’d make up for their tardiness with gossip.

I needed the toilet.

“Can you wait ’til we get to the hospital? The ambulance will be here soon and they’re saying you shouldn’t move.”

“No, Nick. I’m going to shit myself. I cannot be the woman who shat herself in the middle of Ripponden.”

“She’s getting up, I can’t stop her.”

He helped me across the road towards a sweet looking terrace, and we picked 85 – the door that looked the most awake. A bewildered lady answered. She pulled her dressing gown tighter as her eyes fell on me.

“My partner’s had a bike accident, can we come in so she can use your bathroom?”

It was like some unholy rendition of the nativity story that replaced the donkey with a bike and the manger with a bog. The lady and her husband were very hospitable; they gestured across their cream carpet to a steep set of stone stairs. Ah. A quest.

Nick gripped the back of my jacket and I tried to avoid touching the white walls.

I made it down the stairs and shut the bathroom door before my poo-averse partner and two perfect strangers could follow me in. Sweet relief.

I now realise that the poor naïve couple might actually have been operating under the assumption I was there just to clean myself up a little. Sorry, 85.

The paramedics arrived and were relieved to find my jaw fully attached. By the time they’d stretchered me into the ambulance, it was all catching up with me. I couldn’t talk much – my jaw had taken a good knock and was totally stiff. My mouth tasted like blood and my cheek throbbed. I felt tired. I needed a hug. The first responder evidently sensed my need for tactile affection and slid his hands behind my neck.

“I’m not hugging you”, he said.

I smiled politely and accepted the embrace.

He was happy with my spine, so went on his way. The rest of us headed to hospital for the full works.

There were a few moments that morning that gained comedic value with retrospect: the delirious giggles I couldn’t contain as the doctor pushed my swollen face about; the pause the same doctor took to look at my battered knee before declaring, “That’s gonna hurt”; the missing half a tooth which decided to creep out from between my stitches in the middle of Tesco; my manager responding to the news with “So when will you be back in?” (sorry, ex-manager).

My body was in disrepair, but I knew it would heal. It always does. I didn’t know my brain would take so much longer.

That afternoon was filled with sleep, vomit, and fog. That night was spent in A&E.

Everything made me nauseous. My brain didn’t like light, movement, or noise. Nick brought me food and then went to Germany. I cried a lot. I felt broken.

I felt like I was 100 years old. For weeks I couldn’t read without feeling nauseous. Being up and about made me queasy. A few weeks in, we had friends over for dinner. It was awful. I was always a few steps behind. After an hour of trying to keep up, I went upstairs, threw up, sobbed, and slept.

That was the first month.

By the second month, I was mentally exhausted and very, very sad. I missed doing, well, anything. I couldn’t read, chat, watch Friends, scroll, headbob to RHCP, work, go outside, or listen to Something Rhymes with Purple. I felt lost, insecure, useless, and vulnerable. This was depression.

I’m the luckiest thing in the world to have had my partner. That was the hardest month of my life, and he got me through it. He called the crisis team who saved my life.

There’s a known link between concussions and depression; I use the word ‘known’ loosely. “Brains are weird”, the psychiatrist told me.

I envied those with sprains, lacerations, and broken bones. Those with time frames. Various medical professionals gave me the same apologetic look. No one knew how long it would take. Brains are weird.

Month two ended and I still couldn’t read more than a page of anything without feeling motion sick. I was maxing out on anti-nausea pills every day. I was tired all the time. I felt like I’d been hungover for weeks.

But I was now sending the odd text, making birthday cards, and wondering down to the kitchen for lunch. Sure, I’d have to sleep for the whole afternoon, but I could do it. And I could ‘watch’ Netflix with the sound on and the screen off. I wasn’t being sick anymore and I could recount the previous day chronologically with relative ease. Progress.

I was avoiding people. They’d ask me how I was, and I’d hate answering. Their surprise felt invalidating.

“I had no idea concussions could last this long!”

Me neither.

They’d let me know they could come over and we could take is really easy. “We’ll just watch TV or catch up over a cuppa!” They didn’t know how much they were asking of my tired little brain.

My partner and close family would congratulate me when I told them of my progress, but it felt embarrassing to be celebrating feats that four months ago I wouldn’t have thought twice about. Walking ten minutes up the road. A car journey without anti-nausea pills. Stretching. Writing an email.

I made the mistake of asking Google when the fuck I’d be better and was presented with countless stories of tediously long concussions. Six months. Two years. A decade.

Fuck.

Month three. Progression fed progression. One page turned into two. A little work here. A little walk there. A run. A dinner out. A gin and tonic. A day without a nap. Keeping up with conversation. Leaving the crisis team. Texting. Looking more than a day into the future.

Month four. I read a book! I met a deadline! I had drinks with friends and wasn’t the first to leave! Am I… getting better?

Month five. Yes. I am better.

I feel like myself. I don’t feel like a centenarian anymore.

My immune system is a little shaken up and my confidence has taken a hit. I haven’t been back on my bike yet. But I’m me. And I have so much gratitude. For the patience and compassion my partner had for me when I had none. For the NHS. For What the Cluck. For my body. For helmets. Without these things, I wouldn’t have made it to today.

I’m so glad to be here, trauma dumping on the internet. It feels cathartic. But that wasn’t this post’s only purpose. I wanted to spread the word – concussions suck! Wear a helmet; I’m alive because I did. I also wanted to remind us that little progressions add up, so we mustn’t be afraid to celebrate them. Self-compassion, information, and celebration are good enough reasons to publish a story about almost shitting my pants in the middle of my tiny hometown, right? Yikes, I hope so.