The World I Fell Out Of. Andrew Marr

paralysed thighs would never part. A brief wave of insight and intense loss washed over me. I can be that precise: in a few seconds, in that maelstrom of noise, my sexual identity died. Lust is only one letter removed from lost.

      The crew of the Sea King from HMS Gannet, based at Prestwick, treated me as an emergency, aware that with a high spinal injury I could easily lose the power to breathe. The pilot requested a direct route and air traffic control temporarily cleared our path of commercial aircraft so that the helicopter could fly straight to the hospital. In those days, before the Southern General was rebuilt into a high-rise city, the helicopter pad was on the ground, just next to A&E. I remember being transferred to a trolley, remember trying to be polite and thank the RAF crew as they wheeled me away. Already, by then, there was the sense of detachment. This is just too bad; it can’t be happening to me, and I felt weary.

      Things got a bit blurry after that. Time and cognitive slippage. Apart from everything else, it’s very hard to discern what’s happening when all you can see is a very small patch of ceiling. There was a warm, pretty female doctor in A&E who bent down to my ear and told me: ‘You’re going into resus now – it’s going to be very noisy, lots happening, but don’t worry,’ and I clung to her words and her humanity. She had blue eyes and blonde curls. A feeling of almost unbearable loneliness was settling upon me with the knowledge that I was absolutely on my own in this. Only in my brain was there sanctuary.

      Snippets only thereafter, those dreadful hours, as shock and morphine kicked in. I was struggling with the unfairness of it; I couldn’t believe what had actually happened. Good Friday, it was; how inappropriate was that; and I’d taken the day off work to take part in the cross-country instruction. At some point my poor husband appeared at my bedside, his handsome, ever-optimistic face crushed with shock. Already, I think, he knew more than I did. At one point I remember being slid into an MRI scanner, immobile, staring at the plastic tube wall just a couple of inches above my face. White noise, claustrophobia: the very stillness made my ears boil. I was utterly passive; all will was gone; I no longer had a body. Is this what it feels like, I thought, losing everything?

      It was in the scanner, though, that I had an epiphany. So weird was this experience, so unimaginable was it, at the cutting edge of catastrophe, immured like a mummy in a high-tech tube, that I suddenly thought – I’ve got to tell people about this, I’ve got to write about it. It’s just so interesting. Who knew? On reflection, that point of deliberate detachment from myself was hugely important. It was self-preservation: a way of ensuring I kept control of my emotions. Steel shutters were clanging down in my head: I dared not even think about my son, just emerging from his teenage years, or of my sorry future. But I could safely bear witness and carry on writing in my head. A correspondent from a hidden war.

      Another fragment of memory. A consultant came to talk to us. He was an orthopaedic surgeon, the director of the spinal unit. He placed one fist on top of the other, upwards, in a tower, like the playground game one-potato-two-potatoes, little fingers of one hand resting on the clenched thumb of the other. ‘Horses, eh?’ he said. ‘Used to keep them myself. Dangerous things.’ He seemed almost cheerful, as if I was more satisfying than a road accident. ‘You have fractured your spine at T12,’ he said, ‘but that’s not so important. You have broken your neck at C6; the two vertebrae have gone like this’ – he angled his fists, bending the tower in half, ‘and compressed the spinal cord on one side and stretched it on the other. That’s where the damage is.’

      ‘Is the cord severed?’ I asked.

      No, he said. And that was all I wanted to know. If it wasn’t severed then there was hope.

      What I didn’t know was that Dave had already been taken aside and gently told to prepare for me being in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. He was to go home, this proud, tough, man’s man, and spend the next two nights howling in despair and grief. Who can comfort anyone after news like that? And how can I ever escape the guilt of loading so much pain on him and on Douglas, my son – the two people who love me most in all the world? Even now, that is a kernel of grief which nestles at the centre of my being. I did this to me. But I did it to them too.

      While wider family life was in meltdown, the news rippling out, by contrast I was removed to a place of eerie, enforced calm. My first night of my new life was spent in the high dependency unit, doped to the eyeballs on opiates. ‘Serious but stable,’ said the bulletin released to my colleagues in the media. I would need a delicate operation to stabilise my neck, but my timing had been exquisitely inappropriate: just as I ploughed into the soil, Jesus was believed to be rising from the dead, everyone was on holiday, and no neurological spinal surgery would take place until Tuesday. In the meantime, with a spine unstable in two places, I must be kept totally immobile, nil by mouth, fighting nausea.

      The unit was a calm, bewildering, slow-motion cocoon. The room seemed soft round the edges, orangey in colour. I lay and stared at the dinner-plate bit of ceiling available to me, listening to a deranged woman nearby, raving in broad, angry Glaswegian. All I could move were my eyeballs. Hours passed without sleep, while my brain churned with despair. I was dimly aware, though, of a kind presence forever at my shoulder, stopping me from being alone, murmuring kind words. Early in the morning, before I was transferred to the spinal unit, someone – I presumed the same nurse – spoke. ‘When you’re better, come back and see me. My name is Bridget,’ she said. The words strung themselves into a banner in my head, as fragile and as sturdy as Tibetan prayer flags. I grasped them as a lifeline. In the apricot dark, she had given me the gift of human company, connection, hope, a future. One day I would go back. It was the first positive thought I had had.

      Years later, by sheer chance, I found Bridget. Who was in fact called Brenda, and it was her co-worker Kate who had sat at my shoulder all night. Morphine turns many nurses, in the perception of their patients, into the Angel of Mons, and many more, unfairly, into Nurse Ratched; but these women were special. What continues to astonish me is that they remembered me amongst the thousands of smashed-up bodies they see in a major trauma hospital.

      ‘You were a fairly unusual case for us,’ Kate told me. ‘You were covered in mud from your fall. But what I remember was the way you lay awake all night, just looking at the ceiling. I could see your mind turning over and over. And I remember desperately wishing I could do something to put it right, to turn back the clock for you …’ her voice trailed off ‘… but all I could do was sit beside you sponging your mouth. We washed the mud off you in the morning. And I’ve often thought about you since, wondered what happened to you.’

      As I have wondered myself.

      CHAPTER TWO

       Put Your Finger in the Crow’s Nest

      The Warden owns the shade.

      LOUIS SACHAR, HOLES

      An apricot-coloured world, shading to russet, was actually rather an intriguing place to inhabit. You don’t sleep, when you’re on morphine, you just travel to strange places behind your eyelids, restless journeys through an orange landscape, journeys which leave you exhausted and confused. At night, I frequently found myself at the bottom of a cave, looking up like a potholer at rock faces which were clad with thick, hand-knitted russet wool – chunky cable-stitch, knitted on a giant’s great big fat knitting needles, as if to give you hand-holds when you climbed, but I didn’t need them because I was on some kind of cherry-picker, floating effortlessly up, up, up, exploring the openings and ledges on the woolly surface. Close to, I leant in and examined the texture, the thick twists of cable stitch. Up, up, I go, high into the stifling dark of orange woolliness.

      That was one of the nicer destinations to which morphine took me. Other times, when it was daylight, and I was gazing at the ceiling tiles in the ward, I saw crude graffiti had been scratched. Evil messages to me. I caught the words subliminally. Fuck off, it said. But when I trailed my eyes slowly back to look more closely, the words had disappeared. Sometimes the tiles lifted at the edges, and I saw eyes peering down at me – sometimes