At the heart of concussion is…

Cuss

So I”m going to:

Fu<k    Fu<k     Fu<k    Fu<k   And bugger too.

Yes I have concussion. It’s really not much fun. That’s why I’m cussing.

 

I got a serious knock on the side of the head last week, and felt ok but a bit tender afterwards. As the days went on the periods of feeling ok interspersed with mild seasickness, inverted. Instead I started feeling crap with periods of feeling ok, and on Sunday had to attend the A&E Dept. in the local hospital for an examination. Concussion was the diagnosis.

It didn’t get any better on Monday as the bruising appeared on my temple. It was less good on Tuesday and Wednesday, and yesterday I felt really bad with waves of nausea and emotion washing over me. That was the ok part. The worst bit was the boa-constrictor that was wrapped around the outside of my head squeezing, very very tightly, whilst what I’m sure was a rhino trampled around inside, and tried very clumsily to poke its horn through my skull.  I took the dog for a walk down the field to get some air and see if I could shake off my tormentors. The barley is gone so its just stubble now. But it was foggy. Coming and going in clouds, often very very foggy. Inside my head and outside. Which didn’t help the nausea. If any of you ski and have done so in a white-out you’ll understand what I mean. Totally disorienting.

 

 

I went home and lay down but the feeling was quite distressing and I had to get a neighbour to help me, and I ended up back in hospital. This time I got a brain scan. Thankfully it shows “nothing of any concern” so the diagnosis is that the concussion is more severe than at first thought.

Hospital was surreal. I was put at the end of a corridor beside a fellow wearing full camouflage gear who’d severely twisted his ankle whilst grouse-beating on the moors, but I was just around a corner. I could hear the conversations between the nurses at the desk further along, out of sight of me, but who were in line of vision to the camo-guy.

Nurse 1 “So where’s the fellow with the head injury?”

Nurse 2 “Just up there in the seating area”

Nurse 1 “Why has he got his sock and shoe off then?”

Nurse 2 “He’s not, he’s wearing a gown”

Nurse 1 “The chap wearing the camouflage clothes, is he the one, with the bare foot?”

Nurse 2 “No, no, its NOT the one in camouflage, it’s the fellow you can’t see, round the corner.” Not noticing the irony of her remark.

So she came and found me, and wheeled me to the x-ray dept. “How long have you been doing this?” I asked. “Oh more than 23 years, and I’m retiring soon.” I said “Oh nice, I’m glad you know your way around here, this is very confusing” She laughed. Meanwhile I was becoming aware of something that was trying to get out of my skull, scratching on the inside frantically, and occasionally moving down my cheek to try my ear. Rather disconcerting. I was picturing something like a pangolin for some strange reason. All claws and snouty.

Our arrival in x-ray wasn’t greeted cordially. We were in the wrong place, as “imprecise instructions have been given” so we backtracked to the CT-scanner room, where we should have been. Scan made and I was back out.

After getting the results my partner and I walked back to the car. In the front row of the huge carpark, there was one obvious empty space with executive cars on either side, Mercs and BMW’s, and in the empty space was a dead blackbird, lying with its head on one wing. Almost like it was sleeping. I remember stopping and staring and wondering if it was too dark for a picture (it was) and thinking “…hmm another few metres and you might have been safe…” although I’m sure that was just wishful thinking.

 

 

The drive home was weird as we ran straight into a road traffic accident, and were right in front of the line of stalled cars, halted by a concerned pedestrian who’d taken on impromptu traffic duties and was trying to catch approaching drivers attention whilst wearing dark clothes on a dark night in drizzly rain. The casualty was across on the right side of the road being tended to by paramedics as the ambulance came steaming up behind us blue lights flashing. The car from which the casualty had been removed was on our left. It had been a beautifully restored Mini Cooper, maybe 40 years old, alloy wheels, stainless exhaust and leather interior, its outside covered in lustrous paint. It was folded. Its roof was buckled and the door was origami. We’d to do a detour of several miles to get home.

All around were fireworks exploding as it was Guy Fawkes Night. We picked up our son William from our friend’s house; their son is his pal in Primary 3 and they’d very kindly collected him from school and fed and entertained him. William was desperate to let off a few fireworks so despite the rain I said we’d fire off a couple but as daddy is not feeling well it would have to be quick, and as it was wet we could keep the rest for a dry night.

He was happy with that compromise, but thought the ground fireworks duration was too short and a bit of an anticlimax given their bulk. But he really loved the extra long sparklers which he got all gloved-up to wave about with real vigour.

“Look daddy LOOK! I can write my name with the sparkler…william…!”

And there in front of me in the darkness he did so…    ‘mailliw’  …in large glowing letters.