Bleeding, bruised and bandaged: The fall and rise of The Wise(ish) Man
Readers of the Parkinality column might have noticed the recent addition of a laser and metronome to The Wise(ish) Man’s mobility walker.
You also might have noticed the occasional whispered heated exchange between The Wise(ish) Man and me when negotiating the unnecessarily undulating pavements of Bishop’s Stortford.
Firstly, I would like to quash any rumours that we will be starring in a musical adaptation of a sci-fi drama. The laser and metronome are not for us to perform a lightsaber joust whilst dancing the American smooth, they are to assist The Wise(ish) Man with his mobility. The metronome encourages walking to the beat and the laser is used as a cue to step over the line when he freezes.
The occasional heated exchanges are due to what The Wise(ish) Man would call ‘fussing’ but I would call ‘damage limitation’. Allow me to explain.
If the musical sci-fi drama were ever to become a reality, then events of the other week have established that The Wise(ish) Man is many things, but he is not a stuntman. A stuntman wouldn’t have endured such a bad head injury when he performed an impressive fall in the high street.
The first I heard of the accident was a telephone call from a friend who had stopped to help, with the words I dreaded: “He’s had a fall.” Ironically, my last words to him when I waved him off in a taxi had been: “Don’t fall over.”
[A brief aside. Question: What’s the difference between “he’s fallen over” and “he’s had a fall”? Answer: About 68 years.]
The shock of the phone call made me (literally) jump into action. I rushed around, filling a bag with random objects for the anticipated trip to A&E. However, after my initial burst of energy, stress was causing symptoms to break through and me to switch off. I needed my daughters’ help to sort things out and get to The Wise(ish) Man.
I found him in a wheelchair, bandaged, bleeding and bruised, surrounded by people who had kindly stopped to help. An ambulance was quick to appear and we were soon in the capable care of the A&E department at Princess Alexandra Hospital in Harlow. The Wise(ish) Man was scanned, stitched and sent home with a course of antibiotics. Surprisingly, he hadn’t broken anything, apart from his glasses and mobility walker.
The Wise(ish) Man never ceases to amaze me with his optimism and good humour. He continued to tell jokes, most unpublishable before the watershed, from the second the accident happened, in the ambulance and at A&E.
We would like to thank the staff at PAH for their excellent and efficient care, and two of my daughters for their help and patience in dealing with their erratic mother.
On discharge from hospital, the staff were keen to establish that we were safe in our home. Coincidentally, we had already spoken to our GP, who had referred us to the occupational health team within adult social care. They had visited us at home to establish how we cope with our daily lives, from sunrise to sunset and through the night. We have now been loaned equipment to improve our daily lives with the aim of making our everyday routines safer.
If you feel you would benefit from advice about safety and help around the home, readers would need to check with their own adult social care department about what is available in your area.
In my bright and breezy youth, I hadn’t imagined at the age of 56 needing help from social services or claiming disability benefits. Nor did I imagine becoming both a carer and a caree.
It is tempting not to accept help, to be stubborn and say ‘I am fine’ and ‘We can cope’. However, The Wise(ish) Man’s fall has given us a wake-up call that life can change in an instant.
Rest assured, we are still going out – it just takes even more equipment, organisation and help from others. Depending on the challenges Parkinson’s disease throws at us each day, it can take us all day to get ready.
We must continue to get out for our own mental and physical wellbeing and to stop me driving The Wise(ish) Man round the twist.
