On September 18, my life literally came to a crashing standstill when I fell off my mountain-bike while going for a ride after work. I wish I could say I was doing a high-speed, 720 degree twisting backflip at the time but unfortunately, the circumstances were rather more mundane. I was riding along a log, lost my balance and fell off. Quite literally, it was as easy as falling off a log. This might not have been such a problem if I hadn’t then selected the wrong option upon landing. Instead of landing in the soft sandy soil of the trail, I chose to land on another log lying directly alongside the trail. Physics was never my strong point at school, but on this occasion, irresistible force plus immovable objected equaled a broken wrist.

Such is the punishment for trying to get a bit of exercise. If I’d just stayed on the couch watching TV and eating cake, I could have avoided all the unpleasantness. I ended up staying two nights in hospital on two occasions, the first when I required surgery to repair the bones and ligaments I’d wrecked in my fall, and the second two weeks later when one of the three wires holding my wrist bones together became infected and I had to go under the knife again to have it removed. I’ve got a third stay to look forward to in about a month’s time when my cast comes off and I’ll have the remaining two wires removed as well.

Hospitals have never been my favourite places and I do my best to avoid them. It’s been twenty-six years since my last major injury (dislocated shoulder — again as a result of falling off a mountain-bike) and this was the first time I’ve ever had to stay overnight as a patient, the first time I’ve ever experienced the brain-addling weirdness of going under and waking up from a general anaesthetic. Despite the pain and the discomfort and the meds, I was still clear-headed enough to realise I had much to be thankful for.

Firstly, on both occasions, I shared a room with three other men and on both occasions, despite the severity of my injury, I was the healthiest person in the room. Joint infections, diabetic complications, an amputated finger — an assortment of woes from patients who were in their beds when I was admitted and were still there when I was discharged. When you’re in danger of drowning in your sorrows, it helps to remember there’s always someone else worse off than you.

Secondly, I was thankful for the standard of my care. People like to complain about the public health service in New Zealand and certainly, it has its issues, but I felt I was looked after pretty bloody well. Hospitals are busy places and not much seems to happen in a hurry, but I was treated with compassion and competence by every staff member I interacted with and I don’t know whether you can ask for much more than that. The nurses especially were fantastic, and I’d like to give a shout-out to any nurses out there — you do such an important job.

Anyway, apart from the hiccup with the wire infection, my recovery is progressing smoothly. Being one-armed is uncomfortable and frustrating and surprisingly exhausting — it’s not an experience I want to repeat ever again. Which could be a challenge, since it won’t stop me from getting back on my bike once I’ve recovered. Even now, writing this with the sun rising to the dawn chorus of birdsong, I’m thinking it’s going to be a lovely day, the kind of day that would be just perfect for a bike ride.

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