Ambulance
Most of the 40,000 or so words I’ve written so far have covered events about which I can now laugh. In truth, though, very few situations were funny at the time, and some still aren’t. I have to deal with the accident’s effect, all day, every day. I won’t go into detail, but my strength and range of motion are massively reduced, with a corresponding decrease in independence, and I’m barely able to speak; I can say, without exaggeration, that everyday life is a constant struggle. The fact that, in addition to all that, I’m writing a book, suggests either I’m extremely stupid and masochistic or I fucking rule.
Here’s a short passage where I address one of the bleaker moments. I was in transit from my first hospital (close to the accident scene) to one nearer my home.
It’s quiet in the back and we’re rolling calmly along some motorway or other. Not much to see from where I’m lying. Sodium lights recede; an occasional sliding flare hints at other vehicles overtaking. We enter an unlit section and in the window there’s just night and a shape. A dark lump with a few familiar features; it takes a while to come together, but eventually I’m looking at myself, tucked in under a green blanket and an easy-clean sheet. Gently lit by some on-standby diagnostic equipment, on a stretcher, in an ambulance, unable to move or speak. Fucking Christ. I vomit acidic liquid onto the green blanket.
