Day 1: The effect of the septicaemia after only five hours

I don’t know how much time had passed when Andrew walked in to find me there. He had had a meeting with a tutor which was cancelled so decided to come home as he had my car. Andrew would never normally come home for lunch. Lucky he did, as it would make a huge difference to have him there in ten minutes rather than two hours later as planned. He said I was delirious by this stage, saying random things which made no sense such as “When’s Dad’s birthday?” He rang Mum at work telling her to get home quick. They struggled to get me into the car and drove to our local doctor. I remember the doctor’s surgery quite clearly. My doctor near shit himself when they brought me in; it was there I first heard the word meningitis, not that it meant much to any of us. The symptoms, such as the rash, came on very quickly which is why people have been sent home in the early stages with headache tablets and failed to wake up etc. My doctor told me later if I was there an hour earlier he may have done the same, an hour later and it would have been too late. I can only thank Andrew’s Uni for cancelling that meeting.

Arrival at Lower Hutt Hospital

I was rushed to Hutt Hospital emergency in an ambulance and placed on a penicillin drip initially. I was conscious throughout this and remember Mum being there. She recalls me looking at the good-looking student nurses in the room so thought I couldn’t have been too bad. The doctors took a lumbar puncture sample from my spine, I was told later this was one of the more painful things they would do. I was on hardly any painkillers but didn’t feel a thing. Again I drifted off only to wake in a different place. By this stage I was convinced it was all a dream because I simply couldn’t gather my thoughts or concentrate for long enough to take anything in. Worst of all now, the room I was in was completely dark.

It was late in the evening when Mum and Dad came into the room. My Dad lived in Auckland at the time so it would have taken him at least three hours to get to Wellington. Again it made no sense as it felt like I was in that emergency room only two minutes before. I was still only hooked up to a penicillin drip with ‘suspected meningitis’.

My parents were both sent home that night after being told I should be okay and to come back in the morning. Both of them would tell you, looking back they don’t know how they left the hospital that night. They didn’t know what was about to happen and neither did the first doctors I saw.

At about 1am one of the hospital’s top doctors, Dr Logan, came in to check on me. I could hear him raising his voice outside my door before I fell back to sleep. I woke up with my parents by my side again, this time in an isolation room in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). This was becoming scary now, what the hell was going on? Perhaps it was lucky I had no energy and couldn’t collect my thoughts for long enough to be too worried about everything going on around me. My Mum still recalls getting that call at about 2am asking her to get back to the hospital as soon as possible. They explained I was very ill and may not make it through the night. It must be a terrible thing for any parent to go through… sorry Ma!!

ICU

 Weeks 1-2

 I remember being hooked up on drips, not being able to move my arms because of this and an array of technology at my bedside. It was a good 3 days before I started remembering things or even waking up. The nurses came and went and doctors kept a close eye on my progress. One of the first times I thought I was really ill was when my family came into my room with surgical masks on, not a good sight.

My family were there around the clock and it was interesting looking back how they dealt with all of this. Mum being naturally maternal was very keen to tell all my friends I was OK and looking better etc, Dad on the other hand wanted to know all the in and outs of the condition right from the start and would often come and fill me with technical jargon. It was interesting to see how people reacted in this situation. I will never forget these sorts of things; I was so lucky to have all my great friends and family there. The cards and gifts were now filling up the room but I wasn’t to see any visitors for at least a week. It was a strange place, staff were constantly there or thereabouts. I was hooked up to various monitors and when something happened and one of them bleeped there would be three nurses there within a minute. Massive amounts of antibiotics were being pumped through me at the time just to fight the meningitis, my blackening legs would have to wait until I was stable. My heart rate was crazy, up near 150 beats per minute for the first few days. My doctors were explaining to my parents how my body was effectively running a marathon every day just to pump blood around. I was exhausted all the time.  

I was receiving blood transfusions from the second day. The doctors were aware my blood was being poisoned rapidly from the meningitis developing into the rare and fast-spreading meningococcal septicaemia. This was basically the blood poisoning, which was already severely affecting my legs.

I can only recall the next couple of days from my hospital notes and what my family have since told me. Day 3 in ICU was a turning point, I woke in the early morning with my temperature climbing toward 40 degrees and a burning, itchy feeling over most of my body but mainly my legs. Dr Logan had explained to my parents they could do nothing more for me during the night and the next 24 hours would be touch and go. He said they had to ‘wait and see’ which was not a good thing to hear from one of the hospital’s most senior doctors. Over the next day or two all I remember was not being able to move at all, eating very little, and generally floating around the ceiling because of the amount of morphine I was on.

During the afternoons, the morphine must have worn off a bit as I always remember an orthopaedic surgeon by the name of Dr Ramapasi arriving. It was intense pain as he touched my knees and squeezed my legs “Does this hurt?” he would say – stupid bloody question, mate. Dad and I soon renamed him ‘Dr Rip-me–apart-ski’. This carried on for a week or so before he faded away to the wards like many of the staff I had supposedly met during this time. It was a few months after coming out of hospital that I remembered this particular doctor. I’m a firm believer that your mind blocks out a lot of bad things when you’re on the mend, and this was the case with him, I think. I was becoming terrified of these daily visits. I would dream about it and often wake up in a panic. I am not an anxious type of person but throughout my stay in hospital I would have nightmares about the everyday tasks which would cause pain. One such daily task was changing my linen. Because I couldn’t get out of the bed I was rolled to one side while the nurses made that side of the bed etc. At this stage to be moved like that was excruciatingly painful, I was getting bed sores by now after lying there for nearly a week, I was promised a bath soon and it was all I was thinking about, something to look forward to.

Day 2: The septicaemia (blood poisoning) initially affected most of my body

On a typical day in the ICU I would wake early in the morning with nurses taking tests and changing tubes etc. I was still drifting in and out of consciousness. I would remember Dad fussing about or Shelley talking for Africa at my bedside, maybe it was there I learned to switch off when she crapped on too much, actually no, I had mastered this years before, bless her. Dad was staying in the hospital at that time so he would cook in the morning and clean the pots about 300 times, again that was his way of dealing with it and I’ll never forget it.

By day 5 the doctors were confident I was over the worst of the meningitis virus but I still needed the odd blood transfusion and loads of morphine. ICU would be where I stayed for the next few days at least.  It felt like a big sleep in on a Saturday morning when the morphine kicked in, all I wanted to do and could do was sleep. After 10 days in ICU I was becoming more alert and the doctors were preparing to move me to the specialist plastic surgery ward to attend to my ever-worsening legs.

Day 3: 80% of my legs were affected

During the previous ten days my body’s defences had completely dissipated. White blood cells are the body’s defence against infection and I had very little of these left. Your last line of defence is blood platelets. A healthy person’s platelet count should be between four and six hundred; my platelets were hanging around fifteen for the first week. Dad would stride in with these figures daily like an office junior reporting to his manager. “21 today, mate” would be the usual greeting most days. Helpful, yet worrying Dad.

As I could only remember being in the isolation room of ICU, I was getting frustrated at not knowing where I was in relation to the ‘outside world’. I was looking at the same bit of ceiling and wall every day, a change of scenery was definitely on the cards and I was getting irritated at small things as that week progressed. More and more people were allowed to visit towards the end of the second week, which helped me a lot. Looking back you realise what you mean to other people and what other people mean to you. Everybody was amazing to my family and me during that time.

I was starting to move around in bed and trying to sit up now. Even after somebody propped me up I would be exhausted, it was a real workout. My heart was still racing at around 130bpm so it was still a full workout on my body to do the simplest of tasks. The ICU staff brought in a big La-Z-boy chair for me to sit in for an hour or two. It took about four of them to lift me into it, my legs were in so much pain I nearly passed out. Just the thought of getting back into the bed was scaring me; they had to give me more morphine to deal with it. Needless to say I stayed put for the next few days. I was becoming stable enough now to be moved from ICU on to a ward. I didn’t know how bad the next week would be – it would be just about the longest week of my life.

I was now over the meningitis, the blood poisoning had left my legs nearly completely black and incredibly painful, my parents were told they would be keeping a close eye on them over the following days. I was wheeled out of ICU just as a few friends arrived around lunchtime. I was excited to be moving, just to see another cream or off-white wall would have been a nice change, a ward where I could see out of a window perhaps?

Ward 4

Week 3

As expected, ICU was full of state-of-the-art equipment. It was the only part of the hospital, or any hospital, that I had seen and I presumed the rest of the place would be similar. I was about to find out how wrong I was. I was wheeled into a ward which was a lot darker and older than where I had been, it was a buzz of staff, patients and visitors. It was all a little too much to take in as I was used to being alone. I actually thought how unlucky these people were in this ward, presuming I was in transit up to the royal suite. The orderly swung it left into a grotty half-size room, Ahhh, my new home. I was sharing this room with a fat, smelly guy who would treat all the staff like shit, that bugged me the most. I would have tipped that bed pan on his head. Some of those nurses showed amazing self-control.

I knew I was going to end up in the hospital’s burns unit to sort out what to do with my legs. The ward I ended up in was like a holding pen. It was in the oldest and darkest part of the hospital, it really was chaos in there. The first night I only slept after the nurses gave me a decent whack of morphine at about 2am. Patients in the adjacent rooms were screaming and swearing all night. I couldn’t understand exactly what the purpose of the ward was; it could only have been due to overcrowding at the time.

I was still very ill and my legs were more sensitive than ever yet I was being hauled into a wheelchair for a shower. This was excruciating pain, again I would have nightmares simply about being moved in the morning, its funny looking at how vulnerable I was in every sense. A week before, I would have looked at myself in that bed and said, “Stop whinging and get up.” By this stage I was literally frightened of people getting too close and every time I fell asleep I would have incredibly vivid dreams about being hurt or falling into an unknown space. Perhaps one day I will find out what those dreams meant.

I was becoming confused whether it was day or night as I was drifting in and out of consciousness over the next 3 or 4 days. It was so dark in that part of the hospital that the light would be the same all day, maybe slightly lighter in the morning, a bit like living in London in the winter. The worst part of the day was when a couple of male nurses would lift me into a wheelchair for a shower. The water felt like bricks falling on my legs and I was so cold sitting there. I felt like a vegetable sitting in that bloody chair, perhaps it was only a couple of minutes but the staff would leave me there. At the time minutes were like hours and I couldn’t understand how they could just walk off. When they finally got me back to my bed I would sleep for hours because having that shower was such an ordeal. I hated it there, it was too easy to feel sorry for myself.

Again it took another amazing doctor to check on me to hurry up the whole process of getting me into the right ward. Mr Max Louvie, a very unique person, was one of the most respected plastic surgeons in the southern hemisphere and when he walked in the room everybody seemed to know who he was, and when he spoke everybody listened. He was a small guy with that gentle, caring old doctor look about him. He didn’t say much, he would just nod his head and hum away when he looked at me. Being a plastic surgeon for so many years you wouldn’t expect him to be shocked by much, but I thought my now purple legs would freak him out, even a little!!! Nope, just a “hmmmm yes, I see” type reaction. As he walked away with seven student doctors in tow I heard him say to the nurse that I was to be moved to 11 today. What 11 was exactly was another mystery to me but I was more than happy to be moving on from the dungeons of Hutt Hospital and I had full trust in the man I had briefly met. I drifted off to sleep in that ward for the last time, thank Christ for that.

 Ward 11

Weeks 4-11 

‘11’, turned out to be Ward 11. I was now in a specialized burns unit and woke up to my own room with a beautiful view of Lower Hutt and Wellington harbour. It is so hard to explain how happy I was just to see familiar things, to see the sky and normal people doing normal things outside was better than any medicine. To see a fat bloke on a Saturday morning mowing his lawn and arguing with his wife and kids was wildly entertaining. I had been drifting in and out of consciousness for the past couple of weeks and could only see the end of my bed, a plain ceiling or bleeping machines. I couldn’t quite see the light at the end of the tunnel but at least the tunnel was there now. I felt I had something to aim for. A great boost for me was to set little goals such as being able to go outside within a week.

As luck would have it I was in one of the best-equipped wards for burns in the southern hemisphere, one of only two in New Zealand. It turned out to be a lucky place to have severe burns if you were to ever think yourself ‘lucky’ to be severely burnt. The walls were light, staff generally friendly and it didn’t smell like a toilet for a change. I remember this time more than others as I was happy and things seemed uncomplicated. As I mentioned before, during the more painful times my mind blocked out most things. That may have had something to do with the amount of morphine they were dishing out. Over the next few days I had a lot of visitors, it was great as they could come into my room and actually talk to me rather than waving through glass and I could remember them being there. I was generally feeling better for the first time in weeks.

I was only now realising what had happened in the previous three weeks from what my family and friends were telling me. Often I was asked questions like “What was it like”? Or “Did you think you were going to die?” I thought they were crazy; unless you are suicidal you would never think that, especially when you are 18 years old.  I was never a great believer in your state of mind being able to ward off sickness, but after that week it was obvious how wrong I was. Many of the doctors were telling me that if it wasn’t for the positive attitude I had from the start I wouldn’t have survived the first week. It is very humbling hearing such comments from the likes of Dr Logan and Mr Louvie who have so much experience between them and have no doubt seen some very sick people.

For the next week I was seen by a lot of doctors, specialists and occupational therapists; it was tiring being poked and prodded all the time. There was always a tribe of student doctors following Mr Louvie and sometimes you just couldn’t be bothered with 30 pairs of eyes looking at you. My legs were still a very deep purple colour and were more painful than ever. I was on less and less morphine so the pain was becoming greater during the day and it was hard to sleep again as I could only lie on my back. I really did think this was all part of the healing process and was already planning drinks at the local pub. I was setting myself up for a fall, as it happens – little did I know my legs were deeply blood poisoned and there would be dramatic changes in my condition over the next few days.

For some reason I remember it being a Monday when a junior was in my room checking my charts or something. The conversation that followed would change everything for me. I was seriously planning to be out of that place and home by the weekend so it was quite a shock when this young guy started dropping innocent comments about how my legs were very bad and I wouldn’t be going anywhere for at least a month. I was devastated, he had said something I was not at all ready to hear as everything over the past few days was so positive. I remember almost sulking for a couple of days, my attitude had changed for the first time since being in hospital. Being upset and helpless was so hard and it really upset my Mum in particular to see me like this. She said to me once that it was a hard time because before that it was my positive outlook that had kept her going, now she was seeing me lose that shred of spirit I had. I truly thought this rash on my legs would just disappear after the meningitis had run its course, but the blood poisoning would prove to be nearly as fatal.

Week 4 and my legs were still uncovered so I could see how black they were becoming; they were also starting to really sting. I was told by the doctors that the initial rash that had covered my whole body was now only on my legs because I had been so sick. It sounds strange, I know, but my natural defences (white blood cells) went to my torso area to save my organs and at the same time spared my skin from the poisoning my legs were now going through. Anywhere the defences didn’t need to be was now suffering; my hair was falling out and over the next few days small sores appeared all over my legs. I was now being looked at on the hour by plastic surgeons and nurses as every day my legs were changing dramatically. My parents told me later that during this time Mr Louvie had warned them they may need to amputate. It even got to the stage where they were asking for permission to amputate if I was to slip into a coma. Obviously if they had told me that I would have been devastated. It’s one thing being sick and possibly scarred, it’s another knowing you could lose your legs, especially when you are a fit, young 18-year-old.

Another week had gone by and now there were four or five large blisters the size of tennis balls on both my legs. The infection was now under control and they were planning to save my legs from amputation. For the first time I realised that this bloody thing wouldn’t just go away. In a way it gave me a refreshed sense of determination to get better and get out of there.

Mr Louvie came in and explained the surgery which would take place over the next few weeks. Firstly they would pop the blisters and wrap my legs in a cling film material to stop any infection. This would be done in theatre under general anaesthetic. All these things would normally freak you out but the way Mr Louvie explained it was amazing, it was delivered in such a calm and considered way. I knew exactly what was going on and I trusted him all the way. The first operation was going ahead in a couple of days which was actually quite an exciting time, I always took one step at a time and this for me was the beginning of my long road out of there, at least I could see an end to it all, a solution to what had happened to me. I was ready, bring it on Doc!!!.  

Let the operations BEGIN….

I could tell over the next day or two that Mum was getting nervous about the operation. The process was quite interesting, from midnight I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything, it felt like I was being prepared for a space flight or something. I was still blissfully unaware of what they were actually going to do to me and that’s why everybody close to me seemed a lot more on edge, the doctors had obviously told them every step of the procedure.

I woke up on the day of the operation hungry, I was due to go down to theatre at midday and was still looking forward to it. I had always heard stories of how the anaesthetic made you feel and naturally wanted to try it out myself. I was wheeled down the wide corridors of Ward 11 just before midday, every new part of the hospital was so interesting, so different. It was actually all very boring but a nice change at the time. As I was wheeled into the operating theatre I noticed Mr Louvie who was all dressed up in his green gear. Ahh, so this is what else he does all day. It was strange seeing him out of a suit, it’s like going to your Dad’s work for the first time as a kid and seeing him doing something other than being Dad!! Mr Louvie came across as the decision maker (which of course he was), not the guy who actually got in there and did it. Mum had now left us to it, I was told the procedure by the anaesthetist and away he went. He said once injected it should take about ten seconds to take effect. I remember looking at the large operating lights above my head and seeing the words, Halifax: Melbourne. This was obviously the company who made the light; I would read the letters every time I was in that room. That day I got to about F and bang, out like a light, so to speak…

I woke up at around 9pm that evening completely disorientated. I thought what I had just been through was a dream and couldn’t understand how it was dark outside. It was a similar feeling to what was going on when I first got to hospital, the very confusing concept of time had come back. Within five minutes Mum and Dad were there asking how I was – “Like I’d been hit by a bus, thanks.” They were worried as I was supposed to come round a lot earlier. Later they were told I was given too much sleep juice because my weight was calculated incorrectly. This could have been a dangerous blunder for somebody smaller than me and my Dad in particular was very aware of this. I was becoming very aware of how bloody hungry I was so it was straight to the menu once I knew where I was. I fell asleep soon after dinner and didn’t wake all night.

I woke up, well I was woken up as usual at around 7am for a dose of the daily drugs, which I was now used to. I remember trying to move one of my legs and was quickly reminded of what I’d gone through the day before. The pain was excruciating, it felt like I’d fallen off my bike and grazed both my legs from top to bottom. A nurse came over and explained the operation and what had happened again. She then pulled back the covers and revealed this mess

which were my legs. To avoid infection they were covered in what looked like cling film, this just made them look worse.

Week 4: Blisters were popped, then wrapped in cling film to avoid infection 

As the picture above shows, it was a strange arrangement of blood, skin and Gladwrap. If you could imagine the shock you get when you look at a cut or graze which is a lot more serious than first thought, you know that “ohh bugger” moment, multiply that by 100 and that was how I was feeling at that time. The nurse was great, she explained what was what and why this looked like that then left me by myself for about half an hour. That half hour was so important for me and she knew it. Again to sit there without anybody explaining or trying to help was what I needed to get my head around what to do from here. Of course there wasn’t anything I could do except be positive but at the time I would often ask the nurses what I could do to move things along.

After the initial shock I was just feeling them and thinking about what I needed to do from then on. It was frustrating because the protective covering that had been put on was like a foggy window in a car. All I wanted to do was have a look but it was there to stop infection, perhaps I wasn’t ready to see the damage at that stage anyway. One thing that was obvious was that both my legs were without the large blisters which were becoming so annoying before.

After a couple of days I was in a lot less pain and I could move my body considerably more than before the blisters were popped. During this time I was seeing a lot of my friends again, which was great. I knew the big operations to patch up my legs were to start in the following days so it was like the calm before the storm. I was still in my own room and enjoying the view from the 7^th floor.

CLEARING THE LEGS 1^ST OP  (de-briding) 

Mr Louvie came into my room in the early evening after my visitors had gone to explain the next operation, which would take place in two days. They were to clear both my legs of all the loose skin and scrape down until all the dead cells were cleared so they could skin graft over the top. If there were any problems, only one leg would be done at a time. The actual process was quite gruesome, they would scrape my legs with an instrument which was similar to a wood plane. All the purple and black crap, which was now my legs, had to be scraped almost to the bone in some places. Again, having complete faith in Mr Louvie, I was rather happy and excited that it was all going ahead quickly.

The morning of the operation rolled around quickly and it was earlier than the last one so it wasn’t long after I woke up that they were preparing me for theatre. At my special request we took an alternate route to the operating room so I could wave at a few more strangers on the way, that was the highlight of my week so you could imagine how thrilling it was for me in there. Again I was staring at the big light in no time and asking the Doc to go easy on the sleep juice this time; I don’t think he was too impressed. I was blissfully unaware of how vital the following few hours would be.

I wasn’t told until later but during the operation I bled so much from when they were scrapping my legs that I was rushed to Intensive Care again. The doctors were only halfway through my first leg when this happened. I woke up in the familiar surroundings of ICU about five hours later. I didn’t really understand why I was there but thought it was just a convenient place to put me for a while. My poor Mother was told to get back to the hospital ASAP, then was greeted by a nurse making an empty bed in the recovery room. Mum’s stomach dropped as she thought I’d had it. In a panic she asked where I was and was directly down to ICU. She ran through the doors expecting me to be on my death bed only to find me sitting up eating ice cream. I was taken back to ward 11 the next day and we were back to square one.

I woke up the next morning feeling tired and exhausted; the general anaesthetic really knocked me around during the first few operations. I was again feeling drugged up all the time which left me unable to remember much, and visitors were not allowed to see me for the next few days. My family saw a change in me; I really needed to see my family and friends a lot at the time and I couldn’t.

The following day I was moved into a private room in ward 11 which was kept at body temperature. With the room at 37 degrees it was hard for anybody to stay in there for any longer than five minutes but it was the best place to avoid infection. Despite the obvious discomfort from the heat for everybody else, I was freezing in there, I was very ill during those few days. One of my legs was effectively an open wound and the other still black from the blood poisoning. The process of clearing my legs would have to be done soon so as to avoid any gangrene setting in.  I was on one of two specialised burns beds in the country. It was luxury compared to the normal hospital beds as it was seven feet long and the mattress was made from silicon sand which could be heated and felt like a waterbed. This machine could even sense a tight muscle and bubble away in the area like a massage.

The following four days would see me back in theatre twice for the de-briding process. One leg at a time and there were no similar complications. Now I had open wounds over 80% of my legs covered in miles of gauze and dressings. Initially this was comfortable but after a few hours they became very itchy. Everybody knows the horrible feeling of not being able to scratch an itch – multiply that by 100. Eventually I was dosed up on morphine again to put me to sleep. The following day I was in theatre again having my dressings changed, it would have been too much without general anaesthetic.

Again I was completely exhausted from the previous week’s operations and only wanted to sleep. Mr Louvie paid a visit to explain things had to be done quickly while my legs were so susceptible to infection. He explained the previous week and said my legs were very damaged but ready for the next series of operations which were to start in four days time… skin grafting!!

SKIN GRAFTING 

Intensive care was now a distant muddled memory and it had been a while since I was hooked up to machines. I was being told I was on the road to recovery but it certainly didn’t feel like it without skin on most of my legs. I was excited when Mr Louvie explained that after these next few operations it should be over, from then on it would be a case of rehabilitation. I couldn’t wait for things to be under my control again, a luxury I hadn’t had for nearly two months.

Again the operations would be done on one leg at a time. The skin to be grafted was taken from my upper thigh and was only the size of a chocolate bar. The skin was grown and stretched in the hospital lab. Delays in the operations occurred later when they needed more time to stretch the available skin.

Two days later I was in the familiar surroundings of the operating theatre. I was excited, I finally had the feeling I was being ‘fixed’. I woke up about four hours later back in the ‘hot room’ of ward 11. Mum was there to tell me they thought the first operation on my right leg went well. All I could feel was a small graze where they had taken the skin. The positive thing for me was that my right leg felt very different from the un-grafted left; this was a good thing, I hoped. I had another operation on my right leg a couple of days later to clear it up and re-staple the new skin tight. My left leg was grafted by the end of the week and now it was a matter of waiting for the skin to settle and hopefully take. I was more than concerned that all the grafts wouldn’t take properly mainly because of the other patients I’d seen and talked to on the ward. Some people had to constantly return to hospital and have more and more operations because their grafts would not take; in most cases their grafts were very small. I had more area to graft than anybody in there but they took and settled in straight away which was a huge bonus and I could now start to concentrate on the rehabilitation process in front of me.

After another week in the specialised burns recovery room I was moved into a room with five others. This was exactly what I needed, I had been alone in a room for nearly two months and being a social person I needed this new contact with people other than the hospital staff and my friends and family. I met people from all walks of life, most of whom were there for a day or two to have a melanoma cut out. I felt like an old veteran in there now. I quickly became sick of whingers in there. The nurses in ward 11 were like friends now so it was frustrating seeing some people being so rude to them. I desperately wanted to tell these couple of people to shut up and get on with it like the rest of us. My opportunity came when a guy in his mid-30s who was in for one night started shouting at a nurse to get him a magazine. I suggested he ask for this in a slightly more polite way and find some respect while he was at it, and there was a round of applause from my new room-mates who were obviously sick of him as well.

I befriended a man in the bed next to me who was in for a few days initially to have a melanoma removed from his arm. His name was Jack, he was 94 years old and a champion of a guy. He was sitting school cert English and History via correspondence and had a real zest for life which was infectious. His wife of 72 years had recently died and he was struggling living alone in their small house nearby. Jack had a few complications with his operation so had to stay on for a couple of weeks. I actually think he liked the company and attention in hospital.

Directly across from us was a big man in his mid-70s called Bill. Bill was an advisor to Prime Minister Robert Muldoon in the late seventies and a longterm civil servant. I was always interested in Muldoon so Bill would keep us all entertained for hours, he could tell a ripping good yarn. The interaction between the three of us made the long boring days pass quickly. I had recently completed the subjects Jack was studying so we would revise for hours. We had 160 years of experience and knowledge between two beds so history was easy. Bill would always disagree with what was written in the NZ history books and his favourite line was to become, “Who wrote this crap? Should have bloody written it myself.” This was great, I was getting to know people who in my normal life I would not have come into contact with, I look back at these experiences and consider myself very lucky.  

I had been down to the bathing room a couple of times by now which was heaven. The salon baths were seven feet long with submerged pillows. A crane machine would pick you up and ease you into the water. The sight of my legs were still quite shocking but the nurses insisted it was time to start my rehabilitation and get walking again. Mr Louvie had explained that I’d lost a lot of ligaments and supporting muscles around my knees, and because of this the rehabilitation could not be too strenuous. Mr Louvie knew me by now and had a very serious chat about not overdoing things in a rush to get out of hospital and to the pub. These were very wise words as I was itching to get home, it was approaching summer and I was not staying there any longer than I had to.

I was still hooked up to a self-administering morphine machine which gave you a small dose every five minutes. I was finally getting over the constant drowsy feeling all the drugs would give you, I started feeling stronger and regained my sense of taste. This all sounds fairly trivial to most but I knew at that stage I had a platform from which to start my physio. I was drinking strength in a cup, 3000 calories of crap-tasting milkshake. To call these things a ‘milkshake’ must have come straight from the hospital marketing department.

It was lucky I couldn’t walk at the time, I was ready to run out of there. I really had to keep reminding myself of what Mr Louvie had told me a few days before. My nurses would say I was the most impatient patient they knew.

Rehabilitation 

I had already met Margaret, my occupational therapist, who was to plan my daily routine with my physiotherapist, Jane, who was in NZ for six months from the UK. Margaret and Jane were very encouraging and strict when it came to doing my exercises, which is what I needed.

For the first few days they would come in twice a day to rub my feet and give me sand bags to lift for my upper body strength. I was eating more substantial meals now which was adding to my strength every day. After a week of this I was sitting up on the side of the bed which was a very strange feeling. For the first time in months my blood was circulating to my feet. The first time I dangled my legs over the bed I had a massive head rush and nearly passed out. During the day I was being hassled by Jack and Bill to do more and more exercises. The doctors even came in and told them to stop pressuring me and that I needed to take it slow; their response was a sarcastic “yes doctor”. This poor young doctor was trying to tell these old guys off, it of course fell on deaf ears (literally).

Jane was now massaging my legs and feet to get the circulation going so I could support myself. The next stage was to strap me to a machine which was designed to stand you upright like pumping up a tyre. You had supports near your chest to lean on and the idea was my leg muscles would strengthen each time weight was put on them. The first session I barely got off the bed and was putting all the weight on my arms, I was hunched over like an old man. Afterwards I was completely exhausted and slept for 5 hours.

The next day my enthusiasm for physio had gone, I was tired and in pain from the previous day’s exercises. It was at times like this when Jack and Bill encouraged me to be strong and carry on. Slowly, over the next week, I was putting more and more weight on my legs and standing up taller on the machine. I was basically just sleeping and being woken up for physio during that time. It was exciting knowing I was getting stronger.

A few days later I took my hands off the supports and there I was standing up by myself. I stood there for about 10 seconds then sat on my bed again. I had a smile from ear to ear, it was so encouraging to see this treatment working so quickly. You lose muscles very quickly but also regain them very quickly so day by day there was progress. For the first time ever my nurses had seen me stand, at 6ft 4 I was towering over most of them. A couple of days later I took my first steps near my bed, it was a very foreign feeling. My Achilles tendons were tight and felt like they could snap. For the next few days I had to stretch a lot before trying to walk. I remember being down in the physio department with Jane doing some walking exercises on the bars when my Nana walked around the corner. She got very emotional seeing me standing there for the first time in months and rushed over for a hug, nearly knocking me off my feet. She lived very close to the hospital and would come in all the time, she was truly amazing during my time there.

Learning to walk again is not easy, your body is telling you to walk on flat feet for stability but doing this can develop bad habits and can even result in a permanent limp. I needed to be patient because by this stage I could walk a few steps badly and just wanted to walk. Again Margaret told me to chill out and learn to walk properly, her little pep talks would usually involve showing me some horrific photos of people who ignored her advice – it always worked, too.

I was now insisting on an extra physio session per day, after another week I was walking slowly around my room to the cheers of my neighbours. During the previous week my Mum had not seen me stand up due to the timing of her visits (I was usually asleep). One day I asked the staff downstairs to call the ward nurses when they saw her come in, and the plan worked perfectly. As she came around the corner I was taking a few steps towards her down the corridor. She had not seen me stand for months and she burst into tears, it was a very emotional time. Mum had been through more than anyone, including myself, during this whole thing.

On Thursday Mr Louvie came to me with the good news that I could go home for the weekend in a wheelchair, very exciting stuff. I got home and there was a lot of fuss which was strange, I hadn’t been there for so long. I had a lot of visitors and even went for a drive to the pub with a mate. I had a new respect for anyone who is permanently in a wheelchair after those couple of weeks. You are looked upon as an invalid, which must be so frustrating. I often think just how close I came to losing my legs. By the end of the weekend at home I was actually looking forward to getting back to hospital, I still couldn’t do much for myself and the hospital was a controlled environment. I was getting easily annoyed being out of hospital in the wheelchair. 

Tights on and out of there 

The next few days seemed to fly by with the amount of physio I was doing. On the Wednesday I walked back from the physio department which was a good 500 yards. I was now walking well enough to ditch the wheelchair, what a huge relief. My legs were still covered in bandages but work was being done to fit me with specialized burns garments to support my grafts over the coming months. The only delay now was that my grafts and various sores on my legs still needed special attention every couple of days before putting a new dressing on.

Over the next few days the nurses were teaching me how to dress the scars on my legs and where to apply burns gauze etc. I was told I would be in hospital for only another week. I was so excited and wanted to go there and then. During my last week there I spent a lot of time with Margaret trying on my new burns pants. They were skin tight lycra with very tight zips near the waist and ankles, they acted as an artificial skin while my muscles were growing back. They weren’t the most flattering things in the world but I honestly didn’t care what my legs looked like after the time in the wheelchair, the fact they still held up my arse was good enough for me.

My tights were now fitting ok and I was walking for longer periods during the day. I would need to visit physio every day for the next few weeks until I was walking normally. The last few days in hospital were really dragging and I wasn’t sleeping for the first time in months; at least it was a sign I was ready to leave.

The last day in hospital was hectic, lots of paperwork, advice from doctors and, of course, some very special people to say goodbye to. My Dad came to pick me up and before I knew it I was walking out the front door. That moment was bizarre, I had looked forward to it for so long and it hit me once I was outside. The whole experience seemed now to be so vivid, from the morning I got the rash and ICU, right through to the burns unit and physio. Over the next few weeks and months I would tell this story a million times but this was one of the few times I’d had the chance to reflect on the whole thing.

I had amazing support from my family and friends which helped me through not only my time in hospital but also the difficult months to follow when the tights became too much or I had to stay out of the sun. I always saw these things as a small price to pay for what I had got away with. I was told that a couple of people had contracted meningitis around the same time who weren’t so lucky. My case was apparently more critical than these two people, but one of them died and one lost both his arms and a leg. It puts things in perspective. There was a saying which I wrote down that gave me particular strength and still applies to many situations.

Pain is inevitable,

Misery is an option

Whether it be emotional or physical pain, everybody will go through it. Being negative and miserable about it all the time is something you can control.

I will always have burns scars on my legs, I have learnt to live with this and can honestly say it doesn’t stop me from doing what I want to do. I have done small amounts of work for the meningitis foundation teaching parents what to look for and this is something I want to continue with in the future. People often ask me if this has changed me. I don’t think it has changed me as such, I consider myself to be the same person with a slightly different outlook. In the past five years I have been lucky enough to travel and work around the world. When I’m sitting in front of the pyramids or working on a yacht in the Med, I often think about how close I came to death. I do consider myself lucky when I see these amazing things and places; the experience has made me appreciate them more.

In summary I can only say it was very bad luck to get it and extremely good luck to get rid of it.