My accident has left me with a pre-rational fear that my guardian angel has deserted me
As with all road accidents, there was that initial feeling of euphoria — a kind of ecstatic languor. Why is that? Is it to do with losing control? It’s gone almost before you notice it, and then the internal audit begins. I knew I’d hit my head quite hard because I had to struggle to stay conscious. I also saw the drops of blood, falling like raindrops on my shirt and tie. I began to roll something hard and jagged around my tongue — was that a tooth? — but as far as I could tell no bones were broken. Yes, I thought. I’m basically okay. A lucky escape. Now if I can just find my bicycle...
Seventeen hours later I emerged from Chelsea & Westminster with 21 stitches in my head, having spent an hour and a half on an operating table. As head injuries go, it really wasn’t bad, particularly considering I’d been hit by a car. I sustained some minor nerve damage, but my brain seemed okay. There was no haemorrhaging, no memory loss. The only serious injury was to my forehead. There was an area on the left-hand side, about the diameter of a Coca-Cola can, that had literally burst on hitting the asphalt. Odd word to use, but that’s what the doctor called it: a burst injury. It looked like a firework had exploded just beneath my scalp.
I spent the next few days making a series of larger and larger adjustments. I kept thinking I didn’t need to change my plans — that I could just carry on, regardless — only to be brought up short by my injuries. For instance, I was supposed to be doing a television interview in Oxford two days after the accident and, from my hospital bed, as I was waiting to go into theatre, I called the director and told him it would be fine to go ahead. My wife thought otherwise — and she was right; 48 hours later I looked terrible, much worse that I had done immediately afterwards. Blood collected beneath my eyes, giving me dark red half-moon spectacles, and the cuts and grazes on my face had acquired a stripy, tiger-like appearance. Meanwhile, my forehead was a patchwork quilt of stitches. All that was missing were a couple of bolts in my neck. ‘Daddy,’ said my four-year-old son, ‘you look like a monster.’
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Farah D
May 7th, 2009 11:24am Report this commentOh Toby stop whingeing ALREADY. I and the rest of London are SO bored with this constant retelling of your silly tale. Surely you have dined out enough on it? Go read a book or dry your hair or so something intelligent. Oops impossible on all three counts.
paulme
May 7th, 2009 11:48am Report this commentWhy do you think your guardian angel is female? If angels have any sex, they are male aren't they?
R Fitch
May 15th, 2009 8:45pm Report this commentI'm sorry to hear of your accident and hope you get well soon. Should I ask if you were wearing a bike helmet? And angels are, of course, completely sexless, having never been human.
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