Chapter 1

Tuesday 25/2 : The Accident (No ‘Long Waits in A&E’)

We were playing ‘Urban Soccer’ in Orsay. We normally play outdoors on Tuesdays near work, but this was the school holidays and we didn’t have official access to the changing rooms, hence the different option this week and the previous one. Little did I know that it would make a huge difference this time. I hadn’t scored but was playing well, feeling super fit running up and down the pitch even more than the previous week. The muscle strains that had been buggering me since restarting football after a five months break seemed to have all cleared after the enforced rest provided by a work trip or two. One ball on the edge of the pitch, on the left, about one third of the pitch from their goal.

Not sure exactly what happened. Possibly one of my feet slipped. Either way, my right heel ended up hitting the metal pillar there (unfortunately) with full force. [Later I wondered if the tendon snapping may have come first and triggered that bucking, but I think instant feeling and probabilities suggest it is highly unlikely – what is possible though was that the tendon was more fragile than I thought as a couple of times in the previous weeks I had that odd sensation of feeling the right one slightly more than the left, when it used to be the opposite in the previous months, though it wasn’t very pronounced or even noticeable most days].

Pain. Just a knock, right? I lie down on the pitch for a minute, thinking I’d be OK soon. Finally I decide I can’t go on straight away so I go to sit/lie down just outside the pitch. Cold spray in my bag. No, the pain doesn’t subside. The low part of the calf seems the most painful now. I feel an odd thing there. Go to the dressing room, struggle to walk, manage to shower through the pain. No improvement. Try to feel my tendon. Is there a tendon? Seems to be nothing but softness and a gap there when the left one is present, hard and tense. I fear the worst but have no idea really. Not sure what to do, hope I can drive.

The weather is appalling, the roads partially flooded, windscreen getting splashed all over by other cars and lorries on the other side of the central reservation, but somehow with a reasonable drive I make it back to the office. Chat online to Yannick who had a tendon rupture a few years ago. He helps me self-diagnose and sadly my worst fears seem confirmed. He said I should go to A&E anyway. I decide that the easiest for me is to drive home then go to the hospital in Antony. Look at their website, wait time seems reasonable to me (I think about 17 mins when I checked. I was later reminded about ‘Long Waits in A&E’ from one of my favourite bands). The other Olivier kindly helps me back to my car (that I have sensibly parked nearer the building entrance than usual on coming back from Orsay).

Another drive in the pouring rain. Thankfully no traffic at this time for the start of the journey, so I can continue my ‘supple’ drive. Just as earlier, while I hate driving in these conditions, especially with even motorways flooded and the water projections mentioned earlier still happening on another road, the appalling weather means most people are driving significantly slower than usual and so my own enforced slow pace does fortunately not stand out as much as it could. Still, the key is to brake as little as possible and not accelerate violently either. Roundabouts are slightly tricky but luck and reasonable anticipations mean I navigate them OK. Unfortunately, works further up on the A6 mean huge traffic jams soon after I reach it. Staying on the right lane is not desirable as it would mean losing lengthy minutes on top of a lot more right foot action on the pedals. So I take the middle one as long as I can, super slow but not immobile before inserting back at the actual motorway split. Anyway, I make it home, and very slowly walk to the RER station. I realise I am now very vulnerable and that if someome wants to mug me, I won’t be able to struggle or chase them. Out of curiosity, I decide to measure the walk with my tracker. Just over 27min/km. So yeah, very slow though maybe not as slow as it feels? I am lucky that I am actually able to put my foot on the floor. I sure won’t rush if I am about to miss a RER. I have only one ticket left on my phone. Buy 10 more. Which seems to go through. Until I receive a second e-mail a few minutes later saying the transaction was cancelled. I’ll check on the way back. Thankfully given the rain that was forecast (even if the whole day flooding was a lot worse than was foretold) I am already wearing a hoodie so don’t have to get completely drenched.

Luckily, I live only 500m from the station and the hospital is about 200 or so metres at the other end. And the lift in Antony works (escalator up in Bourg-La-Reine). I had wisely checked where exactly A&E was as it is not in the main hospital. Now I remember I went there once to get stitches after a minor collision at indoor footie many years ago involving my nose/eye and someone else’s spectacles (the hospital itself I remembered more from my hernia operation over 20 years earlier).

I am not completely aware of the procedures so just get in and sit down, before I figure that you probably need to announce yourself rather than just wait. No-one was queuing at all which is why it didn’t feel immediately obvious (the notices aren’t clear either). Thankfully I am close to the edge of a row, so I ask the security guy who confirms. I don’t have to wait too long to register (they already had me in their database, just with my old address). Then I get to sit down again. A very kind woman wearing a mask and seeing me struggle to move, shifts to help me get to a nearer seat), and then I don’t have to wait much longer (far less then 17 minutes for sure) before I get called. ‘Mr Angeot’? I am spelling it this way for sound accuracy, but once more I am reminded of the very surprising fact that many people (mostly in the medical profession?) still can’t pronounce Angot right. It’s weird, there is no word in the French language, to the best of my knowledge, where you pronounce ‘g.o’ ‘geo’ rather than ‘go’. Is it because there is a ‘t’ at the end? But no-one would pronounce gigot ‘gigeot’. It will forever baffle me. On discussing this with the second nurse at home (you can tell this whole section is a post-write, I could put that bit where it belongs, but I like the live writing, even if this part is less diary-like as a consequence), she admitted that she didn’t know, maybe it’s just because of ‘ange’ (angel), which is a nice thought but yeah a small angel is an ‘angelot’, which is quite different. Anyway, there is no ‘e’ in my name so it’s an interesting automatic expectation/interpretation from some people. It’s not even a particularly rare family name.

But I am losing the thread. I explain to the nurse what happened. She says ‘oh, you can put your foot on the floor so at worst it is a partial rupture’, which gives me some vague hope but I am not sure. She doesn’t make me take my shoe off or anything, just checks blood pressure and temperature, goes to talk to a doctor, tells me the values are Ok and normally it is just echography for that (well I know for tendinopathy, having been there twice…) but that the doctor said she’d prefer to see me.

She tells me she is going to try to put me on a ‘fast track’, I get put in another room, sitting and waiting. Time seems to go a bit slower now, a couple of nurses come and go doing stuff on the computer that is there (I get reminded of the madness that A&E must be, though it is well modern now with the management of patients – I can see a screen with rooms and patients modelled, kind of old video-game style, but I can’t work out which one is me) until a doctor finally arrives. She just asks me how it happened, asks me to take off my shoes and socks and lie down on my belly. Quick physical test and asking where it hurts and once it is done, she doesn’t seem to have to think twice before telling me that my achilles is indeed ruptured, totally and without doubt. She goes off to check for possible surgery.

I think that’s when I realise that many plans for the next couple of months will have to be shelved, notably the 5 a side tournament in April that had been my fitness target for a while, a few gigs, a good work trip and possibly even my own birthday bash. Being in a public place just about stops me from crying but tears are on the edge as I sit there stunned on the side of the table. And then she comes back, says operation could not be possible now (well I didn’t expect it to be and was not an emergency, in fact I prefer the way it went, just enough time to get organised, and also no rushed surgery), but that she managed to call a surgeon (Dr Sigonney, not that I remembered it straight away of course, but as she said, ‘details about the appointment will be clear in the report, so don’t worry’), that he would see me the next day, with operation foreseen for the Friday already. Good timing I would say. Next I only have to wait for a nurse to put resin around my foot and immobilise it at a downards facing angle already.

The nurse arrives without too long a wait (well time has no meaning at this point, just that it is still early enough for me to drop by the pharmacy on the way back, or so I hope), nice and friendly Indian-type and starts to work on my leg. She amuses herself reflecting that she was practically giving me a calf massage at the start (I’d like to say it was pleasant, but let us say it wasn’t as painful as could be feared), then the front has to be done, all the bandaging etc. She does the anticoagulant injection (in the belly, she asked there or thigh, I didn’t hesitate much, also stating ‘well, there’s normally more fat there’, which grants me an amused agreement). Good work and she eventually disappears and comes back with crutches and hospital clothing. I obviously can’t put my trousers back on so get given hospital trousers. Only one size. XXL. I take the belt out of my own trousers so that I can actually wear it. I only realised on my second exit after operation that such trousers very obviously have a belt you can tie, but she tactfully let me use my own. I have an hospital sock also to protect my foot. She offers me a big plastic bag enabling me to transport my trousers and now unusable shoe/sock home, and after a quick test of crutch height (perfect, she was very happy with her work there and so was I), I am on my way back to the reception to check out.

Finding a seat seems possibly tricky, but incredibly, the same kind woman as before was there again and offered to shift, although a free space appeared just behind so I thanked her and told her she could stay put after all. I had barely sat down when I got called to pay and collect my prescription, so vaguely mumbled (but in a fatalistic amused tone, not angry): ‘heh, but for ten seconds I could have been saved the bother’ or words to that effect.

Now if I thought the way to the hospital was long and painful, the way back was a hundred times worse, never mind realising I was even more vulnerable, not just to others, but to my own clumsiness. The rain barely relented, and now having to move on crutches without any previous experience (my only dalliance with them had been so long ago for an ankle sprain, very very brief and minor, I shelved them nearly immediately at the time), in terrible weather conditions, with a plastic bag in my hand, proved to be a bit of an ordeal. Straight out of A&E, I nearly ended up arse over tit, slipping in the first bit of ground at the door under the horrified look of a couple of nurses on a break there. Somehow I didn’t end up on the floor, but I knew the road back home would be tough, however short in distance. Distance also slightly increased by the required détour to the pharmacy. After about 50 metres, the task feels so big that in despair I try to call a couple of work/football colleagues who live not too far away on the off chance they may be around and available to give me a lift. But I don’t get through (turns out later one was in Costa Rica…) so back to the hard way. Obviously though, it was a great idea to come home first rather than drive or get driven to any hospital near work in the first place, as logistics would have been a real nightmare if not nigh-on impossible to handle.

Anyway, crossing the roads is trickier now, but I make it to the station and on entering there, another very very near fall as there is a puddle at the entrance of the hall. Small miracle. I find a place to sit down (not a seat) to recover, and re-attempt to buy tickets while one, two or three RERs go. I need to use two phones (complications due to a new ticketing system in Paris) and yet the screen of the one bearing the tickets freezes again so I start swearing. I don’t have the strength to go to the tills even if at least there seems to be someone there. I reboot the phone and eventually get a screen telling me about an impending transaction I can proceed with or not. Thankfully, it works this time and my tickets get credited. [6pm was the time (from the e-mail confirmation, I was absolutely not paying attention to time then), so just about five hours after the accident ].

I get to the gate for prams/heavy luggage, reduced-mobility folks, knowing it is still not that easy to validate the ticket in my get-up but at least the doors will open for me. Annoyingly, it takes me several attempts to validate and by the time it works, there’s a woman pushing a pram on the opposite side, who hasn’t bothered looking and waiting and validated her ticket a second or two after my successful attempt. Trouble is, the way these gates are designed, they don’t block an attempt on the other side for a few seconds, even if one has just succeeded. And the doors simply work with sensors, opening in the opposite direction of the first presence felt. And so I was second to that sensor and the door not only started opening towards me, but the woman went through without even a single look as if I didn’t exist or was in the wrong. No polite apology either (not her fault for the process, but throughout these few days I have certainly seen less entitled people), and to make it worse, another guy was now about to use the opportunity of the now open gate to get in in that direction too. Thankfully, the doors are not of criminal strength or speed so I just about managed to keep strong shoulders and get through forcefully keeping them open without falling.

Lift down to the platform, short wait, trying to remember if there is also a lift on the platform at Bourg-La-Reine and I get there. I locate the lift once at my station, press the button and thankfully it is working. It is when doing these few steps to the lift on the platform that I think ‘but what if the lift isn’t working?’ and realise I am lucky: I am inconvenienced but only temporarily, fairly fit and healthy, but some people must live all their life with the terror of ‘what if the lift at the station is broken?’ every time they step out of a train. And that’s if the station even has a lift to start with (note that there are no down escalators here, which would already work for me, unlike for wheelchair users).

On the square out there, sitting down for another break, I realise that rather than carrying the bag in my hand and it getting constantly in the way while trying to handle the crutches, it has enough on the plastic handles for me to fit around the neck. It is the sort of generic discovery, simple, stupid and obvious perhaps, that changed my life for the following few weeks, more on that later.

A short hop to the pharmacy (that green cross is like a beacon: ‘nearly there, I can make it!’, again a close call when entering it (slippery tiles) but I managed to recover my balance), the chemist is very helpful, offers me a chair and even brings it to me. My notion of time is slightly confused (I feel it is Wednesday, is it because the morning seems so far away now?), so when she says I have a set of 2 injections only, otherwise have to order a 4, I agree with her it should be ok, as I have had one at A&E and get operated in two days (until I later realised it is three, but then it just hinges on whether I need one on the day, which I can just ask the surgeon about the next day, so no worries). All is sorted, I can finally make my way home, have to stop and sit (it is obviously very wet) in a small square before tackling the last 200m with pained determination.

On the way back in, while getting the outside gate open is not too tricky (using the crutches to get in the way and push the door/prevent it from closing), I notice how incredibly heavy the door to the building itself actually is. I never paid attention before, but now I know that getting in will not be so easy on crutches while not being able to bear weight on one foot. But this time on my own and knowing it is the last big effort of the day, I manage without trouble [luckily there were a couple of occurences in the next few days when someone was around at the same time – or just after, but arrived as I was struggling or inadvertently dropped the crutches]. Home just before 8pm I think.

I have to warn and inform work (e-mail to the boss that went completely unnoticed) and a few people, put an updated Out of Office message (well I had put a temporary one just before going to A&E in case work people were trying to reach me in the afternoon), and (at least from the distance of ten days as I write now, maybe I actually did other stuff), for me the day ended once reaching home. I may have eaten something before bed, I am pretty sure I did, but the initial hard work was done, and I felt well drained. The only thing clear after that trek back from the hospital is that I would hire a taxi to go there and back the next day, absolutely no chance of me putting myself through that (relative) hell again. I just checked my options in the evening or the price and decided that the reliable and already used G7 was preferable to Uber given the minor difference, so that I didn’t have too many decisions to make the next day. But I only did the booking the next morning.

Quite naturally, during the night, some of the thoughts that occur, looking forward to the future, relate to what I should/could do once fit again. Perhaps actually trying for a full marathon would make sense then? Doing another run for charity? Really getting ahead of myself there, we shall see, I’m not convinced it would be reasonable, but I’m struggling to see what motivation I could get or target I should aim for to convince myself I have come back even better at the end. To be fair, coming back even near where I’ve been fitness-wise over the last year or two would be great. But yes, those are the type of ‘positive’ thoughts that already form that nght, whatever that says about me.