Breaking my arms healed the hurt between me and my ex
Five years ago she left her husband of two decades. But, at 59, after a freak accident left her completely helpless, JANE ALEXANDER realised there was only one person she could count on...
LIFE really can change in a heartbeat. It was a sunny day last July and I’d had a wonderful weekend in London staying with my best friend Jane. On the Monday, I headed off for a meeting with my publisher. I walked to the Tube station with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.
The past few years had been tough. Five years earlier, at 54, I’d separated from my husband, Adrian, after 23 years of marriage. It was my decision to end it: there’d been no dramatic wrong turn, we’d just drifted apart, to the point where we were like flatmates rather than a married couple.
Breaking up had still been painful, and learning to live on my own no bed of roses either. Yet, finally, it seemed as if everything was working out. I was happy, independent and the future seemed bright.
Then, suddenly, on that sunny Monday morning, I wasn’t walking any more; I was pitching forwards and there was nothing I could do to save myself as my face and hands smashed into the kerb. My first thought was terribly British — ‘How embarrassing! What will people think?’ — as I lay spreadeagled on the pavement.
My next thought was just how ludicrous it was. I’ve paraglided off mountains, kayaked rapids, climbed volcanoes, yet I had never so much as sprained an ankle. I thought tripping over and injuring yourself was something that happened to people much older than their 50s.
I heard a woman ask if I was OK, then a man chipped in to check I could sit up. I couldn’t. Blood was pouring from my nose and my right wrist was puffing up like a balloon. Someone gently lifted me to sitting; someone called an ambulance; someone else found my phone and texted to say I wouldn’t make my meeting. Strangers can be incredibly kind.
AFTErthat, my friend Jane dropped everything to come with me to A&E. I knew I’d probably fractured my wrist and cracked my nose, but I wasn’t prepared to hear that I’d broken both arms. In fact, I’d fractured my left elbow and smashed up my right wrist pretty spectacularly. A simple trip, a freak accident, and here I was, effectively disabled.
I burst into tears as reality hit home. I lived on my own; how on earth was I going to manage? As a journalist and an author, my hands are my livelihood; how would I earn a living?
My right wrist was put in plaster but my left elbow would apparently heal without immobilisation. Afterwards, discharged with two slings round my neck, Steri-Strips over my nose and eyebrow, and still high as a kite on gas and air, I asked Jane to drop me at Paddington Station.
Convinced I’d be fine, I remember saying all she needed to do was to put my rucksack on my back and my ticket in my teeth. She decided I was either still in shock or totally insane and phoned Adrian, my ex.
As I listened to my best friend and him discuss which service station on the M4 would be best for a handover, I felt like a parcel. But I also felt intensely grateful that I was being so looked after. I started crying all over again.
My separation from Adrian had initially been difficult, but we’d worked hard to keep our relationship from becoming toxic. Friends joked that we were ‘doing a Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin’ as we kept everything amicable (both for our own sanity and for the sake of our son James, who is now 21).
Adrian lives around the corner from me in Exeter and we share our dog, Dante. By the time of my accident, even when James wasn’t around, we frequently saw each other for coffee, supper or the occasional film. Neither of us had a new partner and, living separately, got on just fine.
But it’s one thing to support each other when you’re independent adults: it’s something quite different when one of you is helpless.
As Adrian drove me back to Exeter, I told him I didn’t know exactly how I would cope. He said he’d known something was horribly wrong the moment he heard my friend’s voice on the phone. He hadn’t thought twice about jumping into the car and heading out to meet us.
He reassured me that everything would be fine. Our son James, away on holiday, would be home in a week and he, too, would be on hand. It was hugely humbling. I had instigated our separation, and yet here he was, ready to drive for several hours to rescue me.
Still, as soon as we got back to my house, the difficulties began to present themselves. I somehow managed to ease my way out of my blood- stained outfit, while
Adrian hovered around, trying to help while tactfully averting his eyes. Then, I inched my way into bed and he arranged pillows to support my arms.
We figured out that I could reach water on the bedside table and sip it through a straw. I had so many painkillers sloshing around my system that I wasn’t too uncomfortable, but that night Adrian slept in our son’s room, in case I needed anything.
His kindness hit me again and back came the tears — quiet little gulps so I wouldn’t wake him.
THEnext morning it dawned on me just how helpless I was. My injuries weren’t huge, relatively, yet you don’t realise what you’ve got until it’s gone.
Although Adrian’s work as a journalist can be flexible, he couldn’t abandon it to look after me. So once I was settled, he left. When I heard him lock the front door, I felt uneasy. I was home alone with two broken arms.
But he came back later that day and we soon settled into a routine. He’d pop over every morning for coffee to make sure I was all right, sorting out my breakfast, making sure I had something I could eat during the day, making my bed and loading the dishwasher. He’d then check in later to do similar checks and tasks.
His help was invaluable. With one arm in plaster and the other painful if I moved it, for the first week or so I couldn’t even open my front door. I couldn’t cook; I could only eat if things were cut up for me; I wasn’t safe with a kettle.
I could barely wash my face and brush my teeth. I could stand in the shower with plastic bags over my plaster cast and air-dry myself afterwards, yet I didn’t feel clean. Still, asking Adrian to help was a step too far.
Similarly, it was one thing asking him to cut up food, but doing up my bra felt too intimate. In the end, though, the need for comfort won out. Adrian endeavored to make it feel as normal as possible, telling me we had been married for decades — of course he wasn’t scared of doing up my bra.
And so he stepped carefully and
graciously into the role of a carer. It felt extremely strange to me and I kept thanking him, like a stuck record. However, he took it entirely in his stride, insisting it was fine and that he wasn’t remotely fazed.
As for money, by living frugally, I could make my savings last for the three months it would take me to be able to type again.
However, as well as struggling physically, I was also struggling mentally. I’d worked so hard for my independence. It had taken every ounce of emotional strength to forge a new life for myself. Now I watched my progress unravel.
A complicated operation on my right wrist put my recovery back even further, and my confidence vanished. I felt frightened of everything. Petrified I’d fall down the stairs. Worried I’d become addicted to painkillers.
Walking down the street was terrifying. I kept reliving the moment I fell and was morbidly convinced it was going to happen again. I picked my way along the street, feeling very vulnerable.
Friends, meanwhile, began to wonder about my relationship with Adrian, asking if I was tempted to get back together. And I admit I thought about it. This out- of-the-blue frailty felt like a horrible foreshadowing of life in ten or 20 years’ time. If not a fall, then how would I cope with an illness or incapacity in old age.
This, I reflected, was perhaps one reason so many people stay together, even if their relationships don’t make them happy. The idea of growing old on your own is daunting; scary even.
But should I get back together with Adrian just because I was scared? That seemed not only cowardly on my part, but hugely disrespectful to him.
Eventually, I pulled myself together. I’d decided to end the marriage and this was my first major test. As my Aunty Dot would have said: ‘You’ve made your bed, so lie in it, my girl.’
So I booked a session of EMDR (eye movement desensitisation and reprocessing — a form of hypnotherapy that can help your mind heal from trauma) and started working extra hard on my physiotherapy homework.
I ditched the boxset binges and, once my plaster cast was removed, re-joined the gym. A personal trainer kindly offered me a free session to devise a programme I could do without straining my arms.
Gradually, I coaxed myself back into an independent life — with Adrian still there to help when needed, and to cheer me on.
FORfive months, I had had to stick to showers as I didn’t have the strength to get in and out of the bath. But one day, yearning for a good soak, I asked Adrian to stand by as I did a literal dry run, fully clothed.
Getting in was fine, but then I got stuck. He hauled me out, with much huffing and puffing, both of us laughing like drains.
It struck me, not for the first time, how incredibly lucky I was to have met him, nearly 30 years ago now, and to have spent so much of my life with someone as kind, clever and funny as him.
I thought of all those people who are entirely on their own, and I felt intensely grateful.
Six months on, I still have only partial use of my right hand and my wonderful ex is still helping me. He drives me to my occupational therapy appointment each week and checks if I need help with heavy shopping.
If there’s one positive thing that’s come out of the accident, it’s that our relationship today is easier, more relaxed. We don’t tread on eggshells around each other any more. He’s seen me at my most vulnerable, and I’ve seen him at his most kind.
As for the big question? I asked Adrian, the other day, whether he could ever see us sharing a house again. He smiled and shook his head. ‘I think we get on much better like this, don’t you?’
I couldn’t have agreed more.