ED JACKSON describes the miracle moment he realised he might walk again 

ED JACKSON describes the miracle moment he realised he might walk again 
ED JACKSON describes the miracle moment he realised he might walk again 

We had friends round for lunch and I could hear their laughter from the kitchen as my fiancée Lois loaded me up with plates of food to take out to them.

‘Can you manage?’ she asked, kissing me lightly on the cheek.

‘Of course!’ I said, giving her one of my most winning smiles as I balanced the tray laden with food.

I turned from her and walked into the garden, blinking against the sudden brightness of the sunlight. Our friends turned to me expectantly and, sensing that the moment required a touch of showmanship, I did a little two-step dance before putting the tray of food on the table and...

Moments later, Lois burst into the room with our boxer Molly and bulldog Barry panting loudly, their leads wrapping round her legs in their eagerness to get to me

Moments later, Lois burst into the room with our boxer Molly and bulldog Barry panting loudly, their leads wrapping round her legs in their eagerness to get to me

I woke up with a light sheen of sweat over my body. For a moment, I thought I could still walk and was still that man who could carry a plate of food out to his friends. It took a few minutes to realise I was still in hospital. And that I wasn’t that man any more.

I had these dreams often in the weeks following my accident on April 8, 2017. On that Saturday, the first warm weekend of the year, I had dived into a friend’s swimming pool and hit my head on the bottom, splintering two vertebrae which had almost severed my spinal cord.

The doctors at Southmead Hospital in Bristol had told me I was unlikely ever to walk again, and at best might regain use of my arms so I could use a wheelchair.

Since then, there had been some progress. Seven days after the accident, I managed to wiggle two fingers on my right hand. Five days after that, I moved a toe on my right foot. Each day had brought a little more movement and sensation on my right side — yet this only accentuated the lack of movement on my left, which stubbornly refused to budge.

I told myself that any improvement was a blessing but my thoughts sometimes betrayed me.

The doctors at Southmead Hospital in Bristol had told me I was unlikely ever to walk again, and at best might regain use of my arms so I could use a wheelchair

The doctors at Southmead Hospital in Bristol had told me I was unlikely ever to walk again, and at best might regain use of my arms so I could use a wheelchair

One day, Lois was talking about returning to work part-time while I was in hospital, and before I knew it I was crying. Big, wet tears that no one could hide were streaming down my face.

‘Ed, what’s wrong?’ Lois asked, hurrying over.

I gasped in air, unable to answer, just wanting the simple dignity of being able to wipe the tears from my face. But no, I had to lie there, unable even to turn away.

‘It’s starting to feel like you’re not there for me,’ I said between sobs. ‘You’re busy planning what you’re going to do next and I’m just lying here.’

Her face crumpled. We never argued; we weren’t that type of couple and we soon apologised, Lois for not realising that I might be upset by her talk of the future; and me for thinking she wasn’t there for me.

Seventeen days after the accident, I left intensive care at Southmead. While I waited for a place at an NHS specialist spinal unit in Salisbury, I was transferred to the neurology ward at the Royal United Hospital in Bath.

There I started rehab with their head physiotherapist Pete Bishop, an ex-Army man. His military background resonated well with me as a professional rugby player and he set the bar high from the start.

‘I think we’ll have you up and about in no time,’ he said.

I stared at him.

‘Really?’

This was the first time anyone involved in my care had said this.

First, Pete got me sitting up, which was not as simple as it sounds. Because I had been lying flat for three weeks, my body had forgotten how to regulate its blood pressure and there was a danger of me fainting, so my bed had to be raised by a few degrees for a couple of hours each time.

On the first day we reached 45 degrees. It might not sound much but it meant I wasn’t looking directly up Pete’s nose any more, the viewpoint I’d had of all my visitors up until then.

When I was able to sit up fully, it would also allow me to eat a meal with less chance of choking — and to begin my first proper physio sessions.

I had a new short-term goal to aim for. But anyone who passed my room in the next few days might have thought I was giving birth, not simply trying to remain upright.

‘Come on, ramp it up,’ Pete shouted as the sweat poured down me and I gritted my teeth.

He had me perched on the edge of the bed with both my hands at my sides as he knelt behind me and guided me with his arms underneath mine. It was at times like this that I realised how incapacitated I was. I couldn’t even stay sitting up by myself; my body threatened to tip me over in every direction.

I drew on all my reserves and focused on stabilising myself. And then, for three seconds, I was just a man sitting on the edge of his bed. It didn’t matter that it was a fleeting moment — it was my achievement and it felt wonderful.

In my sessions with Pete, I hung my hat on effort, just as I had always done in rugby. I’m not saying I was the best, but at every club I played at I made sure I was one of the fittest because it was something I had control over.

No matter how bad the task made me feel at the time, if it resulted in any sort of progress, then it was worth it. That’s the thing about motivation, it won’t often present itself to you, ready for you to grasp.

You can spend an hour doing something that will make a difference. Or you can spend it waiting for motivation to show its face. Either way, an hour will pass. Best use it wisely.

Pete was of the same mind and one morning he wheeled into my room one of those high-backed padded chairs you see in old people’s homes and placed in front of it a machine with two pedals and a monitor. It was a power-assisted bike, designed to get my legs moving.

Although my left leg was still a passenger, I had enough power in my right leg to start turning the pedal — and after an hour, I returned to bed feeling as if I’d actually achieved something.

That afternoon there was another morale boost when I heard an unfamiliar sound in the corridor. Not the usual squeaky trolley or the rubber-soled shoes of the nurses but sharp claws skittering along.

Moments later, Lois burst into the room with our boxer Molly and bulldog Barry panting loudly, their leads wrapping round her legs in their eagerness to get to me.

Animals don’t see you as any different. They don’t stare at your neck brace or try to hold back the tears. They just recognise the person they share a home with.

I cannot describe how much I had missed them. Just having Molly and Barry in the same room, slobbering all over me, lifted my spirits.

Between Lois, my family and my friends, I was rarely alone during the day and the silver

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