Recovery: the process of regaining possession or control of something lost or stolen.

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Back in December, UKC kindly published an article about my trad-climbing accident in May at Craig Dorys; an accident that was miraculous on many levels. Having fallen over 40 feet head-first down the cliff, I somehow survived a C2 neck fracture, four spinal fractures transecting my spinal cord and a shattered leg; requiring both spinal and leg surgery.

The lifeboat helm involved in the multi-agency rescue with RNLI lifeboat, helicopter and land coastguard teams said lottery tickets were warranted given how lucky I was with such a challenging extrication. And here I am eight months down the line, back snowboarding and ice-climbing, having returned to climbing four months post-accident.

Following the initial article, I've questioned whether or not to share my recovery publicly. It seemed the next logical step but with every day, progression, regression, milestone documented in my own diary, was there any benefit beyond putting my name out there? But each time someone heard what had happened I had reactions of disbelief and inspiration. It made me realise maybe by sharing, I might be able to help one person in overcoming their own adversities.

Looking back at that first week, life was surreal. The previous article I wrote described the accident and the rescue, but excluded the real tragedy. After the whirlwind of being rescued; discovering the extent of my injuries; undergoing urgent spinal surgery with no loved ones around me; then leg surgery; you'd have thought I'd been dealt my fair share. However, on return to the ward post-leg surgery, still high from the anaesthetic I opened my phone to find messages informing me of the unexpected death of a close friend, younger by several years, found dead at home.

I hadn't even had time to process my own events, let alone the drugs circulating my body. I knew the messages would start coming. Was I really going to have to break news about my accident in response to this tragedy? I called my partner. I don't recall what I said, maybe nothing, maybe everything, just a blur.

What follows in the next few weeks is a relentless battering of every thought, emotion and physical sensation under the sun. The physical pain of the trauma; the euphoria of being alive; the grief of losing a friend; the guilt of surviving such an accident and the impact on those around me; the total loss of dignity as a spinal patient; the overwhelming love for and from those around me. You can't process it. You can't explain it. You often can't handle it.

Then there was the funeral. Again, it's hard to articulate what it feels like to be stood at the funeral of a friend very similar in character and energy to you. To hear the stories shared, to see the tears shed and the pain felt. You imagine your own funeral, who would attend, what stories would be shared, what memories would last. I already knew I was pretty broken. But that was ground zero.

From there I shrunk my world small, used what little energy I had to focus on physical recovery and spend time with a select few. I used social media to update on my progress being mindful to 'post-and-go', to prevent any upset on missing out on 'normal' life.

Physical rehab was straight-forward, I made a diary, did the exercises, saw the gains. It gave me something to focus on other than the physical and emotional pain. But only temporarily. I couldn't use the usual stress-coping strategies: physical activity was out, time with others was exhausting, screen-time overstimulating, sitting upright limited, even my dreams had stopped. So instead I rode out the emotions and had occasional escapes to the mountains and sea-cliffs through words of WH Murray, Norman Collie and the likes. I started writing my own past adventures, reliving good times with good friends.

I learned to expect very little from each day; some days were good, some bad, just being grateful for the little things. Rather than focus on day-to-day progress, I chose to focus on weekly progressions. Managing the expectations of others was often more draining, hence why a little after two weeks, when my partner had to return to Canada, I was happy to be on my own (of course with friends and family there at the drop of a hat).

It made it somewhat fun, having to figure out my own solutions in doing things around the house. My guilt of being a burden is highlighted when I had to call my family (partner in Canada, parents on holiday and brother at the start of a hectic family half-term) and work whilst lying immobilised on a spinal board in A&E waiting for scan results, "so I've had a bit of an accident…I've definitely broken my leg, maybe my neck or back too…but don't worry, worst case scenario I might be in a neck and back brace and leg cast for a few weeks. No need to come, I'm all good. Got friends here. I'll figure a way home." Ignorance is bliss. 

It's fairly easy to deal with physical trauma. It's visible, manageable (not always fixable), somewhat predictable and externally observable. When it comes to emotional and psychological trauma, it's all internal and very individual. People only see what you can or are able to share. And you can only share what you can recognise or verbalise.

Certain statements would trigger me; I was hypervigilant to every word, emotion, reaction. I felt frustrated people didn't understand, frustrated at myself for over-analyzing; this wasn't me at all. I wanted to share every thought, every feeling, to allow people to understand but where do you even begin, they might not even want to know. So instead, when asked about recovery, I would simply reply, 'It's going.'

My physio and friend commented how I was 'so open to being vulnerable'. I wondered what this meant. I had no other option. I'm still not sure I fully understand but I guess I allowed myself the space and time to heal the mind, body and the soul. I'm also fortunate in those around me, as well as the absence of financial burden or dependents.

Looking back at the last eight months it feels like it's been the longest journey; yet when I get twinges of pain or feel like a geriatric bending down or getting out of bed, I have to remind myself it really hasn't been that long and to be proud of the hard work I've put in.

For those interested in the physical rehab, the first six weeks was slow, the neck brace and trauma from the leg and spinal surgery meant this period was focused on pain management, sleep, relearning to walk and foot and ankle range of movement. After release from the neck brace I had to add neck and spinal rehab along with regaining basic strength after the prolonged period of inactivity. At around 12 weeks I felt like I had enough energy and mobility to see an athletic therapist, who helped me focus on a return to sports.

From there it felt a bit relentless for a while; arm rehab, leg rehab, neck and spine rehab, strength days, mobility days, stretching, cardio and rest days. As I gradually re-introduced my usual activities, I weaned down on specific rehab days.  However, it's still an on-going journey with my left leg still weaker, some reduced range of movement and a whole lot more creakiness. 

I, myself, had predicted a long road to recovery, telling friends they'd have to rope-gun me on return to climbing and that this winter was a write-off yet somehow, I'm currently on a rest day from snowboarding and ice-climbing. There are still a few things I can't do yet, like run without feeling like I have a peg-leg, but I'll keep trying until I can!

I hope these words have given some insight into the non-observable side of trauma. If I had any personal advice for those on their own journey: shrink your world and focus on those most important to you; energy is finite, don't waste it. Only you can determine your own path. Allow yourself space to heal all three: mind, body and soul. And it is no weakness to ask for help, be it professional or from your post-lady, food delivery man or 70+ year-young neighbours. 

For those on the outside: you don't have to have the answers, you don't have to fix things, you often don't have to do anything. Just be there.

And last but not least: laughter is always the best medicine.