From picture frame to PTSD in 10 months...

Ward six, floor six. And the only ward that matches it's floor according to the porter who pushed me in here. Not sure I can handle layout logic just now.

'Cause I'm all over the place. I have no idea what's being pushed into me via the drip lines now but one of them's got some odd gadget that's either trying to make sure that either a certain dose of whatever's released or it's trying to physically pump it into me 'cause I can't/won't accommodate it. Either way, it's doing what it's doing at 100ml per hour.

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...but I don't remember much of it at all.

Brief burst of light as I'm taken out and them run 'round another maze of corridors as we get into the BRI.

Slight delay as Darren (ambulance paramedic) hands me over. People come and go, glance at my monitor, charts, bottle and then I'm ordered to be hauled away to "resuss".

This 'aint clever. Sign on the door reads "Resuscitation".

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Background noise. Doesn't seem worth it now but they're going to plug it in anyway, which is a bit of a feat 'cause they've run out of suitable veins to throw extra needles into - my blood pressure's so low that they can't get a vein to inflate.

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Tim's back too. Explains that 'cause the glass has come out and they're still not sure what it hit and was therefore blocking, they're going to have to go in and drain the blood off.

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This one's Tim. Brief handover conversation between him and Duncan over the CAT result which apparently shows that there's more "fluid" than there was on the X-Ray.

For the first time I hear a word that's going to be significant : "haemothorax"

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Name's Duncan. At least I've got something to work with - shouting "Nurse" or "Doctor" in a room full of 'em seems a bit random.

I can't remember how but I've also got an X-Ray. Doesn't look good if the opaque patch in the lower left corner's anything to go by. According to Duncan "there's some fluid in there".

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Not important really.

I'm wheeled into position in front of the relevant piece of kit.

Big, square, white-fronted box with an arrangement of grab handles 'round the side and a convenient cross-hair pattern in the middle of the box.

Think I can figure this out but I'm given some instructions by the radiologist anyway.

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'Cause my legs are hanging off the end of this one from my calf muscles down and the cramp's starting to set in.

Moron. What did you expect ? You're 6 foot 6 and these things aren't built to that length.

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They're agony.

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...before the impact and the noise wake me.

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Forgive me if the grey matter's outside its SLA for thinking services but I've been trying to work out a practical way to tell the story of what happened to me via the flashbacks. Inside a blog.

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Flashbacks. They started in mid-spetember 2006 and it was the first time that I knew something was very, very wrong.

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Everyday objects can kill you - it's common knowledge, isn't it ?

In my case, back in November 2005 it was a picture frame that nearly did it for me.

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