Head sliced with propeller!
The propeller sliced into his scalp.
Friday 15th August 2008
It's amazing how everything can change in a second. It was Sunday 15 July 2007, and my husband, Neil, and I were helping out at the local church, when a man dressed in a Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI) uniform came rushing in.
'Alistair's fallen overboard and cut his head badly,' he panted.
What on earth…?
Alistair was my 19-year-old son. His fellow crew members had hauled him back into the boat and called an ambulance, before heading for shore. No one seemed to know how he'd gone overboard, as the sea was completely calm. We hadn't seen him that morning, he'd got himself up and ready for training with the local RNLI lifeboat crew and left before we were up.
I knew it could be dangerous, but being in the RNLI was a family tradition, and one we were proud of. Our older son, Ian, 24, was also a member of the RNLI.
'My heroes,' I'd tease, proudly.
Although Ian and our daughter, Sharon, 27, had left home, Alistair still lived with me and his dad, Neil, 52.
Fun-loving and adventurous, he'd been training with the crew for the past two years, joining up just after his 17th birthday — the minimum age. It was a big commitment, but one he was happy to take on. If he overslept and missed his shift, lives would be in danger, and if he was on call, he wasn't allowed to leave Kinghorn in case he was needed to rescue a boat or swimmer.
And that wasn't his only job. He also worked as a doorman at the local bingo hall. And later that year, Alistair was planning to study hospitality management at one of the local colleges.
That day, the crew were taking part in a training exercise in a rescue craft. It wasn't even a real rescue, but Alistair was hurt.
'We've got to go!' I said, grabbing my handbag and racing out the
door with Neil.
Panicked, we drove to Queen Margaret Hospital, Kirkcaldy.
'It's serious,' the doctor there told us.
My heart raced as I was told that the propeller blade at the back of the boat had cut through Alistair's helmet, splitting open the top of his head. It was so serious that he was transferred to the Western General Hospital in Edinburgh for surgery. We followed in our car, silent with fear. Then, we paced the corridors desperate for news.
At 6pm, the surgeon came out and invited us into her office. I could tell from her sombre expression it wasn't good news.
'The propeller has sliced deeply into Alistair's skull,' she said.
'It's done a lot of damage.'
I listened in horror as the surgeon told us that Alistair would have paralysis down the right side of his body, as well as loss of sight, maybe in both eyes. He'd also lose his comprehension and speech.
'Will he learn to speak again?' I asked.
'I doubt it,' the surgeon replied. 'That part of his brain is too badly damaged.'
There was more to come.
'I'm afraid that his chances of survival are just 50 per cent,' she
said gently. Too shocked to cry, I clung to Neil as we went to see Alistair. Sedated, he was unconscious and his head was bandaged.
'Oh love,' I said, holding his hand.
Neil and I stayed in special accommodation at the Western General Hospital, stunned at what had happened.
It was two weeks before the doctors started to lift the sedation drugs that were keeping Alistair in his coma. I didn't know what to expect. Would he be frightened? Would he even know who I was?
'Alistair?' I said softly, as I stood at his bedside. 'It's me, Mum.'
He looked up at me and, to my absolute delight, I saw a flicker
of recognition in his eyes. But there was a long way to go. As feared, the right side of Alistair's body was paralysed and he couldn't see out of his right eye.
Then, one morning, a few days after coming out of his coma, I noticed movement in his toes.
'Did you see that?' I asked Neil, not trusting my eyes.
'Yes!' he cried.
Alistair's recovery started to snowball. Within two days, and with the help of physiotherapy, he started to move both arms and, a little later, he was standing with the aid of two nurses.
'You're doing so well,' I beamed.
So much so, that at the start of August, he was transferred back to Queen Margaret's for a week, before moving on to Cameron Hospital's rehab centre to continue physiotherapy. There, he began to walk unaided. Then, he started to talk. And on 31 August, less than seven weeks since his terrible accident, Alistair was allowed home.
Of course, his life has changed. Alistair can't work at the moment, and college has been put on hold, but he's back on his feet and his speech is coming on brilliantly. He's disappointed that he can't work with the RNLI any more, but he's shown us all the meaning of the word hero.