Whatever Happened To... Paul Montague, who had Britain's biggest blood transfusion?

Wednesday 22nd August 2007

More than 700 people helped save Paul Montague's life when he was in a near-fatal accident. So what's his life like now?

It isn't always easy to admit, but everyone needs a little help from time to time. Well, in April 1993, I needed more than a little help. I was crushed under the wheels of a 30 tonne truck and needed 718 units of blood to help me pull through.

The papers went to town. 'Desperate plea for blood as supplies run out', they wrote. I'd pushed the National Blood Service to breaking point.

The day of the accident couldn't have been more normal. I was cycling to my job as a PE teacher at Kidbrooke School when I felt the rumbling of concrete under my wheels. I'd been riding bikes through London for years and knew that meant a lorry was coming up behind me.

I felt the truck getting closer, thundering towards me. My brain was screaming, but my legs were rooted to the spot. Then - wham! My bike vanished from under me.

Crashing to the ground, I felt like a tiny fly being swatted as the huge wheels rolled over me. The smell of burning rubber stung my eyes and darkness engulfed me. Blinking awake again, I focused on the green suit of a paramedic. Intense pain jabbed through my back.
'My bike?' I croaked, but the look on the paramedic's face told me I had far bigger problems.

I drifted in and out of consciousness as the ambulance tore through the streets to Greenwich District Hospital. The agony was unbearable. Every organ in my body felt like it had been squashed flat.

When I woke up again, I was in intensive care.
'What happened?' I whispered.
'You've been unconscious for six weeks,' a doctor said.
Six weeks!

As he reeled off the list of my injuries, I couldn't believe I was alive. My shoulder was broken, my pelvis shattered and I had three spinal fractures. My liver, kidneys and bladder had all been flattened and every single rib was broken. My right leg had almost been torn from my body, and was only held on by my cycling shorts. A brace held my pelvis together and I had pins supporting the snapped bones in my legs.

But what I heard next was the most shocking of all.
'You needed 594 pints of blood,' the doctor said.
It was the biggest blood transfusion anyone had ever received in the UK.

Sadly, it was still 50/50 whether I would live or die. I wanted to stay positive, but it wasn't easy. Just a month before, I'd had a busy life. Now I spent all day flat on my back, unable to even sit up and watch telly.

But, in my darkest hours, I always had people there to cheer me up.
'Well done, son,' Dad said. 'We're all really proud.'
Even the doctors and nurses on the ward had a laugh with me when they were on their rounds.
'Haven't you got a home to go to?' they'd say.

Soon, one sister from intensive care became particularly close. Marianne Long, 28, often popped in after her shift for a chat, and I found myself looking forward to seeing her kind smile. When I was taken from intensive care to a general ward after two-and-a-half months, in July 1993, she still visited.

'You're not getting rid of me that easily,' she joked in her Irish accent.
I loved spending time with her, and thought she was gorgeous but I could hardly ask her out for a drink in my state! So I decided to bide my time.

Finally, I began physiotherapy. Being upright again was strange after eight months flat on my back. But soon, with a combination of determination and top-notch support, I could get around.

And in May 1994, 13 painful months after my accident, I went home. Back at my parents' house, I tried to get used to life on the outside world. I was home, but it was a world away from the place I'd left. With no job and no sports to play, I felt more down than I ever had on the ward. But, one day, the doorbell rang.
'Don't you know the NHS do home visits?' Marianne grinned, holding a bag of grapes.

I invited her in and, an hour later, we were talking 10 to the dozen. Soon she was popping in almost every day and, without either of us really noticing, our friendship had grown into a romance.

A year later, in May 1995, I moved back to the house I'd lived in before the accident. It was strange being alone for the first time in two years. But Marianne came to visit often and, six months on, she'd practically moved in.

So, in August 1998, I decided to show her what she meant to me.
'Marry me?' I asked, getting down on one knee. Her eyes shining with tears, she accepted.
We decided to hold the ceremony in Killarney Cathedral, County Kerry, where she grew up.

We married on 28 August 1999.
'I knew we'd get here,' Marianne whispered, as we made our way out of the church as man and wife. Isn't it incredible how life can turn out?

I'm so grateful for the incredible support and kindness I've received. From the 718 strangers who donated their blood, to my parents, my friends, the doctors and nurses and, of course, Marianne.

Every week Pick Me Up revisits people who made the headlines in the past. Check out our other fascinating follow ups

Whatever happened to... Britain's first ASBO mum?

Whatever happened To... The Teletubbies?

Whatever Happened To... jilted bride Marylin Woodcock?

Whatever Happened To... James Bulger's Mum?

See full index of Real Lives!