There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed.

 

~ Napoleon Bonaparte

 

Prologue

 

My relationship with gravity is complex.

 

Ever since I almost died on the Matterhorn two years ago, my approach to physical risk has changed.

 

As a young man, I had an entirely different risk appetite to what I do now. High risk adventure sports – like mountaineering, climbing, racing mountain bikes down hills, skydiving and riding motorbikes were a regular part of my life before a big fall that also finished me.

 

Now, my appetite to take the same risks has been sated, but for how long – I don’t know for certain. I still dream of big mountains and that feeling of elation when you’re stood on a summit after months of planning and the hours spent plodding uphill.

 

But the memories of months in hospital are also still very fresh, as are the scars on the leg where six centimetres of tibia (aka your shin bone) were removed when it became infected. I still have the external fixator which acted like scaffolding to prevent weight going through the soft bone as it grew back.

 

These two opposing feelings (of desire to climb mountains, and the painful memories of hospital), jostle like wrestlers - one occasionally taking a dominate position, but then gets flipped into a submissive position by the counteracting feeling.

 

What’s changed

 

Against the uncertain backdrop of a pandemic: I’ve still managed to move forward, albeit slower:

 

I completed a HNC in creative media (kindly subsidised by the charity, Royal British Legion (RBL)); moved house back to London and in with my partner; passed the ‘GAMSAT’ (the graduate entry medicine test for some UK medical schools) and spent countless hours making graphic design assets (logos, posters etc) for friends, companies, charities and endeavours.

 

However, I’ve also experienced the loss of a grandparent, seen the difficulties unfold in central Asian countries I care deeply about (and stood at the side-lines feeling helpless), and have seen a close university friend almost perish in a sporting accident. I guess this period resembles a rollercoaster unlike any other.

 

For much of the first year after the accident, the pandemic had removed liberties at the same rate at which I was able to start enjoying them again during my recovery. I called this ‘dynamic equilibrium’ after the term describing a similar state in chemistry.

 

Traversing the nadir

 

Things now look a lot better over the last 12 months ago, where I started traversing the ‘nadir’ (a term borrowed from Astronomy to describe the lowest point of a star or planet). I had the frame still attached to my leg, many days working with challenging personalities, and the country collectively endured multiple long lockdowns, social upheaval, and fiscal uncertainty.

 

Ultimately, I learned that when you’re recovering from a traumatic injury and undergoing a complex recovery process (such as osteogenesis), it’s the very time when you need to be around the people you love. If I’m successful in my plan to transition into medicine, I’ll keep this in mind as a (medical) doctor.

 

The last 24 months forced me to look closely at my lifestyle

 

Recovering during a global pandemic isn’t fun. It holds a mirror up to you, for you to see yourself warts and all – there’s no hiding.

 

But this isn’t a bad thing. I realised what is important at this stage of my life and what things I shouldn’t worry so much about.

 

I found I had to let go of my pride I’d built and ask people for help, which has pushed me to grow from the lesser person I was before the accident. Of course, I will repay their kindness and generosity over time – and support others when they’re in a state of unforeseen flux.

 

Epilogue

 

Impact multiplied by likelihood equals the risk. But for me now, the payoff for taking risks must dramatically outweigh the possible outcomes. This is true of everything, however now the desire to stand atop of summit has a much stronger opponent; the memories of the last two years – which makes me think deeper about risks for much longer than I did before.

 

This is a good thing.

 

I do suspect these memories will fade with time; however, they serve to remind what happens when it does go wrong – and who you can count on.

 

My ‘second birthday’ (the day I awoke from the coma) will come around in seven days and now it serves as a stocktake of my life, to help me put things into context.