Southampton General Hospital and the blue bin lorry

On Thursday, 9 June 2022, at a little after two-thirty, Commando got his cycling gear on and said he was going out for a couple of hours. I told him to enjoy his ride and take care, and then he left. When I saw him go past the front window on his bike, I settled down for an afternoon of research into my next project. Mostly this involved downloading Met Office weather reports for April 1942. I’d come to the last report, and was thinking about what to cook for dinner when the house phone rang. The only people who call on the house phone are salesmen and scammers, so we don’t usually answer it. It was now approaching five o’clock. I was expecting Commando back shortly. For some reason, I had a feeling I should pick up the phone. When I did, Commando’s voice said, ‘I don’t want you to worry but . . .’

Those are never reassuring words. He was rambling about falling off his bike. He said he didn’t know what had happened, but some ladies were looking after him. I kept asking him where he was, but he didn’t seem to know. Then a female voice came onto the line. Her name was Julie. She said Commando had had an accident on his bike, but he was safe, and an ambulance was on the way.

The next hour or two are a jumble of fear and frustration. Frantic phone calls, a dash around the house picking up random things I thought I might need, a long wait for a taxi and an interminable journey fearing the worst. After a false start at Main Reception, I walked around to A&E. Truth to tell, this was what I should have done in the first place, but I wasn’t thinking straight. Turns out, I wasn’t the only one.

The receptionist at A&E looked at her computer and made a call. She told me Commando was being assessed, but I could go and see him if I put on a mask. So there I was, blind, with my steamed-up glasses, being ushered through doors and corridors to a bay of beds. Commando was in one of them, looking rather the worse for wear but alive. Given some of the things that had been going through my head, this seemed like a bonus.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ he said.
This didn’t strike me as particularly strange. It’s often the case with accidents. I took his hand and told him not to worry, then, to cheer him up, I gave him his mobile phone.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked.
I told him about the taxi and how it had been late.
‘Where’s my bike?’ he asked.
I told him it was safe at the house he’d been taken to, and the kind man there was going to drop it off later. Then, he looked at the phone in his hand with a puzzled expression. ‘Where did I get this from?’ he said.
‘I just gave it to you,’ I told him, feeling a twinge of alarm.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked.
I told him about the taxi again.
‘Where’s my bike?’ he asked.
That was when I knew something was badly wrong.

What followed was a strange repetitive conversation. He didn’t know what had happened. He didn’t remember going out on his bike. He didn’t remember Julie, the lady who had found him. He didn’t remember the house he’d been taken to, the ambulance, me arriving, how I got there, where his phone came from, or where his bike was. He began to get agitated because his Garmin wasn’t on his wrist. The poor nurse was about to contact the ambulance crew to see if they had it, then he remembered he’d been on his bike, not running, so he hadn’t been wearing it. They were worried about him having a bleed on his brain and fractures, so they took him off for a CT scan. I had to go outside and wait.

I spent an hour or more outside A&E, talking to random people, pacing, making phone calls to family and friends, drinking coffee from the Costa in Main Reception and worrying. One of those calls was to the man from the house Commando had been taken into. He had offered to bring the bike round later in the evening. I rang him to let him know I wouldn’t be home for some time. He said he’d drop it round the next day. Then he asked after Commando and said he had been worried about being late for his shift at the aircraft factory in Hamble. That was when I realised the memory loss was far worse than I’d thought. He hasn’t worked there for quite some time. It occurred to me that he might not even remember I was waiting outside.

I finally got home at half-past nine. Commando was still waiting for his CT scan, but it was clear they weren’t going to let him go home, and I wouldn’t be allowed back in to see him. I spent the remainder of the evening on the phone. Talking to my sons, fielding texts from friends, or replying to Commando’s texts telling him all the things I’d already told him, over and over again. At around one o’clock, I went to bed. I still hadn’t eaten, but my stomach was too knotted for food. I took my phone to bed, just in case. At a little after two o’clock, a message from family in Australia would have woken me — if I’d actually managed to get to sleep.

Friday was another hectic day, beginning at 6:46 with a text from Commando followed by a call. The CT scan was clear, which was a relief, and he wasn’t repeating himself as much. After fielding more texts and messages, I rang Julie, the lady who was now in my phone contacts as Julie Road Accident. She had asked me to let her know how Commando was, but I was the one who came away with the most information. It turned out she had actually witnessed the accident. A blue bin-type lorry had passed too close to him. He’d been forced into the kerb and gone over his handlebars. The lorry driver had stopped, so he had obviously realised what he’d done. While Julie was tending to Commando, though, he’d driven off. Sadly, she didn’t get a registration number, but her 999 call gave her an exact time and place. It had happened on Winchester Road, not far from the Chilworth roundabout.

The next hour was spent calling the police. There was talk of looking at CCTV footage. How many blue bin-type lorries could there have been in the area at 15:51 on a Thursday afternoon? As it turns out, we will never know. The police officer in charge of the case came up with nothing. He spoke to Julie, but the word of one witness isn’t enough to go on, apparently. ‘We only have one side of the story,’ he said. It seemed clear to me that leaving the scene of an accident spoke volumes, but what do I know?

True to his word, the man from the house brought Commando’s bike to me. There was barely a scratch on it. There was hardly a mark on his cycling helmet either. His head appears to have taken the full impact. He has a bad concussion, but without a helmet, it could have been a very different story. Thankfully, his memory is slowly returning, although he still can’t recall the accident or being taken into the house.

They kept him in hospital until Sunday afternoon. I think he was too entertaining to let go, but in the end, the amount of food he was getting through was a bit of a drain on the NHS. His face is still a mess, and he still has a few memory issues, although I think he’s putting some of them on to wind me up. Despite this, I’m glad to have him home.

Accidents like this give an insight into human nature. The kindness of the strangers who stopped to help and took such good care of a rambling, confused cyclist can never be repaid. The concern and offers of help from our many friends is humbling. There are good, kind, honest people in the world, and I’m glad I know so many of them.

On the other hand, it’s a shame the driver of the blue bin-type lorry was such an impatient coward. I’d have liked a little word with him. If, by some chance, he stumbles upon this post, I hope it gives him pause to think about his actions. His impatience and lack of consideration for other road users could easily have resulted in a man losing his life. He may be congratulating himself on getting away Scot-free and keeping his licence and job. I’d like to remind him that there is no honour in running away from the mess you have caused. There is no humanity in leaving someone lying in the road. Hopefully, he will be more careful of cyclists in future. Either way, I hope he remembers that karma is a bitch, and it always gets you in the end.

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