The first few hours at the hospital are a drugged blur. Many doctors, many questions, people coming and going. Forms to fill in — my name, date of birth, where I was born, where I live. Discussions happened above me, about me, but not including me. I tried to focus and listen, but it was hard, especially in French. I’ve never had much need for medical vocabulary.
Several times I heard references to “le bloc” and struggled to understand. Eventually it clicked: “le bloc” (bloc opératoire) was the operating theatre.
One doctor asked me about the crash and even chatted a little about flying. At one point I became very confused, convinced the doctors were suddenly speaking Spanish. The same doctor who’d just spoken to me in French was now chatting to a colleague in Italian — they both were.
I asked if someone could help me contact my wife. “Do you have a phone?” one of them asked.
“Yes, in my trousers.”
They produced a bag of shredded, bloodied clothing, everything cut from me at the airfield. My favourite t-shirt. My trousers weren’t there. No phone either.
An anaesthesiologist came to see me. He seemed less hurried than the others, so I asked him for help. It was late afternoon by now. The last Vanessa had heard from me was around 10 a.m., when we’d been planning to set off from Corlier. She’d be worrying.
It was difficult to get her number right. She uses her UK mobile, the only one I could remember, but repeating it in French while trying to concentrate was agonising. He read it back, but in the French cadence, numbers in pairs, not the English grouping of three. Was that right? Had I got the 3 and the 5 the wrong way round? My head spun.
“It’s ringing,” he said at last. We waited. Nothing. No answer, no voicemail. It just rang and rang. Incredibly frustrating. Had we even dialled the right number?
Eventually a colleague whispered to him. “Time to head to the bloc. The surgeon is ready.”
There was a whirl of activity as the anaesthetic was prepared, blood pressure taken, others fussing around. “Here we go,” said the anaesthesiologist as hot liquid flooded my left arm. But the cuff was still inflated, and immediately my forearm felt on fire. I think I cried out and tried to sit up. They spotted the problem at once, whipped the cuff off — and I was out like a light.
When I awoke I was utterly confused. Where was I? What had happened? Someone explained: the operation on my leg was done and successful. My lip had been stitched too, as had a fleshy wound on one finger. I’d noticed that at the crash site but dismissed it as minor compared to everything else.
The rest of that day is a haze. I was put in a little single room on the Emergency Ward. People came and went, checking blood pressure, temperature, giving tablets, injecting things. It wasn’t until the next morning that I could really take stock.
I was woken and offered breakfast, but didn’t want anything. “But you must have something,” a sweet but insistent nurse told me. “Coffee, chocolate?”
Chocolate sounded OK. She offered me little biscuits to dip in.
“I’ll try,” I promised, pointing to my stitched and scabbed mouth.
I fell asleep again before finishing the chocolate, only to be woken soon after for a bed bath.
Still anxious to reach Vanessa, I asked another nurse for help. “Yes, after our rounds,” she said. But nobody came back. Finally I pressed the call button in frustration.
“She probably thinks I’m dead by now!” I insisted. “She hasn’t heard from me since yesterday morning.”
The nurse relented, fetching her own phone. But when I gave Vanessa’s number she frowned. “Oh no, I can’t make calls to foreign numbers.” Then her face lit up. “WhatsApp!”
And suddenly Vanessa was on the line. Relief flooded both of us. She already knew about the accident and was on her way to Lyon. She knew which hospital I was in, had booked a nearby hotel, and would be with me mid-afternoon.
“Visiting hours don’t begin until midday,” the nurse reminded me.
Vanessa arrived later, her worried face softening at once. “You don’t look half as bad as I imagined. An Italian doctor told me you had a hole in your face.”
We were both so relieved. Her hug was careful. I must have looked weak and frail. She’d brought a spare phone, and we set it up so we could be in contact directly. It was so wonderful to see her. Her visit was short - she had to check in to her hotel nearby - but she came back again for the early evening.
She told me she had to meet a policeman at Lyon Airport the following morning. He was running the investigation into the crash and had my phone and wallet, recovered from the wreckage. That would make life easier. She promised to return the next afternoon before heading home.
I fell asleep again almost immediately after she left.
The day had flown by in a medicated, emotional haze.
Throughout the night I was woken again on a regular basis - more blood pressure checks, more pills. I always fell asleep again very quickly.
Looking back now, those five hospital days are fuzzy. But at the time I remember feeling sharp, focused, as if I was keeping on top of things.
I spoke by phone with one of JL’s close friends, who was helping with logistics. JL was in another hospital, his injuries worse than mine — broken femur, ribs, internal injuries. His spirits sounded low. Later, I had to ask Vanessa where I’d even been when that call took place, and what language I’d spoken in. I couldn’t recall.
After three days on the emergency ward, a nurse told me there would be “a change of service.” I couldn’t understand. New bedding? A different nursing team? Different meals? She looked at me as if I were stupid. “You’re going to another service. We need this bed in Emergencies.” Ah. I was being transferred.
Two orderlies rolled me out in my bed, my first glimpse of the corridor outside. Into a lift, down below ground, where endless corridors stretched in all directions. It was clearly a vast hospital. Old, functional, peeling paint, plaster missing in places. A quiet world of beds and equipment moving slowly under the massive buildings above.
I made sure to note my new room number so I could tell Vanessa. I was surprised to still have a room to myself. Cheery new nurses bustled in — blood tests, pain questions, drugs. I settled quickly into the familiar rhythm.
The next morning, Thursday, I was told I would be going home on Friday.
“My home?” I asked. “Not another hospital near home?”
“Yes, yes, your home.” Great.
Later two cheerful young men arrived. “Do you remember me?” one asked.
I stalled. “Err, yes…”
“We tried to phone your wife.” Ah yes, the anaesthesiologist. With him was the surgeon who had operated on my leg — young, friendly, efficient. I thanked him warmly.
“We've actually met already,” he said. “When your lip was being stitched.” I had no memory of that at all.
He carefully removed the bandages and padding from my leg. I looked at my knee in horror. A long row of twenty or more metal staples ran vertically up my kneecap.
“That looks great,” he said. “No infection. Very clean.”
“What about my knee? Is it damaged?”
“Not at all. That’s just where we inserted the pin into your tibia. Here, look.” He showed me the X-ray. Grim.
“Right, we’ll send you to be fitted for your boot, and you can go home tomorrow.”
They swept off, leaving nurses to clean up.
I’d imagined a plaster cast, but after another trip through the underground maze, they fitted me with an open fibreglass cast — removable at home, but absolutely non-weight bearing. Six weeks with my leg elevated.
It all felt like being processed by a machine. Each department did its part, passed me on. Surgery. Emergency care. Osteo ward. Casting. The folder went everywhere, read by each person before they did their task. If I asked a question, the reply was often, “You’d have to ask [other department]. We just do [this] here.”
I was so tired most of the time, it felt easier to surrender to the rhythm, let the process happen.
On Friday morning I was given a four-legged walking frame and was assisted to shuffle around my room a little. “No weight at all on that foot,” they warned.
My ambulance ride home was set for midday. While waiting, I heard the helicopter starting up on the roof. I hobbled to the window, opened the blinds and leaned out carefully.
The red-and-yellow machine lifted into view over my building, banking gracefully as it accelerated away. I raised a hand in thanks, knowing nobody could see me. Gratitude swept through me, for the people inside, but also for the beautiful flying machine itself.
“Thank you,” I whispered, tears welling.
My hospital journey was ending. But that helicopter was on its way to begin the same process all over again for someone else.
In the first image above, my room for the second part of my stay was centre right of the image on the ground floor, perfect for seeing the helicopter as it rose away from the pad. The second image is from Microsoft Flight Simulator - looks like you could pilot the helicopter from the roof yourself in a virtual world.