In January, Newstalk ZB radio host D'Arcy Waldegrave banged his head on a door frame and was off work for seven weeks. Photo / Sylvie Whinray.
In January, Newstalk ZB radio host D'Arcy Waldegrave banged his head on a door frame and was off work for seven weeks. Photo / Sylvie Whinray.
It's like a front rower's injury.
That was my prognosis after concussing myself. Of course it was far from the murky depths of the mythical tight five where I crunched myself. And crunched myself good.
In late January, I belted the top of my head on a low under-house doorframe as I sprang out with the tools I needed to fix a gate. Bang. It stunned me a bit, but I thought nothing of it, I've bashed my head before and I was fine. Not this time. I felt awful at work the next day, went to the doc and was stood down with a physiological concussion. I thought it'd be a week or two, but it would be seven weeks before I'd get the green light to return to the studio.
The specialist explained to me that my C1 and C2 vertebrae twisted on impact, trapping and crushing the trigeminal nerve and the superior cervical ganglion.
The result was an extended break from work as I slowly moved through the set concussion protocol laid down for me.
Sure, I don't do a lot. I write a bit, I pollute the airwaves at Newstalk ZB with my own brand of sport comment and I interview a shed load of athletes. How could a seemingly innocuous crack on the noggin interfere with that?
I found out.
Sensitivity to light, headaches, constant nagging temple pressure (akin to having somebody squeezing your temples 24/7), inability to concentrate, constantly tired, memory lapses, the inability to select words (not great for a broadcaster), delayed basic comprehension, drowsiness, short temper and feeling like I'd been on the turps all night every morning when I woke.
This I'm told is standard fare for the concussed. I count myself fortunate that I didn't experience other symptoms, like blacking out or vomiting. I have full memory of the unfortunate blow.
During the lengthy recovery period, consisting of rest, limited access to screen and literature, I had plenty of time to sit and contemplate. Couple that with an enforced break from the joys of craft beer, I started to dance with an unforeseen side effect. The genuine belief that the injury may spell the end of my career. That was the scariest part. I live with depression, medicate for it and have no qualms sharing my story, it's not unusual after all. But when that pre-existing condition is coupled with a damaged head and career anxiety, it's not pleasant, scary even. The thought that everything I had worked for could be taken from me.
Talkback radio show host D'Arcy Waldegrave on air presenting his afternoon show on the Radio Sport network in 2007. Photo / Martin Sykes.
I kept busy to stop myself peering into the pit of anxiety. My house was spotless! Extended time alone with nothing but the whirr and spin of your conspiratorial mind can build an alarming framework of self-doubt. On one hand, I was told I'd be fine, I'd get back to normal. On the other hand, I was slapped with the foggy reality that no concussion is the same and no one really knows what the end game looks like.
I talk and scribble for a crust, so when I did return I wasn't exactly sticking my head into a lion's mouth for a weekly pay cheque, unlike professional collision sport athletes. The more I pondered the reality of rugby players re-entering the fray, returning to the scene of the crime, the more I empathised with their plight. These players are courageous. These players rely on their carcasses to survive.
These players only well know the clear and present threat of concussion. When they succumb to the inevitable (in a sport which is played with such alarming ferocity at velocity), knowing the end of the recovery journey will pitch them straight back into the very fray that initiated the cloudy, shapeless phantom of head knocks, must be an extraordinary future to make peace with. Not if, when. Not how, just how bad. The spectre of later life implications must always be rattling its chains.
I was lucky.
Slowly - I'm still amazed at the glacial pace of recovery - I returned to a mind that I knew. I became more active, rediscovered the simple joys of a neighbourhood walk. I eased back into the tyranny of the gym. I grazed through books. I reintroduced myself to the magic of televised sport. My screen time allowances increased. The brain, the complex muscle that it is, was gradually rewiring as I gently pushed it back into full action. Alcohol abstinence, as well as saving me a fair chunk of change, also encouraged my abdominal muscles to show themselves again after years of hiding in middle-aged spread.
I was at the mild end of the concussion scale. I was well looked after by Dr Kara and my physio. NZME (my employer) was extremely empathetic and helpful. ACC was easy to deal with, forthcoming financially and with my return-to-work protocol. To the best of my knowledge, I'm fully recovered.
The experience has been valuable. Unexpected, unwelcome, but I learned plenty. I can't even start to understand how athletes, who suffer multiple concussions, have the heart, stamina or intestinal fortitude to go back into full contact after their experience.
The fear of repeating the dose must be paralysing. The anxiety from friends and whānau. The apprehension from coaches and teammates. This must be a constant in the sporting world. A shadow I'm pleased I don't live under. As I discovered though, concussion chooses its allies indiscriminately, and the relationship is difficult to define and pin down. It can and does happen to any of us, in all walks of life.
I'm no medic, so advice from me comes with an asterisk. If you end up in the clutches of concussion, take it seriously, do what doc says. If you know someone who is going through that passage, show them love, compassion and understanding. It's a strange and uncertain place and people need all the help and encouragement they can get.
