Fabrice Muamba: I'm Still Standing Page 13

  “The good news is that we have got his heart working eventually but it is very early days,” he says. “He may not wake up and even if he does then there is a risk he will be brain damaged. We have to wait and see.”

  After a cardiac arrest, patients are put in cold storage for at least 24 hours and I’m no different. Your body is basically shut down to give your organs a chance to take a breather and prepare for the fight ahead. The team looking after me have cooled down many, many people in their careers. Peter’s hunch that a cath lab is the best place for me looks better by the minute.

  At 8pm it’s time for me to move into intensive care even if my chances are laughably small. This isn’t a five-minute job and I’m connected to a mobile ventilator for the trip to the first floor.

  Dr Deaner searches around for a pen as he realises he’s not taken a single note so far this evening. Why would he? He should be unchaining his bike about now, not wiping my blood off his theatre blues.

  He begins to note down what’s happened while discussing with Dr Mohiddin whether a balloon pump, which helps improve the flow of the blood through the arteries, will be needed. They try and get as much advice as they can from everyone in the cath lab but both agree that at the moment any heavy-duty surgery is a waste of time. My heart is actually doing ok. How long that will last nobody knows. In intensive care, heavy sedative drugs enter my bloodstream through a drip while a cooling blanket is laid on me to make my body temperature plummet. The doctors call it ‘therapeutic hypothermia’.

  At the same time, Shauna and Suki jump into a silver Mercedes at Euston and begin the journey to the London Chest Hospital. It’s raining and gloomy as Shauna sits in the back repeating the same line over and over again. “I hope he’s alive,” she is telling Suki. “I just hope he’s alive.”

  Warwick has beaten Shauna to London by about 45 minutes after a journey full of bad phone reception, confusion as to where I’m heading, plus several calls from journalists, all trying to find out what is happening.

  He is in complete professional mode and is refusing to let the situation get to him. What do I need? What does Shauna need? What does dad need? How do we manage the media? Which hotel are we all going to stay in tonight?

  When he arrived at Euston he had 35 missed calls. This is a man in demand. He’s already walked into the hospital and seen the gaffer, who is in total shock, in reception. He’s already spoken to Dr Tobin who doesn’t wrap it up.

  “I might as well tell you this straight,” Dr Tobin says.

  “I don’t think he’s going to survive and if he does his chances of not being brain damaged are this,” he adds, holding his fingers an inch apart to show Warwick that I’m in serious trouble.

  Dr Mohiddin has the same opinion as Dr Tobin. And when he speaks to dad he has to tell him what he thinks, as sympathetically as he can. Dr Mohiddin doesn’t know how much medical experience dad has or whether he watches every hospital drama on telly and believes that someone can always be saved.

  At this moment in time it looks like my chances are tiny.

  Dr Mohiddin has the perfect opportunity to build up a relationship with dad because they are next-door neighbours. Dr Mohiddin was born in Kampala in Uganda, not too far from where dad was born in Congo. So the two of them stand there, in a hospital in Bethnal Green, discussing my condition in Swahili. Can this night get any stranger?

  “Is he still alive?” are Shauna’s first words when she sees Warwick, who gives her a hug. He’s organised for her car to sneak in through the back entrance to avoid the ever growing number of reporters who are gathering at the front of the hospital.

  “Yes, he’s still alive,” says Warwick. Shauna is the coolest person in London right about now. She knows she needs to be positive, strong and there for me. Crying won’t solve anything at the moment.

  She walks up to intensive care and says hi to some visitors who have started turning up. Comedian Eddie Kadi is a good mate of mine and is here, as is my team-mate Tyrone Mears. The gaffer, and our press guy, Mark Alderton, are also in there. Tyrone had been injured for today’s game and was still in the north-west when I collapsed.

  The first thing he did was jump in his car and head to London.

  Owen sends Kevin home but the gaffer wants him to be available on his mobile at all times. Owen knows that the guys want rapid updates and it’s better if Kevin goes back with them so Owen can contact him with any important information, which he can then spread around. There’s no point both of them knowing what’s happening but the rest of the team being clueless.

  Shauna comes into intensive care to see me along with Warwick. She needs all her strength but it’s all too much. I’m freezing cold and I look dead. Tubes are hanging out of every part of me.

  Shauna bursts into tears, places her head on Warwick’s shoulder and shouts “it’s not Fab, it’s not Fab, it doesn’t look like Fab”. She grabs my hand and squeezes tightly, feeling my rapidly cooling palms. “I’m here now, I’m here now, Fab, you’re gonna be ok.”

  She sits next to me and speaks to the intensive care nurse hovering at the end of my bed. “He doesn’t deserve this,” she tells her. “He’s a good man, a good father, he gives money to the church, he’s a good human being. Why has this happened to my Fab? If anything it should be me in that bed – he’s way nicer than me.”

  She would give everything she owns, everything in the bank, everything that football has given her back in an instant, just to have me sit up and smile.

  After the initial shock she flicks a switch and enters whirlwind mode. She kisses me on the lips, shoots back into the waiting room and picks up a Bible from family friend Mariama who has turned up. She comes back in, holds my hand again and she starts reading psalms to me for an hour. I read the Bible every day. She knows this is comforting me, even if I’m too cold, too ill to say it. Shauna feels far better after reading to me and her confidence rises. She comes out and tells everybody to go home, there’s nothing they can do tonight, their prayers are very helpful but she understands if people want to leave.

  Dad is downstairs talking to someone important.

  He’s in the hospital’s prayer room asking God for help. Shauna walks in and Uncle Paul is also in there along with a few of dad’s Congolese mates. He sees Shauna and his faith is rock solid. “They gave me a leaflet about how to cope with somebody affected by a cardiac arrest,” he tells Shauna. “I’ve thrown it in the bin. He’s going to be absolutely fine. I know that he’s going to be absolutely fine.”

  Meanwhile, Owen has gone on a shopping spree.

  “That’ll be £104 please mate,” the newsagent says.

  “No problem,” Owen replies.

  The gaffer is stood in the only shop he can find open after midnight, buying six toothbrushes, six deodorants, six toothpastes, crisps, chocolate and a ton of other stuff for himself and the rest of the Bolton crew who have just left the hospital with him – Dr Tobin, Andy Mitchell, Mark Alderton, Tyrone and club journalist Rob Urbani.

  The only clothes they’ve got are the ones they’re stood up in.

  The newsagent looks at the gaffer with a curious smile on his face. He sees the ‘OC’ initials on his jumper and works the rest out himself.

  “So, you’re from Bolton then?” he asks. “Good luck with everything, our prayers are with you.”

  They all get back to the hotel and Owen stands in the lobby handing out toothbrush after toothbrush, Coke can after Coke can, trying to work out how today has come to this.

  “See you in the morning,” Shauna says and kisses me again. She leaves at 4am with Suki and dad and they head for the Malmaison hotel in Farringdon. Warwick left an hour ago to try and get some sleep. He knows he faces one of the most important days of his life in a few hours time.

  Don’t we all.

  Shauna and Suki collapse in bed as I lie frozen stiff overnight. I’m in no-man’s land at the moment. Not dying, not living. Not getting better, not getting worse.

  At breakfas
t, Shauna gets eggs on toast and fruit salad but pushes them both away. There’s no way she can eat. Dad repeats what he said yesterday. He is a quiet man but gets his point across easily. “I know he’s going to be ok. I believe that God will not let us down. We will all be fine.”

  As Owen travels to the hospital his phone beeps to let him know he’s got a text message. He doesn’t recognise the number.

  ‘Hi Owen, it’s David Beckham here,’ it reads.

  ‘I’m devastated by the news. I just want to know how Fabrice is. We’re all thinking of him. If you get a moment and could let me know what’s happening I’d be grateful. Thanks, David.’

  David has tracked down Owen’s number from somebody and wanted to pass on his best, wanted to join the millions of others hoping I can survive.

  Everyone arrives at the hospital, all desperate for news but there isn’t much to report. The fact I’m still alive is more than anyone can hope for at this moment in time. The corridor and small waiting room outside intensive care are slowly filling up with family and friends desperate for information.

  The good news is that there isn’t any bad news.

  Owen gives Shauna a cuddle and does his best to find the words to comfort her. She comes back in to say hello to me and she’s more prepared this time. She knows what to expect, what I’m going to look like, how cold I feel, how dead I appear to be. She walks outside and sees my step-mum Gertrude for the first time but again it all gets a bit much. She bursts into tears on Gertrude’s shoulder before Suki takes hold of her and does her best to make it all better.

  But how can she make it better? Nobody knows what is going to happen when I’m warmed back up. Nobody can say whether I will pull through or not. And even if I do what then? There are too many questions, too many hard times ahead.

  Dr Mohiddin speaks to Shauna and dad and is impressed with how they are handling the situation. They are emotional but in control, they are upset but strong. Dr Mohiddin has spoken to family members in the past who have collapsed in front of him. There’ll be none of that here.

  Today is starting to drag for everyone apart from Warwick, Mark Alderton and Mark Mann, the hospital’s communication boss. The three of them stand in a side room trying to work out their response to what has become the biggest story in the country. All three want to keep speculation to a minimum so they discuss how to give the media accurate updates on my condition without turning the situation into a circus. One minute I could be up, the next I could be down. One minute I could be alive, the next I could be dead. If they’re speaking to the media every five minutes then that won’t help anyone.

  Owen is drafted in to front up the press conferences and is briefed to say as much as possible while saying as little as possible at the same time. He walks outside, still in his Bolton tracksuit, and gets hit from all angles. But he’s spoken to the media many times and handles it all well. No false hope is given but no gloomy predictions either. After today he will do all media interviews in the suit he gets sent down from home but for now his tracksuit will have to do.

  As the day progresses all anyone can do is watch the clock. I’ve quite literally been put on ice. There’s nothing to do but sit around, pray, drink NHS tea and wait until the experts in intensive care decide it’s time to warm me back up to see what’s underneath.

  Mr Gartside has made his way back to the hospital after returning to the north-west late last night. He headed back down in convoy with Phil Mason this morning. Phil was a Methodist minister for 19 years before becoming our official club chaplain 12 months ago. Mr Gartside rang Phil at home last night and suggested he get down to London. Bolton want to offer all the help they can to Shauna and dad and they believe Phil can help. They aren’t lying.

  I pray with Phil before every game and whenever else I need strength. Now seems like as good a time as any.

  Phil approaches Shauna and asks if he can see me. “Of course,” Shauna says and she walks Phil through into intensive care. He holds my right hand with his left, juggling a Bible in the other, and he begins to read Psalm 121. He knows it’s one of my favourites, he knows I need to hear the message it provides.

  ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth’.

  I look lifeless and grim. ‘Where is this going to end?’ thinks Phil. ‘Where do we go from here?’

  Shauna is so strong and her spirit rubs off on everyone and everything. “Pray for him, Phil,” she says. “Pray that he will be ok.”

  Phil holds my cold hand again and prays for strength, peace and healing and he gets emotional.

  Although Phil is upset, the atmosphere is anything but depressing and because I’m still alive, the morale of everyone in the hospital is slowly starting to creep up.

  “Can you keep the noise down please, this is a hospital,” the nurse hisses down the corridor outside intensive care as grown adults try to bite their tongues to stop laughing.

  You’d never know my life is in the balance 15 metres through the double doors. Eddie Kadi is back in the hospital and he’s ensuring the atmosphere has become crazy positive, doing his best to keep everyone’s spirits up. Shauna and Phil walk back into the waiting room and Shauna has a big grin on her face as she hears the chat and the gossip. She is being so positive and that is rubbing off on Eddie and Owen, on everyone.

  Eddie might be a professional comedian but, for once, he’s met his match in the gaffer. Eddie tells a story, the gaffer tells a story, Eddie tells a story, the gaffer tells a story. On and on it goes.

  “In training I split the guys into three teams and nominate three captains,” Owen begins. “Of course only two teams can play at any one time so I then ask a stupid question and the first captain to answer gets to play first before picking which other team to play against.”

  Everyone in the corridor turns to listen. Eddie is thinking of his next comeback, Mr Gartside, Phil, Dr Tobin, Shauna and Mark Alderton all settle in for the gaffer’s latest tale. He’s done some after-dinner speaking in the past so he cruises into gear, giving Eddie a real workout. A guy from Congo is sparring with a man from Paisley in a hospital corridor in London. Suki is also throwing her stories and chatter into the mix. Somehow it all works. Three very different people have clicked and the atmosphere is buzzing.

  “So anyways,” Owen continues. “This one day I split the guys up and I pick three blokes who I think will give me a stupid answer. I pick David Wheater, Mark Davies and Chris Eagles. I then ask them the oldest question in the book. ‘What do you put in a toaster?’ and as quick as a flash David Wheater goes ‘toast’. That’s not even the funny bit. Mark Davies, who is laughing the loudest, then turns around and deadly serious goes ‘no, crumpets.’”

  It’s daft, it’s stupid, it’s exactly what everyone needs. Laughing beats crying.

  “Jason Scotland knocked on my door one day at St Johnstone,” Owen carries on.

  ‘“Gaffer, I need some new boots,” he said.

  “Tell me what size you are Jase and I will get it sorted.”

  “‘Well, boss, sometimes I’m an eight, sometimes I’m a nine.’

  “Well what shoe size do you take?”

  “Jeez boss, am I getting a pair of shoes as well?”

  The afternoon becomes the evening and people have again started to drift away. Experts from all over the hospital are monitoring my heart rate, my ventilation and have begun to discuss my kidney function, with urine, blood and imaging tests. They’re not working. That doesn’t fill anyone with confidence.

  Shauna pops in before she heads back to the hotel, kisses me and asks me to do all I can to pull through.

  “Be strong,” she says. “You’re a fighter Fab, you need to fight harder than ever.”

  The next time she sees me I could be dead, or as good as dead, or severely brain damaged. I could be God knows what.

  Tomorrow (Monday) is crunch time. She gets back to the hotel, gets in the shower and begins
to sob to herself about the situation, about how much she misses her Fab and Joshua, about how unfair it all is. The uncertainty of the future has sent her spinning and as she falls asleep she knows she’s about to be tested like never before.

  “I’ve got a great feeling,” she says in the morning, turning to her right to see Suki lying next to her in their double bed. “I just have a feeling that it’s going to be ok. I can’t explain it.”

  She repeats the phrase to Warwick at breakfast, again pushing away her food before he does his best to back her up. “Well,” he says. “A women’s intuition is never wrong. Let’s go and show everyone that he’s going to come back.”

  As Shauna, Warwick and everyone from Bolton return to the hospital the decision has already been made to bring me out of my induced coma.

  At 6am the drugs were removed and the cooling blankets taken off. If I’m to survive my brain has to start working and working soon.

  I’ve been moved into my own room – nicknamed ‘The Beckham Room’ because David’s dad once stayed in there – and yesterday’s jolly atmosphere has been replaced with fear and concern once again. If I’m going to pull through, the next few hours will be critical.

  Dr Mohiddin has now become the consultant in charge of my care, picking up from Dr Deaner because he specialises in heart muscle diseases, which appears to be what caused all this trouble in the first place. But he is only one of many experts now trying to bring me back.

  He is the captain of the best team I’ve ever seen play.

  Dr Mohiddin can see what I mean to Shauna and dad and Gertrude and Owen and Dr Tobin and Warwick and Suki and Eddie and everyone else. He doesn’t want to have to deliver bad news to all these people, these new people who he has come to admire in such a small amount of time.

  He is also a doctor who has never been in the spotlight before. The national and international media interest adds another layer of pressure. On Saturday night and last night he travelled home, turned on the TV and saw his patient as the main story. It all feels very odd. As the morning starts to get older, Shauna comes in and sits next to me. ‘Whatever happens over the next few hours happens,’ she says to herself. ‘I’m not leaving him. If we can’t have any more kids or if he needs a carer or whatever, I’m going nowhere.’ What a woman. Dr Mohiddin has a quiet word with Shauna and dad and tries to prepare them for every possibility, to try and emotionally get them ready for whatever will happen today.