New Zealand Orthopaedic Association Annual Scientific Meeting

I greet you all in the languages of the realm of New Zealand—English, Maori, Cook Island Maori, Niuean, Tokelauan and New Zealand Sign Language.  Greetings, Kia Ora, Kia Orana, Fakalofa Lahi Atu, Taloha Ni and as it is the morning and the sun has risen (Sign)

May I specifically greet you: Murray Fosbender, President of the New Zealand Orthopaedic Association; Guest speaker, Professor Margaret Mutu; the Presidents of the American, Australian, British, Canadian, and South African orthopaedic associations; Distinguished Guests otherwise; Ladies and Gentlemen.

Thank you for inviting Susan and I to attend and for me to open the Annual Scientific Meeting of the New Zealand Orthopaedic Association and for asking me to formally open this gathering.

As the son of a general practitioner, I have long had a connection in medical matters and as a lawyer, judge and ombudsman, I have pursued an interest in many contemporary medico-legal issues.

But rather than head down a well-worn route generated by that, I have been asked if I would relate my experiences as a former orthopaedic patient.  In July 2002, Susan and I were involved in a serious motor vehicle accident.  A car travelling in the opposite direction on SH1 went across the centreline and a head on collision resulted.  We were both injured and I suffered a C2 odontoid fracture. 

It goes without saying that it was a traumatic time.  There was the accident and being attended to at the scene, incidentally by someone who recognised the prospect of a neck injury, getting to hospital and the initial treatment in A and E.  Then there were the worries about the condition Susan was in, worries about our children being worried, and bizarrely, worries about matters undone at work and at home.

On top of that came many tests and being told by a specialist, of effectively having a “broken neck”.  Of course, it was described as a “spinal fracture” as doctors do not use such colloquial terms.

The people in this room know that such a fracture can have a range of outcomes.  But the immediate fear of the layperson is often the worst—namely, paralysis and a life in a wheelchair.   The mind races when you receive such news and you don’t immediately take in a lot of what you’re told.

Thankfully paralysis was not the outcome forecast for me, but what I received instead was three months living in the “derrick round the head” environment of halo traction equipment.

Living with a halo is unlike anything I had experienced before.  First, there is the equipment itself.  I had seen people wearing a halo before, but it is only when you see it close up that realise it isn’t just a ring around the head and four metal poles, but a whole contraption that includes a plastic vest that covers the upper body.

Then comes the fitting and the singular matter of pins being screwed into your head.  The word “halo” is usually associated with angels, but there’s nothing heavenly about living with such a contraption on your head.  I know pain is a very subjective thing but when the pins come loose, the pain is simply excruciating and requires a return visit to the hospital.  When I look in the mirror, I have a permanent reminder of the pins, by the indentations they have left on my forehead.

Living with the halo raises issues you would never have considered.  Underneath the plastic vest is a sheepskin to stop chafing.  That’s fine until you realise that you can’t wash your chest or back and that to do so, requires regular visits to hospital to have the sheepskin replaced by a nurse.  In between times, sponging has to suffice.  And as for trying to deal with an itchy spot on your back, suffice to say, it wasn’t easy.

What I also didn’t expect was that I wouldn’t be able to fit many of my clothes.  Jerseys and t-shirts are impossible to get on anyhow, but with the additional layers of the vest and sheepskin, many of my clothes had to be modified or new larger shirts and jackets were bought.

As you can imagine, sleeping was aimed for rather than achieved and towards the end of my time in the halo, I took to sleeping some of the time in a lounge chair with a high back that tilted backwards and electric bed.

Through experience, you quickly learn that wearing a halo requires you to move in a gingerly fashion for fear of knocking the derrick and the results of that.  Getting in and out of cars is a case in point. Our second car was a small runabout but what it proved to lack in length, it made up for in having big doors, low seats and considerable head height, which proved to be fortuitous.  Even so, Susan had to stand behind me to make sure I didn’t bang my head as I got in or out.

Despite the difficulties, several things made the period bearable.  First, there was my wife Susan who, despite her own injuries, was an amazing support for me as were our wider family.  Secondly, there was the support from the staff at the outpatients clinic at Hospital.  From the doctors and nurses to the support staff, everyone was focused on assisting the patients towards recovery.  The treatment I received both initially in A and E, on the orthopaedic ward and throughout my recovery was excellent and a credit to New Zealand’s hospital system.

But those visits were salutary for many other reasons.  You soon realised that some people had suffered far more extreme accidents and the road to recovery was going to be far more arduous and drawn out.  It placed your own situation in perspective.  To this day, I feel an instinctive bond with anyone I see wearing a halo and I usually go up to them to ask them about their recovery and life in the halo.  You see, we share a secret knowledge that only someone who has worn a halo could understand.

People in turn react to you in a different way.  Some state the obvious, some try to ignore the obvious, some inquire as to how I got the halo and others just look away.

A high point of amusement for others and me occurred when Queen’s Counsel John Upton, during a humorous after dinner speech, said: “It’s good to see Anand back with us tonight but there’s something different about him that I can’t put my finger on.”   He then continued on with his speech and just as he was finishing said:  “I’ve just realised what’s different with Anand—he’s got new glasses.”

In conclusion then, I’ve tried to give you an insight into what it is like living with a halo.  I have done so, not to complain, as I remain ever thankful for the care and treatment I received. 

However, I believe it never goes amiss to be gently reminded that there’s a big difference between being prescribed a course of treatment and actually having to live with it.  And while I wouldn’t recommend you wear a halo to find out how it feels, I am mindful of the ancient proverb that says: “No man is a good physician who has never been sick.”  It gives me great pleasure then to formally declare this gathering open.

And on that note I’ll close in Maori by issuing greetings and wishing you good health and fortitude in your endeavours. No reira, tena koutou, tena koutou, kia ora, kia kaha, tena koutou katoa.