So that's the guy in casualty (real casualty, not the TV show), one GP and three physiotherapists. Over the course of 13 (thirteen) months that's the list of people who'd examined and/or treated me and not picked up on what was really wrong. Most of them had seen me several times, too.
I'm not someone who is in favour of the compensation culture that currently typifies swathes of British society. I see it as opportunistic profiteering, both on the part of those seeking compensation and the no-win no-fee lawyers who represent them. That's not to say every case is like that, but generally people who slip on wet floors or get "whiplash" or run over their own heads because they've left the handbrake off are looking to make a quick buck. And that, in part, makes it difficult for people who really have suffered at the hands of somebody else's wrongdoing or mistakes.
I'd not thought to pursue a claim of medical negligence before 1996 but my frustration had continued long after the actual diagnosis some two years prior. It was still a rare thing to claim against an individual doctor or the NHS as a whole, but given the circumstances I felt that I wanted to try. Now, they say, where there's blame there's a claim but this wasn't about receiving thousands of pounds of "compo". Although that would've been nice, obviously. There were some cracking Air Max knocking about in the mid-90s so that would've been a cheeky bonus. The motivation for me, though, was just to have someone be wrong.
I'd lost a whole year of sport, received school reports suggesting I was bluffing and spent the majority of the time wondering if this was something in my head, self-induced or not as bad as I was making out to myself. Surely one of these highly-trained professionals should've been able to spot what was wrong and fix it. Or even if not fix it then at least be able to tell me that there really, really is something wrong. Even just a letter to take in to school for my teachers to eat would've been fine.
The Birmingham Evening Mail took an interest too. That was the thing back then. Probably still is now, to be honest. Been wronged by someone? Contact the press. Nothing helps to garner a bit of sympathy like a local press report and the ensuing moral outrage at the state of Broken Britain. The Mail sent someone to interview me, and a photographer too. I perched on the edge of my bed with my cricket bat and a football and a clutch of medals I'd won for running and playing football. They asked me to put a disconsolate look on my face so I did my best to look all wistful for the nice people of Birmingham. In reality I looked a right soppy sausage but it seemed to be for a good cause. Alas, having the support of the mighty media didn't help me achieve any success. Mobile phones and voicemail were still a rarity then too, so they weren't able to help my get any extra evidence.
Fifteen years ago there were two problems with suing the NHS for a mis-diagnosed fracture of the ischial tuberosity. The first was that, unlike in the USA where the culture of claiming is even more embedded than it is here, it was very difficult to find doctors who would speak out against their fellow practitioners. The UK is a relatively small country and as such there is a higher likelihood that two doctors could work together in the future once one has agreed that the other may have been negligent. In the States it's easier to find a doctor in, say, San Diego, who would offer an opinion against a doctor in New York. As such, and despite the best efforts of my lawyer, I was unable to find someone who agreed with me that this wasn't right. Or at least someone who was willing to have it in writing with their name against it. There was no option but to give up.
So that was the first hurdle fallen at. The specialists whom Mr McLarney had turned to had suggested that it was a rare injury and therefore it wasn't negligent for medical professionals to suspect that it could be the cause of what I was presenting as symptoms. I was professionally advised that even if it were possible that negligence were the case it would be incredibly difficult to find someone who would openly state that. Especially given that it is, indeed, a rare injury.
A quick Google search today proves this to be true - "Complete hamstring avulsion from the ischial tuberosity is a rare but serious injury and warrants early surgical repair. The mechanism of injury involves a violent eccentric hamstring muscle contraction with the knee extended and the hip flexed. Clinically patients have a posterior midthigh mass and a palpable proximal defect, which is accentuated by hamstring muscle contraction in the prone position. Magnetic Resonance Imaging is useful in estimating the extent of injury."
I didn't have any qualms with the notion that these five people hadn't themselves identified what was wrong. My frustration was that they never pushed it further to find out why the supposed pulled hamstring wasn't repairing. Why did it take over a year, and a huge amount of pressure from myself, to be referred to a specialist? A specialist who identified the problem immediately and sent me for x-ray. I can't help but wonder what might have been, even now, if someone had been inquisitive enough right at the start to seek a further level of examination or a more specialised opinion than their own.
Apparently there would have been a reluctance to x-ray the area given the dangers of radioactivity in such a sensitive area at my tender age. I could have done with someone as brave and confident as my surgeon Adam Hoad-Reddick because in hindsight I think the risk was worth taking. Having glow-in-the-dark privates might have been a benefit if anything. Like a teenage, human light sabre, it'd have been quite the trick at boozy, parents-away parties. It would've been nice to have been a bit more of a hit with the ladies. At least I'd have still been half footballer.
So that was it. Despite my efforts to gain some sort of "justice" - to have someone be accountable that I shouldn't have suffered or been doubted and maybe, just maybe, if it had been caught earlier, I might have been surgically treated and be playing football all these years - it was to no avail. No shiny new Air Max, no Luke Skywalker impersonations after a few bottles of Diamond White (this bit's a joke - I never really drank before I was old enough, honest Mom!) and nobody or nothing that could have been done to catch my problem and treat it.
It was just one of those things. A twist of fate. A shame. It must be true because that's what the doctors said. I'm still not so sure, but everything certainly does happen for a reason and it feels like I did find the reason why all this happened the way it did. The ony legal option was to give up, but in many ways I was galvanised. Through the treatment I received and being denied the chance to play sport I developed an early interest in one of two career paths - physiotherapy in order to help those who'd been injured like myself, and the design of performance sporting goods in order to help those who hadn't.
Perhaps, in hindsight and after all this time, I should be looking for someone to thank rather than someone to blame.
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