Rio, rainstorms and risk assessments

I’m Rachel Maccoy, 52, from the north of England, married to Pete, mum to Theo, and devoted servant to our cockapoo, Rosie. I took early retirement from my role as a Marketing Communications Manager in 2025 after realising I was spending far too much time working and not nearly enough time living.

Living with multiple sclerosis (MS) for nearly 20 years has definitely taught me one thing: life rarely goes to plan. Although, even by my standards, our family holiday to Rio de Janeiro a few years ago took things to a whole new level.

Our first day in Rio was glorious. We wandered around Ipanema soaking up the atmosphere, smiling at strangers, pretending we understood Portuguese and generally feeling very pleased with ourselves. It was July, which meant the weather felt perfect to us Brits – mild, breezy and only slightly damp. Then the rain came. This was a full tropical downpour that soaked us within seconds. Suddenly all I wanted was dry clothes, a cup of tea and to be safely back at the hotel.

I was using my mobility scooter – something that has become part of my normal life with MS – and honestly given me so much freedom.

Usually, I’m fairly sensible on it. Usually. As we approached the hotel, about 100 metres away, I decided to speed up slightly. I noticed an airline crew bus nearby and remember thinking, ‘Well, at least there’ll be witnesses if anything happens.’ Never has a thought aged so badly so quickly.

I turned the corner too fast. The scooter tilted. Time slowed dramatically like I was in an action film. Then, just as I started falling, I grabbed a nearby metal post and triumphantly thought, ‘Yes! Saved it!’ Unfortunately, the post had a sharp piece of metal sticking out of it which sliced straight into my finger.

So instead of elegantly rescuing myself, I ended up lying on the pavement, trapped under my scooter, soaking wet and bleeding quite impressively into the streets of Rio. Pete and Theo rushed over while hotel staff appeared instantly, seemingly trained to recognise the international distress signal of ‘British tourist making terrible decisions.’ I kept insisting, ‘Honestly, it just needs a plaster.’ Apparently, it did not ‘just need a plaster.’

Within minutes a nurse appeared, followed by a doctor, followed by increasingly concerned expressions. Soon I was informed I needed hospital treatment. At this point, shock kicked in and – to my horror – so did tears.

This entire drama unfolded in the hotel reception where I had unintentionally become the afternoon entertainment. A small group of children even gathered to inspect my injury. Their parents made absolutely no effort to stop them. To be fair, if I’d seen a drenched English woman weeping over a mangled finger while attached to a mobility scooter, I’d probably have stared too.

I was whisked off to a private hospital high in the hills of Rio. Oddly, it was less ‘hospital’ and more ‘luxury spa that occasionally performs surgery.’ Private room, en-suite bathroom, snacks, branded toiletries – honestly, I’ve stayed in worse hotels.

Then came the news: I needed an operation. For my finger. Because of a post. That I voluntarily grabbed. Before surgery I was instructed to remove my underwear and my wedding ring. I did briefly wonder whether they’d confused me with another patient requiring something considerably more dramatic.

I woke up later groggy, bandaged like an Egyptian mummy and minus every shred of dignity I’d arrived with. The final bill came to around £10,000. For a finger. A very expensive finger.

Did it ruin the holiday? Absolutely not. The very next day I was back on my scooter, proudly cruising around Rio with my giant bandaged hand pointing forwards like a slightly injured explorer. Clearly, I had learned absolutely nothing. That evening, determined to be more careful, I approached a speed bump incredibly slowly. Too slowly, as it turned out. The scooter lost momentum, rolled backwards and over I went again – flat on my back like a stranded tortoise.

This time there was no drama. Just Pete and Theo standing over me in silence. Not laughing. Worse. The synchronised zed sigh and eye roll that followed told me everything I needed to know.

For the remainder of the holiday, I was treated less like an adult woman and more like an extreme sport requiring full supervision. Every pavement was assessed. Every scooter manoeuvre monitored. Every slight incline discussed like a military operation. And honestly? Fair enough.

Because there I was – in Rio, on day one of a dream holiday, with one stitched-up finger, a £10,000 insurance claim and dignity in tatters – completely unbothered. Meanwhile, Pete and Theo spent the rest of the holiday in a permanent state of mild panic.

I had a wonderful holiday. They survived one.

If you enjoyed this story there are more on MS Life, Maccoy style – my new Facebook account where I share real-life moments living with MS… travel, therapies and general shenanigans. If I can make even one person laugh or feel a bit less alone, then I’ve succeeded.