A new trauma is as good as a rest

Three weeks ago, I was racked with worry and frustration after a horrible and abusive PIP assessment for my son. I thought it was as well we'd visited Beachy Head the day before it rather than the day after. I was consumed with hatred of the DWP for putting him through torment. 

Then an accident forced a total switch of focus. I learnt that picking blackcurrants can be a surprisingly dangerous pastime, especially if you are very elderly and sitting on a stool on a downhill slope. I learnt that you can still wait four hours for an ambulance even when you are 91 and live a two-minute drive from the hospital. I learnt that eating Marmite doesn't guarantee immunity to mosquito bites after all.  Also, that the chip of ice Graham Greene refers to is still lodged there in my writer's heart.

Above all, I've been reminded, over and over, that the NHS is the most precious thing we own collectively, and that we should take to the streets, if necessary, to ensure its survival. 

My mother has been transferred up north and so my watch is ended ... for now, at least. I've started the long and convoluted process of being made my son's appointee, and we await the PIP decision, ready to fight it if necessary. Meanwhile, there are proofs to check, poems to write, jaunts to be jaunted.

Broken Leg Blues Part V: The 7/6d Woman

'Do you have any tennis balls?' asked the doctor as he issued me with a list of exercises to do while I wait for my physiotherapy appointment.

The answer to that is yes, though I might be pushed to find one that isn't all slobbery.

Meanwhile, my leg doesn't look like my leg at all.  Although the bruising's gone, my ankle's still double its normal size and the whole area seems to be wrapped in disintegrating cling film, which is, in fact, dry skin.  Plus, there's a disconcerting hardness under the muscle on the right hand side of my leg which must be the metalwork.  (I expect I'll get used to that.)

Most disturbingly, there's a very real disconnect between my brain and my foot.  When I try to put weight on it, it feels as if my shin is about to snap, and I am seized with the conviction that I am too old, too weak, too useless, and my tribe will leave me for the wolves.

The same member of staff who'd omitted to reassure me that the circular saw wouldn't actually slice through skin, flesh and bone while he was cutting off my cast, fitted me with what would be a really cool motorbike boot if it were made of leather and buckles, but is plastic, foam and velcro.  I still have to use crutches and can't drive yet, but will be back to work on Monday, which means there are some logistics to work out, like who's going to let Ted out for a pee as I won't be able to pop back home at lunchtime.

Back on the Settee of Suffering, I think back over the last six weeks, during which I have:

• acquired a plate, nine pins and a four and a half inch scar on my lower leg.
• read.  A lot.
• written fewer poems than I thought I might (though I've made reams of notes from my reading, and had a long overdue sort out of folders on my laptop).  For me, the link between walking and writing poems is even more symbiotic than I'd realised.
• become an expert on 'Wolf Hall' (TV series, not the novels).
• rediscovered my needlepointing mojo. I've nearly finished stitching a top for my sewing stool and dug out a wall hanging I abandoned in a state of near completion 16 years ago because my ex husband didn't like it.  I do, though, and will finish it for my new home.
• managed to control my frustration at not getting my house on the market. I am now six weeks behind schedule, but really looking forward to opening the front door of my new life, so what needs to be done will get done as soon as I'm able.  

Having been sequestered for so long, I'll define this time by sound.  Rain and hail battering the skylights, the click of Ted's nails on the kitchen floor, the quiet roar of the gas fire, the bleeping of a new hob I don't know how to use because it was installed the day I fell off the doorstep.  The endless chak-a-chak of police helicopters overhead, searching for a girl who will never come home. 

And light. Waking up from post-anaesthetic afternoon naps and not knowing what time it is because although it feels quite late, the sky's still blue.  Spring is on its way and I'll greet it with same in my step, metaphorically if not physically just yet. 

Broken Leg Blues Part III: Dawn Of The Cyborg

When you're incapacitated, your horizons shrink. The after-effects of anaesthesia linger like a creepy kiss, and a four yard hop on crutches to the loo is akin to pogo-ing across the Sahara. These last two weeks I've listened to hail pebbledashing the skylights and stretched my withered hands towards the living flame gas fire.  The fact that I can't jaunt hasn't troubled me the way it would if I were mobile, and in my  head the prospect of an appointment at the local super hospital took on the proportions of a climb up Everest. 

But round it came and off I went with my trusty neighbour Nurse Cathy, while Son the Younger's lovely and obliging girlfriend acted as our chauffeur.  At Gate 12 Outpatients we gazed at the Departures Board for notification of our destination.  Young men on crutches bounded past, graceful as gazelles, and I hated them, though I was quite excited to see that one of my fellow patients was called Peggoty. (Yes, I probably do need to get out more.)

In the Plaster Room I had the first glimpse of the my right leg for two weeks, and it wasn't a pretty sight, being bruised and horribly swollen still. 

But unlike Royal Marine Commando Andy Grant, whose story I told Ellie, the orthopaedic practitioner, to much horrified guffawing*, the tattoo of Braques' bird on my right foot was unscathed ... 

... and the scar itself was healing really well, thanks to Nurse Cathy's recommendation that I take a multivitamin with minerals every day.

With a choice of red, blue, pink or white for my fibreglass cast, I decided to cast my vote three months early and went for red. 

Then it was off to be x-rayed.

Back in Trauma and Orthopaedics, a familiar figure studied my x-rays. 'You won't remember me,' I said, 'but I'll never forget your face because You. Set. My. Leg.'

He laughed. 'I do remember you,' he said. 'I had fun doing that one. I must say, it's good to see you looking so well.'

Hmmmm.

'Nine screws, though,' he added. 'That's an impressive break. But it's healing fine.'




All that was left was to request a DEXA scan in case I have osteoporosis and for Cathy to push me and my newly acquired zimmer frame home across the park in my wheelchair. Door to door, a little over an hour and a half. Thank you, Universe, for good friends and the NHS.  

*I think it's probably OK to be amused by the story of this man's tattoo because I've heard him talk about it on the radio and everyone - including him - was laughing about it. More importantly, he's gone on to prove it wrong in spectacular fashion. 

Broken Leg Blues Part II: Cider With Whoosie

Nil by mouth – three of the most dispiriting words in the English Language.  ‘And no sucking the sponge either!’ scolded the nurse as she handed me a little cup of pink liquid so that I could moisten my lips, simultaneously moving the water jug out of my (very limited) reach.  

The hours slipped by like coarse-grained sandpaper.  I’d had the presence of mind to stuff the nearest book to hand – ‘Cider With Rosie’ – into my bag as I left home the day before, but given that I felt as if I’d downed half the contents of the title, I did some desultory Facebooking instead, wondering idly what this month’s mobile bill was going to be like and how my other ankle was going to like being hopped on when it was bruised and swollen in its own right.

(Yep, part of that bruise is a tattoo.)

Then I was prepped ready to go to theatre, not because anyone had any idea when my operation was scheduled but because ‘they have a habit of just turning up’.  Rather more excitingly, ‘my’ anaesthetist materialised to go through some paperwork with me.  ‘I’m your anaesthetist,’ he said.  This, apparently, was A Sign.  

And lo, blue-overalls appeared with a trolley and off we went to theatre.  ‘Anything you want to ask me?’ asked a different anaesthetist to the one who’d been up to the ward.  ‘I’ve got arthritis and they told me not to bring my special pillows down because I might never see them again,’ I babbled, ‘and I’m really scared of coming round on my back with my head turned to one side.  I can't move my head unless I use my hands and it feels like I’m paralysed and it’s really scary.’  ‘Ah, torticollis cervical spondylosis’ he said, reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let your head fall off.’  And I knew I’d be fine because he knew exactly what I was talking about even if I didn’t have a clue. The operation would probably be OK too. 

And it was. A bit of desultory moaning about the parking situation at the hospital between surgeon and anaesthetist (I live in the Residents’ Controlled Parking Zone) and the next thing I knew someone was calling my name and my head was miraculously still attached to my neck and facing forward with no apparent support.  

Then I was back on the ward and my partner and son turned up and we did the Guardian Quick Crossword and I ate the food they brought me and puked up in a bed pan.

Frosty the Snowman comes out in sympathy

And I did a lot of thinking about how I’d barely jaunted and barely written a word the last few weeks, what with Christmas and having to get the house ready to sell, and how I had been on such a roll last weekend that I’d contemplated swinging a sickie from work so as not to lose momentum, and how I’d decided I couldn’t possibly bunk off because I’m rubbish at lying and the universe would punish me, and how it had punished me anyway just for thinking about pretending to be ill by ensuring that I would be off for the next six weeks but completely incapable of doing all the things I need to do to get the house on the market.  And how I’d have to delegate more rather than do, and how I would probably end up writing some poems after all.  

Broken Leg Blues Part I: Extreme Doorstepping

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a house is always put on the market in far better condition than the one in which the inhabitants have been living.  Thus the last few weeks have seen little jaunting, barely any writing, and much cleaning/gardening/decorating/minor building works/wiring in of smoke alarms, etc (not all of it by me). 

Back in the day, I moved house five times in four years, each time with a new baby or pregnancy, and again, after a hiatus of six years, when my children were aged 8, 6, 5 and 2.  So I reckoned this time, nearly 18 years later, it would be a doddle. 

I reckoned without Ted, my border collie, who has proved keen to help me paint and now has green Go Faster stripes.

I reckoned without falling off the doorstep and breaking my leg.  In two places.

 As luck would have it, Cathy Over The Road’s friend Maggie was visiting when my ankle gave out and I crashed to the ground, so I had two nurses to escort me to hospital, and two young and rather fetching policemen (who were on the spot to stop motorists driving through the timed no entry sign on our road) to manhandle me into Cathy’s car. (I expect they’re used to that sort of thing in their line of work.)

As luck would have it also, our brand new super hospital is a quarter of a mile down the road and A&E wasn’t too busy at half four in the afternoon. 

I’ve always had weak ankle joints and tend to sprain my right one every couple of years or so, so going to Radiology with an ankle like a balloon is a fairly regular occurrence for me.  However, I could tell by the look on the nurse’s face, post (agonisingly painful) X-ray, that this time was different.  ‘The doctors have yet to look at it,’ she said, ever so slightly reprovingly, ‘but I can tell you you’ve broken your tib and fib so badly you’re going to have to have an operation.’  But I have paintwork to touch up with Dulux Eggshell Barley Twist if it’s still available, I wanted to cry.  I need to plant up troughs and pots to put around my pond so prospective viewers don’t stand on the wonky paving slabs and fall in.  But I could tell neither she nor the universe would be persuaded.

‘There’s a rumour swirling around outside that you got yourself in here with no pain relief,’ remarked one of the doctors in the plastering room, while the other one winced at my X-ray. 

‘I think I must have a high pain threshold?’ I said doubtfully as they handed me the gas and air.

‘Yes, you must,’ he said. ‘Now push against me as hard as you like but don’t stop breathing the gas.’

‘Where’s my baby?!’ I wailed a minute or so later. ‘I always get a baby when it hurts this much.’

‘You’ve got a beautiful plaster cast instead,’ said the second doctor. ‘Neatest one I’ve ever done, actually. And they'll be cutting it open tomorrow to operate!’

 But it wasn’t the same. To make matters worse, I didn’t even have a decent story to tell.  Falling off a doorstep in Filton is hardly the same as falling off a yacht in Greece which is how my friend Claire sustained a similar injury.  ‘Yeah, you’re going to have to work on that,’ everyone advised me.

There was some delay and much pushing of my trolley around the hospital before a bed was located.  Having witnessed its construction for that last eight years, it was interesting to have so comprehensive a tour of its interior. Eventually I found a berth and fell into a thankful sleep, only to be awakened with good news - more morphine – and bad news – I had to transfer to another ward. I finally docked in at Level 3 Gate 7b Bed 38 – whatever happened to Cotswold and Mendip wards? – which made me feel as if I’d checked into the departure lounge for an unknown destination with no guarantee of coming back.