Well now, one minute you are climbing out the shower minding your own business and the next the bathmat has scarpered and you have nearly split yourself in two with one leg in the bath and the other halfway across the bathroom with only a cold sweat and a screeching pain in the knee to show for it.
Readers, I have done myself a damage and honestly damaging yourself in the age of Covid is no hobble in the park because once you are carted off to hospital, it seems one must be left on the doorstep of A and E like a sack of spuds in the hope that a kindly passer by will offer you the wheelchair you need long enough to peel yourself off the doorframe and deliver yourself to triage.
Once inside you will discover a ghost town. A derth of the walking well and where once turning up with so much as a scratch meant being subjected to a barrage of tests for everything from blood pressure to a propensity for too many donuts, now you will be looked at sympathetically, offered two paracetamol and ushered into another wheelchair, that shall thereafter be pushed by a silent woman in white, to a large room where you will be abandoned to a silence so disconcerting you will not hear a doctor in a rainbow hat creep up behind you and lay two hands on your muddled shoulders. At which point you will shriek and he will giggle and a pantomine of profanity shall ensue.
The giggly doctor takes enormous pleasure from your utter failure to lift your sad leg off the bed you almost had to be winched on to, and you apologise every time you swear like the worst kind of fishwife. The nurses chuckle at your dramatics and the doctor tells you to go right ahead and swear as much as you need to, because in his words, ligament injuries of this kind are “an absolute b**tard”, but because of Covid, neither the physio department, who could do proper stress tests, nor the scanning department who could determine the extent of your injury are currently open and would you mind awfully, managing for the ten days it will be until you can be seen? And by managing, we mean, getting into bed, and existing, high as a kite on berserk painkillers with your foot in the air and a sock stuffed into your swearing gob for the duration?
Heavens to Betsey, this life is all two steps forward and three crutched steps backwards isn’t it? Five days later and I have abandoned the tablets because no-one wants to be a gibbering, constipated wreck for any longer than is absolutely necessary, and it turns out that me and crutches aren’t set to be mates for life either, after I stood up rather proudly holding them and without further ado lurched into the front window and nearly added a smashed nose to my current list of ailments. Of which peri-menopausal nipples are set to be the death of me, but we shall say no more of that.
So I have sat still for days on end. Having to ask for everything from a glass of water to a hanky for my runny nose, and enduring the humiliation of my families not unsympathetic mirth when I try to bear my not unsubstantial weight long enough to visit the powder room, without sounding, as Finn described it, as if I am giving birth to a baby elephant.
It is not fun. I slept through the first three days, surviving on sourdough crumpets and tropicana, and promptly falling back into the kind of bonkers dreams that had me waking convinced that Ste should be Jonathan Ross and all was not well the world.
Even though it plainly is: the house is immaculate. Ste and Finn are darlings without nurse’s uniforms and now that I am emerging out of my opiate fog in favour of ibuprofen and CBD oil, I have finally been allowed my confiscated laptop back for a few hours after Sergeant Major Ste decided that a few hours setting my online world too rights, probably wouldn’t kill me now I’m not talking gibberish or believing him to be an errant chat show host.
So umm yes. I haven’t fallen off the side of the earth, I simply fell out the shower and apparently did something drastic to my anterior cruciate ligament. So that’s nice. One expects such shenanigans from premier league footballers, not showering housewives, doesn’t one?
Anyways, I will meet you back here when I get my marbles back because I’m not sure I can be trusted to be sensible yet. The proof might just be in all the paragraphs above.
Have a wonderful, safe, weekend now won’t you?
Hi Alison, you just take care and I hope you are able to get the necessary scans before too long and get well on the path to recovery. Injuries like those are nasty and take time, so just behave and let Ste and Finn look after you as they are doing so admirably now. I am carrying on with the things you already left us and it is enough. There are times we just need to spend time recovering and you are there now. Be good to yourself, I will be here no matter how long it takes for you to recover and in the meantime know I am thinking of you all and wishing you the absolute best and fast healing. Hope that scan comes sooner rather than later my dear. Love and hugs to you, keep smiling in between the swear words and the pain. All will be well, it just takes time. Thanks for updating us ????
Alison, my daughter met this same hospital challenge as you. She had a herniated disc, which took months before she could have surgery. One disc was broken and another suffering some minor damage. They sent her home with a hospital bed, in which she spent 2-3 weeks. Because of the pain meds, she became constipated and suffered to the point where she could not urinate either. So, her doctor sent her to emergency, where they fitted her with a Foley that she had for a week or more. She went back to have the Foley removed, but she still suffered constipation. A nurse understood the problem and had the Dr(?) prescribe what she needed for this problem. They sent her home to deal with this on her own. By now, she was staying at my house as her husband was working from home. However, when she came to Mama for help, she brought said husband, his work and her 3 dogs. I have two dogs myself. Do the math:it was a macabre circus nightmare, but love and toilet paper got us thru it!! Oh, and PS, the drugs made her crazy:; one minute happy and the next minute, her head was spinning 360 and spewing pea soup. Do you think I’m being dramatic?
Oh Pat this had me chuckling! I’ve got to say I have felt a little exorcist myself this week but do hope you and your daughter are doing well now.x
Oh crikey Alison! I’m so sorry you have incurred such an injury (sort of thing that happens to me, hypermobility creating a propensity for silly accidents that cause serious injury ?). But your sense of humour and writing style remain in fine form don’t you worry! I wish you pain free asap and hope the nhs can help pronto. Rest up, take care.
Ps: I have discovered Better Things the tv series, if you need a box set to distract you, I think you would love it! Just saying…) xxx
So sorry for the accident, dear Alison, and all it has brought to an already challenging corona-time life…tho’ you were getting everything so lovely and organized, and will get to keep on with it all again…soon. Hoping your home stays immaculate and cosy and you are surrounded by love. xo Lesley
Alison, so sorry about your mishap. Although I must admit your light humor and writing made for an interesting read about the disaster. I do believe everything happens for a reason and perhaps it is to give Ste and Finn the chance to take care of you for a change. So do rest, heal and we will be here for you.
Always here, I never forget a kindness, stay strong Alison x
I’m so sorry to hear about your injury Allison! Sending much love and healing vibes. Take care of yourself!
So sorry to hear of your accident and injury Alison. You concentrate on getting better, we will all tick along nicely until you are well enough to come back fully.
Good golly, how much longer is C-19 going to be used as an excuse to refuse proper treatment to people! Thank goodness for the Sgt Major and Finley. Take care of you.