I passed the next few days in a semi-daze - friends cut up my food and helped me shower, I purchased a few pairs of yoga pants, since I could no longer put on my jeans, and answered a lot of questions about how I came to be in plaster. I’d always assumed, naively, that breaking a bone was momentarily unpleasant, but once set, it was just awkward and cumbersome. I simply wasn’t prepared for how much pain I was feeling. Moreover, the reality of my situation - freelance writer with a broken wrist - her dominant right hand - had hit home. I was beginning to realise I wouldn’t be back at work any time soon.
Back at the fracture clinic, the news wasn’t great. The ortho-surgeon explained that the bone was now re-set “to an acceptable degree” but he wasn’t entirely sure to what degree it would heal. No, he couldn’t tell me how much mobility I’d lose…not too much, but, nevertheless, since I was both a writer and a pianist, he’d want to give me my best shot.
“What’s the alternative?” I asked.
“Surgery. We’ll break the bone again then re-set it. We’ll put you under, of course.” He paused. “I know this is all a lot to take in, so feel free to take a few days before deciding.”
She who hesitates is lot and one of my strengths, I’ve always thought, is my ability to make tough decisions fast.
“I’ll take the surgery.”
“Great. Personally, I think that’s the right choice. So... I’m booking you in for tomorrow at 7 am”
Well, at least they weren’t hanging around!
I spent the next two hours at the hospital having blood work and meeting the anaesthesiologist. The team were all very friendly, particularly a young doctor who - at the end of the consultation - admitted sheepishly that I was his first ever patient (this being his first day as a qualified medic). We made a few jokes about medical mishaps, he tried to take my mind off the impending surgery with some chatter about my travels then I went off to pack a hospital bag and prepare myself mentally.
By 7.30 am the next day I was already in hospital-issue stockings (to prevent a thrombosis), and stripped of jewellry and specs. Feeling rather exposed in my flimsy hospital gown, I flipped through the Times’ newspaper’s weekend supplement, my mind wandering. I was supposed to be at the theatre tonight and a birthday party at a trendy new cocktail bar tomorrow. The words of kind nurse Sarah rang in my ears:
“It’s always a bit of a shock at first dear, but in the days that follow you’ll make a plan and work out how you’re going to manage in the next few weeks.”
Actually, I hadn’t made any kind of plan. Then I heard a noise and I looked up - the porter had arrived to take me down to theatre. The plan would have to wait.
Photo courtesy of Islandhealth.ca
I awoke, three hours later, incredibly groggy and horribly nauseous; I could see that my wrist was re-plastered and tied to a metal pole next to my bed (it needed to be kept strictly vertical, apparently). The pain was sickening…I moaned out for water, then began babbling incoherently. Steve, a veteran friend, later described the scene as having stumbled on a crack-addict in her drug den. The nurse examined me and saw quite quickly that I was running a high fever. Clearly, I wasn’t going home that night. The last thing I remember that day was my friends filling in a meal form for me, debating amongst themselves as to whether I’d like custard on my pudding. It was pointless trying to explain that eating was the last thing on my mind.
In the event, I had to spend two more days in hospital, since my temperature was so high. A kindly doctor came and asked me a few questions, to check I was compis mentis. These included date of birth, where I was and who was the Prime Minister of England.
“Boris Johnson” I replied. “And he’s a clown.”
“I’ll give you two points for that answer” smiled the doctor. “You can go home tomorrow.”
The next morning, after a kindly nurse had sponge-bathed me and dressed me, I was discharged, clutching in my left hand a hospital bag and, inside it, a bag of medicines (including a lovely bottle of oral morphine solution). The porter wheeled me down to the front entrance...people were coming and going, it was just an ordinary day for the staff, no doubt, but suddenly I felt vulnerable and scared. Outside, it was pouring down (yes, even in August you can’t count on a British summer). As the cab drove across London, battling traffic and roadworks, the streets and buildings seemed as grey and dreary as my mood.
We pulled up at my friend’s flat and the driver helped me out.
“My mate lost a thumb in a factory accident, 30 years ago” he remarked. “You’ll get through this. Good luck, love.”
Thanked by my friends, he drove away and they ushered me inside. One settled me in the armchair, whilst the other put the kettle on. Nothing like a cup of tea in times of despair, eh? Actually, I’d never been so happy to see them, never so grateful for a bit of help. Even the thought of filling a kettle was too much at this point.
“I think I’d just like to sleep for a while, if that’s ok,” I said.
They both smiled.
“That’s fine. Get all the rest as you need”
They were right. I needed rest. And making a plan could wait another 24 hours…
To be continued...