Monday, December 05, 2005

Broken Foot!

Broken Foot!

With the exception of a couple of skipping rope inflicted-head-needing-stitching incidents and a dislocated shoulder aged three (which, apparently, allowed me to tell strangers on public transport that my grandmother had caused said injury) I got to 11 without - many - major accidents. Then one day - or evening - I fell off of a chair and broke my arm. In the next few years I managed another broken arm, a couple of toes, two fingers, a leg, a serious bout of concussion and a couple of rather interesting sprains (that these coincided with the Platform Shoe Years may not be a coincidence). I came periously close to having to do my GCSE's whilst brandishing crutches. I became a by-word for injury and general clumsiness. Certain people still mock me for it.

This all culminated during my first week at Uni when I tripped over the step in my room and broke my wrist. I became the first Fresher at St Anne's to visit the A&E department of the John Radcliffe that year and gained a vividly purple pot that makes a nice appearance on my matriculation photos. After this maybe I learnt to control the direction of my feet, possibly I started wearing less dangerous shoes, whatever the reason I managed to keep my limbs in reasonable comfort.

And so they stayed, until Friday. One moment I was walking along, thinking of nothing in particular, and the next thing I knew my ankle was making contact with the floor in a manner which CAN NEVER BE A GOOD THING. And because these things don't happen instantly and you always get that milli-second of realisation that, hey your leg is going to end up at a right angle to your foot and IT WILL HURT, I knew exactly what was going to happen. I was just powerless to do anything about it. So I felt the crunch and the immediate shooting pain and the next thing I was on my arse in a not very attractive manner. And, as I'd known it would, it hurt.

On the floor I had a temporary internal debate was to whether I could get myself to stand up. I wasn't too sure, but eventually reasoned that I couldn't stay where I was - unless I wanted someone to fall over me - so I pulled myself up. And immediately began to wish that I hadn't eaten quite so much of my lunch. In fact I wasn't sure whether it was the pain or the need to vomit that was bothering me most. I hobbled a bit, hopped around and finally reasoned that whilst my ankle hurt, it wasn't as bad as the pain when I went over on it during my one and only game of basketball and had to be carried from the gym.

It continued as a dull, thudding pain for a few hours, and I even forgot it a little as I let myself get swept up in the first half of Blood Brothers at York Grand Opera House. It was during the interval that I realised that I was starting to get uncomfortable. One broken heart - not to mention some rather embarrassing extremely loud crying from someone further down our row - and a couple of post show drinks later, I realised that my ankle felt twice its normal size. When I took my boot off back at Val's it was to the realisation that I no longer had an ankle. Something resembling a balloon, yes. But no ankle.

Almost 72 hours later and it's now a wonderful rainbow of colours and, if not the uber-balloon it was in the early hours of Saturday morning, still a not too shabbily sized beach ball. Bah.

1 comment:

Jen said...

Hope you got it seen to Coza {{{}}}