The end of the season: Incarceration

You might be wondering why I'm writing this multi-entried account of breaking my ankle. Surely just a basic "I hurted myself and I'm not skating for a while" post would be enough? Probably, but I'm milking this for a couple of reasons:
1) This accident has been something of a game-changer for me, in more ways than one. It seems only right and proper to document it.
2) I've had a couple of people write me after the first installment and tell me that it's made them think about their own safety and practice on the rink. I guess if I can serve as a warning to others then that's pretty awesome.
3) It's not like I have much skating to write about for a while, is it?

I had a brief conversation with Dr. Chris WarnHer, a ref at PCR about the accident. He saw the whole thing and a couple of his comments gave me pause. One of them was that to him, I sounded pretty quiet and restrained after the break, so god help me if I REALLY let rip with some primal scream of pain. I'll probably burst my medulla. The other was that the block that resulted in the accident looked totally normal. He said he didn't see it coming at all, and that it had been a reminder to him that this kind of thing can happen to anyone on the rink. I'm going to cover that in a future post, but cheers Doc for the thoughts and feedback.

So anyway, in my last adventure I'd got as far as being doped to hell on a hospital bed at 4am in Middlemore. I managed to drift off to sleep for a couple of hours before being woken in one of the rudest ways you can imagine given the circumstances. A nurse appeared, woke me up, took my stats, and then said "Oh, we need to take some samples from you as you were at another hospital. Just in case you've been infected with MRSA". Fair enough, thinks addled-brain me, and proffers my IV line for a blood sample. Oh no, says the blue-clad Agent of Indignity. Any chance of you giving us a nasal, rectal and genital swab? Now? Thanks so much. I'll leave the swabs here and come get them in a few minutes.

Now, call it TMI, but this still stands out in what has been a fairly nasty few weeks as a nadir. I'm doped to all hell, on two hours of sleep, extremely uncomfortable (I'm still dressed for the rink), with my recently reset dislocated and broken ankle in a cast and propped up on what looks like a zombie skijump, and he wants me to take fucking swabs at six in the morning? Talk about bedside manner. He also seems extremely confused at my request for something comfortable to sleep in, and actually asks me why I don't have a bag packed. I'm fairly sure that despite the situation and my mental impairments, I manage to explain that, oddly, my plans for the evening hadn't included being in fucking hospital.

Thursday is a bit of a blur. I'm on a lot of morphine and nil by mouth in case a theatre slot appears (the decision's been made to operate). My skate gear gets swapped out for a backless gown that's four sizes too big. I get told to have a shower and nearly collapse waiting for the nurse to let me out. I get my first visitors (both skaters), who bring kind words and jelly snakes (these became a feature). I send a request to my ex to source some clothes and magazines, which arrive in the evening, as does a lukewarm lamb casserole-thing, which is the nurse's way of telling me no operation today. Lucky for me, D is able to explain what a vegetarian is and why thrusting said casserole in my face is not really the done thing. A sandwich that's had some tomato waved at it is brought instead, so at least I get to eat something. More skaters come. I don't really remember, there's too much pain and too many drugs.

Friday, and I'm back on NBM. Bogan, a former skater, materialises at the end of my hospital bed and talks pain meds at me. she brings me some pirate stickers which now adorn my crutches. I go in for surgery early afternoon, and the rest of the day is a blur of drugs and drifting consciousness. I don't hear much about what they've done to me, in fact I'm still not 100% sure. Doctors are hard to come by.

Saturday, and I'm starting to come out of the fog. we have a new nurse on ward, a young Asian dude who is friendly, enthusiastic, and genuinely gives a shit. I asked him about my operation, and he runs off, only to come back a few minutes later with X-rays. Yay! More visitors, who come with sushi and books and BK salad burgers. I'm told that I'd be let out today, but for needing to talk to occupational therapy and they don't work weekends so can I hang on till Monday?

Sunday, I'm up and dressed. More visitors, coffee and cake, and theeeen....things get not so good. I've been pumped full of tramadol, morphine and other pain meds for about four days now and it all starts to go a bit sideways. I get seasick. Like, SEASICK. The bed feels like a cross-channel tugboat in January. I'm dizzy, throwing up. I'm slurring, and even more confused than usual. A doctor comes, tells me a bad reaction to the tramadol, and off the good drugs I go. I'm buoyed by thoughts of going home, even when the meds wear off and I'm left to fend off the pain with paracetamol. Sunday night is long.

Fuck. Sake.

Monday comes and I am packed and ready to go. The seasickness has mostly passed, and whilst I'm sore and tired from a bad night I'm going home! Occupational health come, discuss my living arrangements and the assistance I'll be getting (not optimal and minimal). They suggest a shower stool so I can wash myself without balancing precariously on one foot, and a, oh jesus I can't believe I'm talking about this, commode chair, in case I'm not able to get up the stairs to the main house quickly and I need to go to the toilet. It's a chair, with a bucket under it. I'm 28, in shocking good health (my resting HR is in the high 40s FFS) and they're offering me a commode chair. I reluctantly accept. It's sitting in the corner of my room now, unused, a warning against the dangers of poor planning in my half-speed existence. OH leave, and I'm left kicking my heels and waiting to be discharged. My nice nurse from the weekend has gone, and the new one isn't given to talking much, if at all. I ask her when I'm being discharged, and get told that it's not happening today. No explanation, just a shrug and a "tomorrow". Fuck this! I think. I ask her why, get nowhere. I decide I'm not happy with this, and launch an escape attempt. I bound down the ward on crutches, looking for someone who might listen to me and explain what the fuck is going on. I get as far as the ward clerk before my silent, grumpy-eyed nemesis catches up and takes me back to my bed. Finally, a doctor arrives. They just wanted to make sure I was getting past the tramadol upset, that's all. I point out that it's not very nice to do that to people, and they could at least furnish an explanation, wouldn't take long. A shit they do not give.

Tuesday, and I am finally allowed to get the hell out of there. I get the all-clear about lunchtime, but when I call a nurse (the same one from yesterday!) to ask if I can get some help with my bags (I have a LOT of donated reading matter), she agrees.....once I give some more swabs. Some leaving present.

There's some faff with a taxi driver who has a disconcerting habit of turning full in his chair to talk to me on the way home, and constantly asking me how to get there (I dunno, you're the professional, why are you asking the drug-addled injured person?) but finally, blessedly, I'm home.

Next: Navigating real life on crutches, and what happens once the cast comes off.