Wot I Did On My Holidays
Once upon a time, not so long ago, and not so very far away (unless you are in Australia, or similar Forn Parts), a Beyoutiful Lady planned to attend the wedding of one of her many many cousins, in the far off region of Pescara, in Italy, to be held in a castle, naturally.
Off she flew, with a host of family (never ones to miss out on a cheap holiday AND an excuse to dress up) to Rome, where they boarded a coach for the four hour trip through the mountains to their destination. A long, but very Scenic journey.
Finally, they arrived at the castle and, after admiring the view adjourned to the courtyard for Refreshments and seeing who else was there. Then, time for a brief siesta and bath (in the ENORMOUS bathroom) before getting ready for the big evening meal to meet everyone and start the festivities.
Once suitably beautified, our heroine boarded the 'courtesy bus' taking them to their destination.
After a very brief trip they arrived, and suddenly, while being helped down the rather high step out of the bus, a stone underfoot caused Our Heroine to slip a vicious PUMA leapt out of nowhere, knocking OH to the ground. At first she suspected just a slightly twisted ankle, as there was no immediate pain. That was until when attempting to stand up, she discovered her ankle had gone suspiciously... floppy. So hurriedly sat down as she felt a Swoon coming on.
Some panic began to Ensue among her companions, and Auntie Mary (who is an ER nurse. Not on the telly tho, for reals) was fetched from the resturant, followed by several other aunts, cousins and The Mother. Auntie Mary did some examining and proding, none of which produced pain, but was worried as apparently OH (oh feck it, me) was turing 'a bit green' and so it ws decided I should be returned to the hotel and a doctor fetched.
Thus the Many Lifts began, as a few stalwart Boyfriends Of Cousins lifted me back into the Fateful Bus. I think it was at this point I started to hyperventilate, as all proper heroines should, in lieu of swooning.
Back at the hotel, I was lifted *out* of the bus and given painkillers (which are tricky to take when you can't breathe) and a bag of ice. Then... someone said they'd phoned the doctor who said they should send me to hospital. SO. BACK to the minibus, which involved quite a bizarre conversation with one of the Helpful Lifters, who turned out to be my cousin's cousin Brian, who I hadn't seen for many years and had been looking forward to meeting again. Trying to make Polite 'OH HAI!' conversation with someone who is carrying you AND while you can't really breathe is also tricky.
So. In bus, foot propped up on seat with ice on. Still can't breathe. TWENTY MINUTES of bumpy winding mountain roads to Penne hospital. Lifted out of bus into wheelchair. On removing the bag of ice, I was somewhat surprised to notice that while my leg was pointing forwards, my foot most definitely was not and instead seemed to be trying to head off on its own to the left.
Looked at foot. Looked at Auntie Mary. Looked back at foot. Caught breath long enough to say "That's not right, is it?". To which she agreed that it really wasn't.
But a hospital! Things would be bound to improve now surely? You'd think. Get taken to casualty, where no-one speaks English, and prodded some - which definitely hurts now - then wheeled off to x-ray. I think by now I was breathing again more normally, possibly the painkillers had kicked in. This was not to last.
X-ray man (I can never remember if it's radiologist or radiographer) shows up, evidently Not Pleased at being called in on a Friday Night. As he can't explain to me how to move ankle (and since I couldn't move it anyway), he moves it himself. And Not Gently. I think I might had screamed a bit. I definitely remember being told to "SHUSH". I VERY definitely remember realising it really was broken when i could feel the bones MOVE as he twisted it.
Eventually, after what seemed like extended torture, I was allowed back to casualty to wait. X-rays were produced and, since no-one spoke english and I didn't speak Italian, the doctor explained to me by pointing at the xray and making 'twig snapping' gestures with both hands followed by this -
Dr "Broken! Surgery. Stay."
Me (faintly) "Yes. Broken. Surgery... now?"
Dr "Broken! no. stay tonight"
Me "Surgery tomorrow??"
Dr "no, tomorrow fiesta. Stay." (or somethhing, whatever italian for holiday is).
By this point, I really didn't care much and just wanted to lie down. But, first, getting a cast on! A porter wheeled me off through many dark corridors until finally we reached teh plastering place. And helpfully was also the one to HOLD MY LEG while Some Guy put the plaster on. He was at least more gentle than the xray man and says 'Sssh' more kindly when I yelped. Or possibly screamed some more.
Then was taken to a ward. I had assumed at some point in all of this (which had taken a few hours), painkillers would appear, but there was no sign yet. Anyway, got into a bed in a room shared with 2 elderly ladies, and discovered that the concept of screens between beds didn't apply here. Finally, someone appeared to translate! Hurrah! This being my (wait for it) cousin's Mother-in-law-to-be's boyfriend, who was lovely.
Learned that the plan seemed to be to keep me there a few days, then transfer me to another hospital for surgery and that no, I wasn't getting any painkillers. After some insistance, a nurse reappeared with 2 paracetemol. Great.
Finally at about 1am, everyone left and I settled down to sleep. For about 5 minutes, before one of the elderly ladies started shouting. After getting no response from me, she yelled at the other one, til she woke up and shouted back. This went on ALL NIGHT LONG. There was also a great deal of yelling from another ward down the corridor, which I think was between a patient and nurse/orderly and, at one point, what sounded like a tray of Instruments got sent flying. I think the patient was winning.
At no point during the night did anyone come near my two shouty companions however, and they kept it up til the medicine round at 6am. When I still got no painkillers. It did at least go quieter.
Then the shift change and in came the Angry Nurse, who seemed to take it personally that I didn't speak Italian and repeatedly asked me what i later worked out was "Why did you come to Italy when you don't speak Italian?". At the time tho, I was a little bit fuzzy, couldn't quite work out what she wanted so tried to say I was there for a wedding, and only for 4 days. Which just seemed to annoy her more. And didn't help when it was time for Changing the Bed - which she did by rolling me over ONTO THE BROKEN LEG and yanking out the sheets from underneath. Bear in mind, Still No Painkillers.
By now I was fairly determined to get out of there if I could, a desire only strengthened by discovering that a 'bed bath' consisted of the Angry Nurse with a bowl of water and a wodge of cotton wool held in tongs (and remember, no screens/curtains!). Phoned the sister to find out when they were coming and asked them to bring painkillers. Apparently I sounded a bit Frantic by this stage.
About 11ish Sister shows up with the mother, armed with an Italian phrase book, and a list of questions for the doctor that the hotel receptionist had helpfully written down, including 'how long will surgery take?', 'how long will i have to stay?' and, most importantly 'Can i have surgery in Ireland?'. The doctor finally appeared and, after establishing I didn't speak any Italian, spoke to us at length... in Italian. He also brought xrays and Another Doctor, which they peered at and pointed at leg as well as ankle, the significance of which I didn't gather til much later...
We soon discovered that the only way to really talk to the doctor was to phone the hotel and have the receptionist try to translate. The first question asked was, not surprisingly, if i could leave. At which he shrugged and said he couldn't make me stay, but I really probably should. However, I cared not for warnings and just wanted to FLEE.
So after much muttering, much shouting at the hotel receptionist (poor girl), he got me forms to sign. Then said he couldn't give me crutches or even lend us a wheelchair just to get back to the hotel, and stormed off. I think he was Displeased.
Got a friendly taxi driver - who had entered into the crutches/wheelchair negotiations on our behalf - to ferry us back to the hotel. I was FREE!!! Totally immobile, but FREE.
On arriving at the hotel, a gaggle of Italian waiters/porters were on hand to carry me (in a chair) to the room. The poor sods.
However finally, I was in a comfy bed, propped up on pillows OUT of the hospital of DOOOM and, thanks to the mother and her arthritis, stuff to the gills with strong painkillers, and much MUCH happier!
The wedding went on below, and I had a steady stream of visitors, bearing gifts of champagne, icecream and cake. I've since been told they reckoned I was still in shock since apparently I didn't stop giggling all evening and appeared to be having a great time. Yay for codine ;p I even got some sleep.
The following day was more worrying. Talking to the insurance, the very nice lady pointed out that since I'd signed myself out, they couldn't really do much, but to just make sure I had my certificate to fly for the airport. My... oh shit. Cue frantic calls to the hospital, where the dr refused to give the certificate. The bastard. Then much fretting as we were due to fly back the next day.
However soon a plan formed. The Mother had wheelchair assistance booked, but didn't need it so much as Rome airport was tiny. So we would do a Switch and try and smuggle me onto the plane. Plan B was that if this didn't work, at least we'd be in Rome where they might speak English in teh hospitals. And not be full of screaming old ladies.
As a slight aside, during the wedding night disco, someone had apparently swung into the Groom's Mother, sent her flying into a marble shelf/bannister/something, knocking her out and breaking her wrist, so she got packed off to the same hospital in an ambulance - and was put right into the bed I had not long since vacated. She had been in that hospital before (since she lives there ) tho, so when the Shouty Women started up, she picked up herself AND drip and wandered around until she found a bed in a quiet room...
ANYWAY. Sunday was spent in vague panic about flying but mostly in a codine haze. Then Monday came. We were due to get on the coach to head back to Rome at 4am. Thankfully, someone had by then got crutches from somewhere, so at least I didn't have to be carried back out of the hotel. However the coach was a BIG coach. With big steps up. That turned a corner. A Narrow Corner.
The only sensible thing to do was to bum-shuffle up these, which worked til the corner was reached. One of my uncles was holding the plastered leg. Alas, he had been up all night drinking and thus was also plastered. During the corner turning, he went a Bit Faster than me, thus bashing my leg Against the Driver's door thingy. OW OW OW OW Ouch. Ow. From there, I declined Further Assistance and mananged to hop all the way to the back seat to stretch out and hopefully sleep.
This was Not To Be. What followed was four hours of windy mountain roads, gritted teeth and Intense Discomfort. Also, the painkillers were running low.
Finally the airport was reached. Rejecting all offers of 'help', I bum-shuffled MYSELF back off the coach while Operation Wheelchair Switch swung into action. The mother was taken off, wheel chair obtained, then I got in it. First hurdle over. The main one tho, check-in, lay ahead. It was decided we should go in small groups (mainly to keep the more over-excitable and gabby of the aunts well away in case they gave the game away).
With the plaster cast mostly covered by trousers and judiciously placed coat, and crutches prominently displayed we got in line. Panic was, I have to confess, very close to setting in at this point. Nausea definitely had. I really REALLY didn't want to stay in Italy for surgery and god knew how long recovery afterwards.
Reached check in. Explained breezily that ankle was probably just sprained and the crutches were mostly cosmetic and sure, i could walk. Did I need the hoist/lift to get on the plane?
No, no of course not, I could do steps FINE.
At this point the mother nearly gave the game away by trying to insist on the hoist, but thankfully Auntie Mary managed to shut her up, the lady said 'fine' and we were THROUGH!!
Now we just had to get on the plane. Which began to look daunting as a bus arrived to take us TO the plane. A bus with no wheelchair ramp. However the Manly Relations stepped in and lifted the chair onto the bus. Phew.
Managed to get off the bus on crutches and waited til everyone else was on (they'd promised to keep the front row free for me). Got to aeroplane steps. Looked at steps. Realised with sinking feeling that aeroplane steps are A Lot Bigger than I had remembered. Especially the first one. There was NO WAY I was getting up there via crutches.
The Drunken Uncles again offered to CARRY me up. Which, after the leg bashing on the coach, and the rather unpleasant prospect of us ALL tumbling down the steps, I very firmly declined.
There was only one thing for it - the Bum Shuffle. So, in full view of all the passengers, the bemused stewards and the entire bloody drunken family, up the plane steps I went on my arse. Who needs dignity anyway? I find it vastly over-rated.
Of course it took about 3 of them to get me to my feet once I got up there, but by that stage I didn't care. We were ON THE PLANE.
Which is exactly the point the chief stewardess chose to ask me why I didn't go for the hoist. And if I'd done this while away. And did I have my certificate to fly handy?
Somehow I managed to breezily reply that the letter was in my bag with all the medical stuff (which amounted to Nil, the Pissed-Off Doctor wouldn't give me ANY of the records. Wouldnt' give them to the insurance people either when they tried) and shuffled to a seat with my sister chanting 'close the doors close the doors close the doors' over and over. While trying to ignore the bloody annoying woman who' decided to take the 3rd seat in the row, after watching all this, and asked ENDLESS questions about what I'd done, how did I do it, how bad was it...
Eventually, they closed the doors, took away the steps and the plane moved off. A huge sigh of relief went round and I felt much better. For all of about 10 minutes, because then we took off and ARRGARGGHHHH PRESSURE ARRGGHHHH. SO. Much. PAIN.
They had left me with an open cast, but the bashing on the coach, hours of travel and airport fun had obviously caused some swelling. Of course flying ALSO causes swelling. And because there was nowhere to prop it up, Yet Moar Swelling. And PAIN. PAIN PAIN PAIN.
After a bit we worked out that if my sister propped her feet up against the bulkhead, I could put my leg across hers which helped a little. Tho not with the constant fear that I would get a blood clot and DIE, or that my leg would just explode. Which it really REALLY felt like it was going to. BOOM SPLAT OUCH.
Don't fly with a broken leg kids, it's not nearly as much fun as you'd think!
Two and a half hours of that. Also not helped by the Large Man who, as we flew over England, wanted to see out our side so was LEANING OVER ME wittering on about cumbria. I was convinced he was going to fall and land on me. Stupid fucker.
At long, LONG last we reached Belfast. And sensibly, they got the lift to take me off the plane in a wheelchair - I am fairly sure they'd worked out I shouldn't have been on the plane, but there was nothing they could do by that stage but get me off it again as soon as possible and get rid of me.
After all this, got to sister's car and from there it was just about another half hour til finally the Blessed Relief of the Royal Victoria Hospital. Hurrah!
More x-raying ensued - much less painful xraying at that - leading to the following conversation -
xray lady "ok, yes, your leg is broken, so I'll send you off to fracture clinic now"
me "no, not my leg, my ankle"
xray lady "Definitely your leg!"
me - "no, ANKLE, I saw the pictures in italy!"
xray lady (patiently) "Yes, ankle, but your leg is broken TOO. Look!"
And showed me a lovely xray of a very obviously broken leg bone, what with the big space between the two halves. It definitely didn't look like that in the Italian pictures and I have a Feeling the Bashing On the Coach may have caused it to become a tad more obvious...
Off I was shunted to the Fracture Clinic for more setting joy. Where they very apologetically explained that all they could give me was gas & air. And were perplexed at my excitement and joy at the prospect. Until the doctor asked if they'd given me morphine to set it in Italy; my laughter at this point may have been a tad hysterical. Though it was oddly gratifying to see just how shocked they were that I'd been given nothing. I think the fact that I was still giggling and saying "I love this place, this is great!" as they were trying to force the bones back into place may have convinced them. Apparently, gas & air isn't *that* strong usually ;p
And so, 3 days or so after the breaking (happened friday, this was monday evening) there I was ensconced in a lovely hospital bed with buttons, (bed goes up, bed goes down. bed goes up bed goes down. So much fun to play) REAL painkillers, a bag of chips helpfully supplied by my brother, and this for a leg. Close up !
Bliss ;p
Hmm. Long story is LONG. Some other time I may go into My Adventures In Hospital and How To Get an Operation By Crying at Nurses.
Off she flew, with a host of family (never ones to miss out on a cheap holiday AND an excuse to dress up) to Rome, where they boarded a coach for the four hour trip through the mountains to their destination. A long, but very Scenic journey.
Finally, they arrived at the castle and, after admiring the view adjourned to the courtyard for Refreshments and seeing who else was there. Then, time for a brief siesta and bath (in the ENORMOUS bathroom) before getting ready for the big evening meal to meet everyone and start the festivities.
Once suitably beautified, our heroine boarded the 'courtesy bus' taking them to their destination.
After a very brief trip they arrived, and suddenly, while being helped down the rather high step out of the bus, a stone underfoot caused Our Heroine to slip a vicious PUMA leapt out of nowhere, knocking OH to the ground. At first she suspected just a slightly twisted ankle, as there was no immediate pain. That was until when attempting to stand up, she discovered her ankle had gone suspiciously... floppy. So hurriedly sat down as she felt a Swoon coming on.
Some panic began to Ensue among her companions, and Auntie Mary (who is an ER nurse. Not on the telly tho, for reals) was fetched from the resturant, followed by several other aunts, cousins and The Mother. Auntie Mary did some examining and proding, none of which produced pain, but was worried as apparently OH (oh feck it, me) was turing 'a bit green' and so it ws decided I should be returned to the hotel and a doctor fetched.
Thus the Many Lifts began, as a few stalwart Boyfriends Of Cousins lifted me back into the Fateful Bus. I think it was at this point I started to hyperventilate, as all proper heroines should, in lieu of swooning.
Back at the hotel, I was lifted *out* of the bus and given painkillers (which are tricky to take when you can't breathe) and a bag of ice. Then... someone said they'd phoned the doctor who said they should send me to hospital. SO. BACK to the minibus, which involved quite a bizarre conversation with one of the Helpful Lifters, who turned out to be my cousin's cousin Brian, who I hadn't seen for many years and had been looking forward to meeting again. Trying to make Polite 'OH HAI!' conversation with someone who is carrying you AND while you can't really breathe is also tricky.
So. In bus, foot propped up on seat with ice on. Still can't breathe. TWENTY MINUTES of bumpy winding mountain roads to Penne hospital. Lifted out of bus into wheelchair. On removing the bag of ice, I was somewhat surprised to notice that while my leg was pointing forwards, my foot most definitely was not and instead seemed to be trying to head off on its own to the left.
Looked at foot. Looked at Auntie Mary. Looked back at foot. Caught breath long enough to say "That's not right, is it?". To which she agreed that it really wasn't.
But a hospital! Things would be bound to improve now surely? You'd think. Get taken to casualty, where no-one speaks English, and prodded some - which definitely hurts now - then wheeled off to x-ray. I think by now I was breathing again more normally, possibly the painkillers had kicked in. This was not to last.
X-ray man (I can never remember if it's radiologist or radiographer) shows up, evidently Not Pleased at being called in on a Friday Night. As he can't explain to me how to move ankle (and since I couldn't move it anyway), he moves it himself. And Not Gently. I think I might had screamed a bit. I definitely remember being told to "SHUSH". I VERY definitely remember realising it really was broken when i could feel the bones MOVE as he twisted it.
Eventually, after what seemed like extended torture, I was allowed back to casualty to wait. X-rays were produced and, since no-one spoke english and I didn't speak Italian, the doctor explained to me by pointing at the xray and making 'twig snapping' gestures with both hands followed by this -
Dr "Broken! Surgery. Stay."
Me (faintly) "Yes. Broken. Surgery... now?"
Dr "Broken! no. stay tonight"
Me "Surgery tomorrow??"
Dr "no, tomorrow fiesta. Stay." (or somethhing, whatever italian for holiday is).
By this point, I really didn't care much and just wanted to lie down. But, first, getting a cast on! A porter wheeled me off through many dark corridors until finally we reached teh plastering place. And helpfully was also the one to HOLD MY LEG while Some Guy put the plaster on. He was at least more gentle than the xray man and says 'Sssh' more kindly when I yelped. Or possibly screamed some more.
Then was taken to a ward. I had assumed at some point in all of this (which had taken a few hours), painkillers would appear, but there was no sign yet. Anyway, got into a bed in a room shared with 2 elderly ladies, and discovered that the concept of screens between beds didn't apply here. Finally, someone appeared to translate! Hurrah! This being my (wait for it) cousin's Mother-in-law-to-be's boyfriend, who was lovely.
Learned that the plan seemed to be to keep me there a few days, then transfer me to another hospital for surgery and that no, I wasn't getting any painkillers. After some insistance, a nurse reappeared with 2 paracetemol. Great.
Finally at about 1am, everyone left and I settled down to sleep. For about 5 minutes, before one of the elderly ladies started shouting. After getting no response from me, she yelled at the other one, til she woke up and shouted back. This went on ALL NIGHT LONG. There was also a great deal of yelling from another ward down the corridor, which I think was between a patient and nurse/orderly and, at one point, what sounded like a tray of Instruments got sent flying. I think the patient was winning.
At no point during the night did anyone come near my two shouty companions however, and they kept it up til the medicine round at 6am. When I still got no painkillers. It did at least go quieter.
Then the shift change and in came the Angry Nurse, who seemed to take it personally that I didn't speak Italian and repeatedly asked me what i later worked out was "Why did you come to Italy when you don't speak Italian?". At the time tho, I was a little bit fuzzy, couldn't quite work out what she wanted so tried to say I was there for a wedding, and only for 4 days. Which just seemed to annoy her more. And didn't help when it was time for Changing the Bed - which she did by rolling me over ONTO THE BROKEN LEG and yanking out the sheets from underneath. Bear in mind, Still No Painkillers.
By now I was fairly determined to get out of there if I could, a desire only strengthened by discovering that a 'bed bath' consisted of the Angry Nurse with a bowl of water and a wodge of cotton wool held in tongs (and remember, no screens/curtains!). Phoned the sister to find out when they were coming and asked them to bring painkillers. Apparently I sounded a bit Frantic by this stage.
About 11ish Sister shows up with the mother, armed with an Italian phrase book, and a list of questions for the doctor that the hotel receptionist had helpfully written down, including 'how long will surgery take?', 'how long will i have to stay?' and, most importantly 'Can i have surgery in Ireland?'. The doctor finally appeared and, after establishing I didn't speak any Italian, spoke to us at length... in Italian. He also brought xrays and Another Doctor, which they peered at and pointed at leg as well as ankle, the significance of which I didn't gather til much later...
We soon discovered that the only way to really talk to the doctor was to phone the hotel and have the receptionist try to translate. The first question asked was, not surprisingly, if i could leave. At which he shrugged and said he couldn't make me stay, but I really probably should. However, I cared not for warnings and just wanted to FLEE.
So after much muttering, much shouting at the hotel receptionist (poor girl), he got me forms to sign. Then said he couldn't give me crutches or even lend us a wheelchair just to get back to the hotel, and stormed off. I think he was Displeased.
Got a friendly taxi driver - who had entered into the crutches/wheelchair negotiations on our behalf - to ferry us back to the hotel. I was FREE!!! Totally immobile, but FREE.
On arriving at the hotel, a gaggle of Italian waiters/porters were on hand to carry me (in a chair) to the room. The poor sods.
However finally, I was in a comfy bed, propped up on pillows OUT of the hospital of DOOOM and, thanks to the mother and her arthritis, stuff to the gills with strong painkillers, and much MUCH happier!
The wedding went on below, and I had a steady stream of visitors, bearing gifts of champagne, icecream and cake. I've since been told they reckoned I was still in shock since apparently I didn't stop giggling all evening and appeared to be having a great time. Yay for codine ;p I even got some sleep.
The following day was more worrying. Talking to the insurance, the very nice lady pointed out that since I'd signed myself out, they couldn't really do much, but to just make sure I had my certificate to fly for the airport. My... oh shit. Cue frantic calls to the hospital, where the dr refused to give the certificate. The bastard. Then much fretting as we were due to fly back the next day.
However soon a plan formed. The Mother had wheelchair assistance booked, but didn't need it so much as Rome airport was tiny. So we would do a Switch and try and smuggle me onto the plane. Plan B was that if this didn't work, at least we'd be in Rome where they might speak English in teh hospitals. And not be full of screaming old ladies.
As a slight aside, during the wedding night disco, someone had apparently swung into the Groom's Mother, sent her flying into a marble shelf/bannister/something, knocking her out and breaking her wrist, so she got packed off to the same hospital in an ambulance - and was put right into the bed I had not long since vacated. She had been in that hospital before (since she lives there ) tho, so when the Shouty Women started up, she picked up herself AND drip and wandered around until she found a bed in a quiet room...
ANYWAY. Sunday was spent in vague panic about flying but mostly in a codine haze. Then Monday came. We were due to get on the coach to head back to Rome at 4am. Thankfully, someone had by then got crutches from somewhere, so at least I didn't have to be carried back out of the hotel. However the coach was a BIG coach. With big steps up. That turned a corner. A Narrow Corner.
The only sensible thing to do was to bum-shuffle up these, which worked til the corner was reached. One of my uncles was holding the plastered leg. Alas, he had been up all night drinking and thus was also plastered. During the corner turning, he went a Bit Faster than me, thus bashing my leg Against the Driver's door thingy. OW OW OW OW Ouch. Ow. From there, I declined Further Assistance and mananged to hop all the way to the back seat to stretch out and hopefully sleep.
This was Not To Be. What followed was four hours of windy mountain roads, gritted teeth and Intense Discomfort. Also, the painkillers were running low.
Finally the airport was reached. Rejecting all offers of 'help', I bum-shuffled MYSELF back off the coach while Operation Wheelchair Switch swung into action. The mother was taken off, wheel chair obtained, then I got in it. First hurdle over. The main one tho, check-in, lay ahead. It was decided we should go in small groups (mainly to keep the more over-excitable and gabby of the aunts well away in case they gave the game away).
With the plaster cast mostly covered by trousers and judiciously placed coat, and crutches prominently displayed we got in line. Panic was, I have to confess, very close to setting in at this point. Nausea definitely had. I really REALLY didn't want to stay in Italy for surgery and god knew how long recovery afterwards.
Reached check in. Explained breezily that ankle was probably just sprained and the crutches were mostly cosmetic and sure, i could walk. Did I need the hoist/lift to get on the plane?
No, no of course not, I could do steps FINE.
At this point the mother nearly gave the game away by trying to insist on the hoist, but thankfully Auntie Mary managed to shut her up, the lady said 'fine' and we were THROUGH!!
Now we just had to get on the plane. Which began to look daunting as a bus arrived to take us TO the plane. A bus with no wheelchair ramp. However the Manly Relations stepped in and lifted the chair onto the bus. Phew.
Managed to get off the bus on crutches and waited til everyone else was on (they'd promised to keep the front row free for me). Got to aeroplane steps. Looked at steps. Realised with sinking feeling that aeroplane steps are A Lot Bigger than I had remembered. Especially the first one. There was NO WAY I was getting up there via crutches.
The Drunken Uncles again offered to CARRY me up. Which, after the leg bashing on the coach, and the rather unpleasant prospect of us ALL tumbling down the steps, I very firmly declined.
There was only one thing for it - the Bum Shuffle. So, in full view of all the passengers, the bemused stewards and the entire bloody drunken family, up the plane steps I went on my arse. Who needs dignity anyway? I find it vastly over-rated.
Of course it took about 3 of them to get me to my feet once I got up there, but by that stage I didn't care. We were ON THE PLANE.
Which is exactly the point the chief stewardess chose to ask me why I didn't go for the hoist. And if I'd done this while away. And did I have my certificate to fly handy?
Somehow I managed to breezily reply that the letter was in my bag with all the medical stuff (which amounted to Nil, the Pissed-Off Doctor wouldn't give me ANY of the records. Wouldnt' give them to the insurance people either when they tried) and shuffled to a seat with my sister chanting 'close the doors close the doors close the doors' over and over. While trying to ignore the bloody annoying woman who' decided to take the 3rd seat in the row, after watching all this, and asked ENDLESS questions about what I'd done, how did I do it, how bad was it...
Eventually, they closed the doors, took away the steps and the plane moved off. A huge sigh of relief went round and I felt much better. For all of about 10 minutes, because then we took off and ARRGARGGHHHH PRESSURE ARRGGHHHH. SO. Much. PAIN.
They had left me with an open cast, but the bashing on the coach, hours of travel and airport fun had obviously caused some swelling. Of course flying ALSO causes swelling. And because there was nowhere to prop it up, Yet Moar Swelling. And PAIN. PAIN PAIN PAIN.
After a bit we worked out that if my sister propped her feet up against the bulkhead, I could put my leg across hers which helped a little. Tho not with the constant fear that I would get a blood clot and DIE, or that my leg would just explode. Which it really REALLY felt like it was going to. BOOM SPLAT OUCH.
Don't fly with a broken leg kids, it's not nearly as much fun as you'd think!
Two and a half hours of that. Also not helped by the Large Man who, as we flew over England, wanted to see out our side so was LEANING OVER ME wittering on about cumbria. I was convinced he was going to fall and land on me. Stupid fucker.
At long, LONG last we reached Belfast. And sensibly, they got the lift to take me off the plane in a wheelchair - I am fairly sure they'd worked out I shouldn't have been on the plane, but there was nothing they could do by that stage but get me off it again as soon as possible and get rid of me.
After all this, got to sister's car and from there it was just about another half hour til finally the Blessed Relief of the Royal Victoria Hospital. Hurrah!
More x-raying ensued - much less painful xraying at that - leading to the following conversation -
xray lady "ok, yes, your leg is broken, so I'll send you off to fracture clinic now"
me "no, not my leg, my ankle"
xray lady "Definitely your leg!"
me - "no, ANKLE, I saw the pictures in italy!"
xray lady (patiently) "Yes, ankle, but your leg is broken TOO. Look!"
And showed me a lovely xray of a very obviously broken leg bone, what with the big space between the two halves. It definitely didn't look like that in the Italian pictures and I have a Feeling the Bashing On the Coach may have caused it to become a tad more obvious...
Off I was shunted to the Fracture Clinic for more setting joy. Where they very apologetically explained that all they could give me was gas & air. And were perplexed at my excitement and joy at the prospect. Until the doctor asked if they'd given me morphine to set it in Italy; my laughter at this point may have been a tad hysterical. Though it was oddly gratifying to see just how shocked they were that I'd been given nothing. I think the fact that I was still giggling and saying "I love this place, this is great!" as they were trying to force the bones back into place may have convinced them. Apparently, gas & air isn't *that* strong usually ;p
And so, 3 days or so after the breaking (happened friday, this was monday evening) there I was ensconced in a lovely hospital bed with buttons, (bed goes up, bed goes down. bed goes up bed goes down. So much fun to play) REAL painkillers, a bag of chips helpfully supplied by my brother, and this for a leg. Close up !
Bliss ;p
Hmm. Long story is LONG. Some other time I may go into My Adventures In Hospital and How To Get an Operation By Crying at Nurses.