UPDATE

Okay - hello again, all. So I have a development in The Accident Saga. Since my last post, there is good news and bad news. Mostly bad news, to be honest - but the good news is that my cankle was very short-lived. *cheers*.

Oh - and my foot is almost healed too! So, I suppose two bits of good news :)

However, the bad news is that my knee has not been so fortunate. After having it drained, I thought all was going to be well and I'd be back on my feet. Instead, my knee inflamed again and I could barely waddle. Odd, considering when I had it drained years ago in England, they just popped a plaster over the needle prick and sent me on my way to heal in a few days - whereas here, in Spain, they wrapped it up in a cast (as previous post) as protection. Anyway, I had to revisit the hospital A&E to get more fluid taken out (a frightening prospect as I knew the level of pain I would be facing). A nice, strong woman from Argentina had me in and out very quickly (and wrapped my leg in just one light bandage.... how confident she must have been).

The following day I rested. The day after, I went out for an ice cream with friends (only a few minutes from home - don't panic, I barely moved!) and then, that evening I met Mother for a drink at the beach club. Having had zero hours sleep the night before (this particular weekend our town held the annual Reggae Festival, shipping in famous artists from Jamaica and California. Very fun... very marijuana... very loud..), I was sleepy and in need of a nice sunset drink (still no alcohol yet, which upsets Mother greatly). However, as I was on my way to meet Mother, I developed a pain in my jaw (I've had this previously, identified as a dislocated jaw by a dentist). This time, it was a lot worse. From that moment on, the pain only got worse - meaning I couldn't open my mouth to talk, eat, drink etc. Of course, Mother has been a very good, if unqualified, nurse - for which I am grateful and couldn't really cope without her during this injury. However, she managed to conduct a full meeting with the beach club owner (where did he come from?! He honestly just appeared when I blinked!) and his assistant. As I sat beside them all, pretending tears of pain weren't streaming down my cheeks, I tried to poke Mother very subtly until she got the message.

Ah, finally we are on the way to hospital. Again. It's now 10pm and I haven't eaten anything other than a sorbet all day long. A&E at 10pm is rather busy (because Spanish people like to do everything at night - including visits to the hospital, it would seem). Nonetheless, I was assessed by a nurse (another woman....

... Let me just interrupt myself here and comment on the overwhelmingly poor ratio of men to women. The Spanish women are incredibly good at hospitality. That is all. When it comes to any kind of mental work - you may as well ask a donkey. Occasionally you may find a professional woman such as a marine biologist or a brain surgeon who is able to perform the task at hand very well. Other than that, these women have absolutely no sense of urgency. They don't know what they're doing and they never, ever get it right. I have made approximately 1 million phone calls to companies in Spain in the last three and a half years - of which all 1 million began with a female representative. It isn't until I ask to speak with a man that I actually get somewhere - because they stop and listen. That is, if I ever get connected to this male colleague (most of the time these women fail to operate the phone system and cut me off).

Okay - back to the story.

So - the assessing nurse listens to me explaining how I think this jaw problem is related to my previous injuries from my foot and knee. Of course, she interrupts me and says; "Yes but are you here for your foot or your knee or your jaw though...?"

I am called through, some ten minutes later, by a man (WHAT?! HE'S A HE??? Rejoice!) and taken to a room. He was lovely and told me the doctor would be in shortly. As I lie there in pain, Mother is rambling about how I should behave.

"Darling, make sure you tell the doctor you're in pain!"

I glare at her, tears streaming down my face.

"Honey - you mustn't forget - say about how it must be related to your knee, darling!"

"Darling, now - shall I explain to the doctor that you can't really tell him everything because it hurts? I'll explain it better you see - I won't miss anything out"

I nod lightly.

The doctor enters. Oh for GOD'S SAKE IT'S A BL**DY WOMAN!? I sigh and try not to sob. Not that it would look much different to my current face to be honest.

"I am your doctor. Well, actually - I am a surgeon. What is the problem? Tell the surgeon. What happened?"

She is terrifically stern looking - with glasses and a permanent frown and black short cropped hair with disturbing earrings.

I point to Mother and the doctor turns around, slightly surprised to see her sitting there.

"I am going to explain to you what happened because it hurts her too much to talk" Mother says. Mother is able to conduct her true self as this doctor speaks very good English.

"No. I prefer you to tell me . Then your mum can speak afterwards. You speak." Topaz says. (N.B. we are going to call her Topaz in this post, to make it easier for reference. She was no gem though. More like a heavy rock.)

Topaz spins back to me and raises her eyebrows as I begin to mumble the entire story.

She then whizzes out of the room like a moth and returns with some kind of ear torch. She lodges the torch into my left ear, and then my right. She produces a wooden stick from her pocket and heavily pokes it in my mouth.

"Say 'aaah'"

"Aaah..." I manage quietly

"Ehh, come on! No! Say 'ahhhhh!!" She says, with a slight patronising tone.

I tried again. She then grabs my face in between her gloves and starts thrusting it around like a rubber doll, pushing my jaw bone this way and that. I am trying not to scream but she is fully aware I am in intense pain.

"Eh, c'mon now - it's not that bad!" Again - making me feel like a baby.

I wanted to say; "WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO RAM MY FIST IN YOUR JAW AND DISLOCATE IT, MADAM?!"

I didn't.

After sufficient rattling around my jaw, she says;

"You have an ear infection. This jaw is painful because of the ATM tramitifcations  and judistification of the traumatication and so the tube of the REM is in the blah blah causing your pain here in the blah blah" (Okay that's not accurate but I don't understand medical terminology whatever the language may be).

Mother pipes up; "No. no, no, no" - she shakes her finger - "No, it is not an ear infection. Now, I am no doctor but this is not an ear infection, excuse me. This is a dislocated jaw. Actually."

"No. If she had a dislocated jaw, you would see that the bottom part of her mouth would be right over here."

"WELL IT WAS!" Mother suddenly exclaims.

What is going on?? Mother hates this 'big for her boots' woman so much she has resorted to warping the truth. My jaw - in no way possible - had popped over to the other side of my face at any point today.

"What?" Topaz looks confused and turns back to me "Well, you never said this to me! You never tell me that this happened! Why?"

She is cross.

I am stunned. What is happening? I feel like I'm back at school trying to defend my best friend and her weird fantasy story about Felicity trying to steal her gel pens.

"Uh.... well -- I mean...." I look at Mother but Topaz steps between Mother and I, blocking my view.

"I... Well, I didn't really remember what happened this morning.... it's just .. lots of pain.."

Mother interrupts; "YOU SEE??? THIS IS WHY SHE WANTED ME TO SAY EVERYTHING! I CAN EXPLAIN IT BETTER! I DIDN'T FORGET!"

At this point, I shed more tears in an attempt to distract everyone from this ridiculous discussion. I do not remember how this story of the jaw dislocation dissolved but it did.

Topaz continues to explain to mother and I that perhaps I do have symptoms of a dislocated jaw, which are likely to be caused by this ear infection as it affects a lot more areas. She then runs through more symptoms that I recognise and prescribes me antibiotic drops.

Mother then instructs Topaz to ask the traumatology department to reassess my knee as it's inflamed again. (True - no sooner had the woman from Argentina drained it - the knee filled up with fluid again.)

Topaz shrugs and leaves the room.

Eventually, the nice man from the beginning escorts me out and into the traumatology department. He asks me how I am and I should wait for the doctor for just a moment. Shortly after, he returns with a doctor .... HE IS ANOTHER MAN! Thank the heavens! At this point I want to say; "I don't care what you do to my leg, I trust you with everything!" The nice man (Augustus Gloop, for the sake of writing) is standing there to help with translation *yay* and the doctor gently feels my huge knee. After explaining everything, the doctor says he will take a little more fluid out but this time test it and have an x-ray too.

I am escorted again to the x-ray room first and greeted by a young man (woohoo!) as he takes me to a dark room and efficiently carries out the x-ray. He then wheels me back to the doctor for the knee operation. I ask if I can have anaesthetic because, honestly, I can't handle any more pain. He says something in Spanish and Augustus looks at me with a sorry face and explains that it wouldn't be possible. However, the lovely male doctor with common sense and an open-mind has managed to administer a strong pain killer, swiftly, into my bottom. Actually - Augustus did it.

"You will feel a little pain down your leg for about a minute but don't worry - it will be fine soon, are you okay, Charlot?"

Woah - okay - that's a new pain. Hey, at least another part of my body gets to experience the work of a needle. I'm sure it felt an outcast.

Also - quite sweet - the Spanish don't understand the whole "Charlotte-Elizabeth" thing so, most of the time, they say 'shallot' like I am a small onion.

Laying there with pain streaming up and down my body, I find it difficult and inappropriate to correct the lovely Augustus, despite Mother's glare at me.

A few moments later, the doctor is preparing more needles and opening loads of packages of things. I am trying my best to do my meditational breathing, which I have learnt a new technique I call Picasso breathing; which requires you to breathe once in, once out, two in, two out, three in, three out etc.

Mother is behind my head squeezing my elbows; 

"IS THIS A GOOD PLACE TO STAND, DARLING??" she shout-whispers.

"Actually *breathes* could you not *breathes* hold my funny bones please *breathes*"

"Oh!" Mother retracts her grip "Sorry, darling. I'll just hold your hand then, yes? Do you think the doctor needs me to help pass things?"

"He has an assistant. Just stand there and try not to narrate his actions please."

Augustus checks on me again, before the doctor gets to work.

Fifteen minutes later Augustus says; "okay, we are finished now".

The doctor and Augustus Gloop leave the room as another man enters with a woman to apply my bandage. The woman is here to hold my leg straight, which makes sense; first a light gauze sock reaching from my thigh to my foot graces my leg. Then, a compression sock. Then FIVE rolls of loo roll. Okay, so maybe it's medical roll. Either way - FIVE ROLLS?! This is ridiculous. Then THREE rolls of cotton wool. I'm not joking. Finally, a huge wad of sticky medical tape stuff. My leg has magically transformed into a tree trunk. It is three times the size of my other leg. The male doctor raps against the hard-as-rock bandage with his knuckles to check it's on securely.  I'll need a chainsaw to get it off, sir - I'm pretty sure you got the job done.

All the while, I notice (when the doctor giggles to his female assistant saying 'foto') that Mother has taken it upon herself to document this experience once again. She has her phone out, snapping away at my sorry state.

"It's for England, don't worry! I will show England how it's done! It's much better here!" She explains, happily.

I have to translate, unfortunately, with an apologetic look on my face.

Augustus returns and helps me to relocate to another bed in the hallway whilst the test results develop. He brings me ice for my knee and Mother contemplates how she could smuggle this ice pack home, as she wants a professional one, apparently.

It is now about 2am. I am looking like a zombie - dried mascara down my face and puffy eyes. Mother, however, is as perky as possible. She is sitting next to me on a chair, dressed in a pale blue summer evening gown. It grazes the floor - so I warn her of the possible blood she could pick up on her hem - and she swiftly whisks her layers of silk off the ground, exposing sparkly diamante sandals. In comparison, the other patients are passing in their pyjamas.

I try to fall asleep whilst Mother blabs about the likelihood of ordering a food delivery to A&E. I tell her that Sushi House won't be able to bring salmon roe to the hospital at 2am.

I am woken by Augustus' bellowing voice; 

"Shallot? Hello, I have your results."

We are moved again to the previous room to discuss the results and where to go from here. N.B. I'm fine - the important stuff all came back normal but I now have an appointment to see a rheumatologist.

At 4am, I am FINALLY FREE! At least for tonight. I have to wait in the reception area to collect my documents and reports, which unfortunately exposes both Mother and I to a gory A&E case. A poor Scandinavian man is trying to explain some formal admin stuff, with his hand down his grey tracksuit bottoms. He is barefoot, tall and athletic. There is blood on his tight white shirt and, as he turns around, my eyes fall upon his tracksuit bottoms; covered in blobs of blood around his.... crotch. 4am with no sleep and no food makes for a queasy me anyway. However, Mother takes it upon herself to tell me exactly what happened to this poor man.

According to Mother; 

"he is gay, darling. His boyfriend must have bitten his willy! He looks a bit gay - I think the boyfriend got angry, darling! Or maybe there was a piercing involved between them... I don't know, I wasn't there actually but I'm quite sure it's got something to do with a bitten willy."

Fantastic. I have got a very vivid image that will not go away for a good week. I was quite content with assuming it was an unlucky zipper accident (which caused my brain great grief as it was).

Onwards and upwards, as they say. I shall do some spiritual mind cleansing. Then, try to fix this knee. I'm sure the rheumatologist will wave his wizard wand this week and I'll be back playing beach volleyball asap!  Until then, I'll be here watching Netflix and supervising Mother's cooking from the sofa :)

xoxo

P.S. I realise I frequently contradict myself in regards to the uselessness of males one day and females the next. I really do have a solid theory of what each gender excels at, I promise. It all adds up when they are being observed as professionals in the workplace (and not dopey husbands in crocs on the side of the road).

The Accident

Warning: please prepare yourselves for a slightly gory account of the last two weeks. If accident stories make you feel nauseous, please do not read! 

Also - I have a feeling this will be rather a lengthy post, so grab some cookies :)

Rewind to last Wednesday:

Both Mother and I were at home. Suddenly, a loud explosion rang through the house, followed by a smash. Without thinking, I ran straight to the emergency - without knowing what it was (not wise, on reflection)  - and found Mother looking at something. As I rush to the other side of her, she screamed "NO! DON'T...!" but it's too late; my bare foot stamped straight down on a right-angled chunk of heavy glass, slicing straight through inches of my foot.  I lifted my leg up, expecting blood, only to find nothing... oh no, there it is; the delayed volcanic eruption. Mother went into 'no-panic' mode; "Don't worry, darling - it's fine - don't panic, don't panic". 

As soon as I saw the blood - I fainted. 

Considering I am studying to be a criminal psychologist, this may be something I'll have to overcome. However, I collapsed as Mother tried to save me from any more injuries and laid me down in the hall, trying to drag me to the living room. At this point, I was laughing to cover the intense pain as Mother looked like a flustered murderer dragging a dead body. Only a few feet and yet Mother is exhausted and needed a sit down. I made it to the sofa, my leg elevated and my foot wrapped in a white-now-red towel and a plastic bag. 

"Hospital.... we need to get you to a hospital, darling" Mother informs me.

"WHY?? Is it that bad? What's it look like? Take a photo... how bad is it?" I am concerned. 

Quite an annoying location for an injury actually - as it is immediately disabling and I can't actually see it. 

"Well, darling - I am in the middle of writing up an interview actually, so you Google our nearest hospital and let me finish this work. You'll be fine, just sit there... if blood starts pouring out of the bag onto the floor, call me because that's an expensive rug. Do you want something to calm you down, darling? I've just opened some cava, how about a glass of that, just to calm your nerves? Quite a shock you've had, cava is good for that, darling."

"No thanks. Just water and something sugary please... I need to not faint again. I don't need a celebratory beverage thank you..."

So, half an hour later, arriving at the hospital with Mother (who had miraculously somehow created herself a fresh face of makeup whilst I nearly drowned in blood), rushing in to get a wheelchair. As I'm wheeled in, I register and wait in the waiting room. This in itself was quite an ordeal as Mother cannot manoeuvre a wheelchair at all. She shuffles me around for a good two minutes - back and forth, round and round, jerking the wheels across the floor - before settling me down right at the front, in the way of everyone else, like a spectacle in a museum. 

Luckily, I wasn't waiting for long as the Spanish healthcare system is actually very impressive. I was assessed and sent to a different waiting room. Mother's face drops here as hospitals are not her favourite place. For me, I find it a rather educational experience. Even though I keep coming over faint with the pain. As I witness a conveyer belt of patients, cries and broken people, I register the three or four doctors on duty. There are three young men who smile at me and seem like they know what they're doing. There's also an older gentlemen - who I describe as a grizzly old bear - seemingly grumpy at both staff and patient. Worse; this bear seems to be taking in the patients that are waiting in this room with me. As the possibility of him treating me grows, I have a mental breakdown.

"Mummyyyyy!! *sob* I c-c-can't have h-h-him! I d-don't like h-him! Pleeeeaaseee no! He'll be m-mean and rough with m-me! Look! I don't w-want him, mummy!" I sob uncontrollably as the young doctors pass through, worried at my state.

"Ok, darling - if you don't want him I'll tell him, darling. Don't worry - you won't have what you don't want, sweetie. Mummy's here. Mummy's here, darling! Look - maybe you'll have one of those young junior doctors! You'll be fine, darling, don't worry." 

After a few minutes of realistic reflection, my sobbing subsides and I let fate take control. Everything happens for a reason. I'll be fine.

Of course, the gruff bear calls my name and ushers me in. 

Fine. Fine. It's okay - I tell myself. 

I tell him that I speak Spanish but I don't know all the medical terms so I ask if he speaks English. He doesn't (a shrug confirms his limited languages). The conversation that follows, puts my mind at rest as I realise he actually just has quite a British, dry sense of humour as we joke together. Mother has no clue what is going on and is frantically mouthing "WHAT IS HE SAYING????" to me from the other chair. As the doctor unwraps the plastic bag around my injury, he takes a peek and immediately says something to the nurse and she instructs me to lay down on the bed. I ask what he said so he demonstrates with hand motions; *stitches* and Mother nods to say "I told you". 

A very quick process proceeded, for which I was grateful, as I don't handle needles very well!  The nurse and the doctor were excellent and able to communicate the important parts to me. However, just in case of a return visit, Mother gathered up all the personal details of the staff members, including the receptionist (unnecessary I think). We now have a list of doctors' names - with a memo beside each one, such as;

 "v. good. not as grumpy as seems". 

"lovely watch. must ask where from next visit."

"speaks good English"

"gorgeous smile. Ask age next time?"

And so on. Eventually, I leave. Actually, upon arriving home, a nice lady offers to help me hop back to my house, whilst her dopy husband stands and watches. Yet another example of how women are stronger and smarter than men. 

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Housebound for a few days (the biggest struggle of all - as I'm very active and outdoorsy these days!), I let Mother out alone to the shops. Unfortunately, she returns with very bizarre items (due to the lack of language progression) - unable to identify simple things such as mayonnaise ('mayonesa', I'd thought, would be fairly easy. Apparently not - as she returns with a disgusting white salad sauce.) Carrot juice instead of orange juice was another gem. Nonetheless, Mother kindly brings home a crutch. A bright lime green one, in fact, because ; "it matches our sun chairs, darling!". I will also mention here, that as well as allowing her into the supermarket alone, I also had no other choice but to let her in the kitchen to cook. I know - I know - but really I had no other choice! (Even though Mother tried to persuade me to order us a kebab takeaway all week). Unfortunately, Mother believed that Chinese egg noodles and dried spaghetti were exactly the same thing and therefore cooked them together for approximately 30 minutes. Dinner resembled something you might find in the waste bin of Alcatraz. 

The following evening was the Sant Joan fiesta, which runs from around 7pm to 7am (seriously). Myself being perfectly happy with watching the fireworks from the balcony, Mother sets off to enjoy the experience even closer. Three minutes later, she rushes back in yelling;

"GET UP! QUICKLY! YOU ARE NOT MISSING THIS! IT'S AMAZING DOWN THERE! COME ON!!"

And so, in slight hysteria, Mother half-carries me to the beach. Electing herself as a traffic warden by stopping all the traffic as I hobbled across the road.  It wasn't quite what I expected; it looked a bit like a war zone, actually. There were children, bare-foot, running around with lighters and sparklers. There were parents lighting fireworks whilst holding a bag of them in the same hand. There were Bronx youths wearing stupid hats and carrying fire bombs. So, as I sat on the bench (see below), disabled in my pyjamas, I feared for my safety. Actually, I nearly got struck by a firework.

The following weekend, I couldn't bear to be inside for a minute longer - so attempted a beach day. I got half way, when Mother exclaimed; "Darling, sit here - wait. I have an idea" and before I could stop her, she zoomed off in the direction of the lifeguards. Brilliant. Ten minutes later, I realised that Mother has chatted up Mario in order to chauffeur me to my destination in my very own royal sand carriage (see below). I didn't expect quite such an audience but for some reason the entire population of Spain turned up to watch this.

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Fast forward to the beginning of this week. 

I wake to see my right knee the size of a football. Immediately, it all makes sense; I had a similar injury from the marathon in 2012 due to impact inflammation. I have been compensating the weight to my right leg to handle the foot injury. The pain was unbearable so Mother takes me to the health centre here, although I can't walk (left foot with stitches, right knee unable to take any weight). So Mother kindly leaves me in the car while she borrows a wheelchair from Alberto at the health centre (no wonder she took so long... they had a "lovely little chat" apparently). Collecting me, Mother embraces her inner Lewis Hamilton and races me through the car parks and across the main road... unaware that she must first locate the disabled access routes that allow the chair to glide up and down the slopes cutaway in the curbs. Instead, Mother tips me head first into the gutters.

My appointment was at 10:10. By quarter past, I am still waiting (zero bother on my part) outside my assigned door. However, another door down the hall opens as a young male doctor steps out and calls "Peter" in as his next patient. Mother clocks this doctor. Twenty-something and 'very good looking' apparently. I can't see long-distance so he's a blurry white jacket to me. This 'Peter' is not here, it would seem. Mother turns to me and says; 

"Raise your hand, quickly!" 

"Pardon?"

"Pretend you're Peter! You can see that doctor, darling!"

"No."

"YES! Look, Peter isn't even here, is he? We're waiting! You're an urgent patient! I bet he'll be very good, darling! He looks like he'll be good, doesn't he?"

"It doesn't work like that. It's not a queue. We're assigned a doctor, Mother."

"No but he won't know! You'll just say you're name is Pieter, pretend you're named after your great grandfather! Come onnnnn!"

N.B. Great Grandfather is Henry. Not Peter.

"Shut up. You're disturbing the other patients. Sit down!"

We are quickly seen by my assigned female doctor and sent straight to back to A&E. Upon arrival, Mother re-introduces herself to all the doctors, nurses and receptionists, feeling extremely proud that she remembers everyone's name. Actually, she even makes friends with a couple of patients by providing light entertainment in the waiting room. I am there (in the wheelchair, in the middle of the room, as an obstructive specimen to be stared at. I quickly learn how to wheel myself around in the end.) Mother has brought some sort of fly swat and her face is graced with an angry-Shrek expression as she growls at this fly circling the room. It lands on her foot and Mother swiftly attacks it with the swat. Loudly. The skater boy opposite is trying hard not to laugh at her, while his father is nodding and chuckling.  Mother optimistically believes they are laughing with her and therefore continues to act out scenes, paying her dues as hospital entertainer.

Soon after, I am ushered in to see a doctor about my knee. I am, yet again, judgemental over these doctors and - as she is a woman - I am a little nervous. She instructs me to lay down on the bed whilst she gathers her helpers and tools. As I lie there, doing my calming breathing, Mother comes over and inspects the cloth I am laying on. It is hospital-blue linen, at which Mother gasps at and says; 

"Darling! It feels like Egyptian cotton! Oh LOOK, there's more over there, how amazing! Look, they're all ironed! You don't get that in England, do you? No, they just use paper and throw it away! What a waste! You see, bless Spain, eco-friendly this is, isn't it?"

Mother continues to investigate the surgical room, touching things she's not supposed to. The doctor re-emerges with her helper and explains what they're going to do. It turns out, they won't be using anaesthetic to drain all of this fluid from my knee. My adrenalin, at this stage, is through the roof (as it usually is in hospitals et al.) and the thought of needles jabbing into this already-painful knee makes me light-headed. I try my best to continue my meditational breathing patterns, focusing. Mother lends a somewhat unhelpful hand by holding me; 

"Learn some French to take your mind off this. What's the French word for 'needle', darling?". 

Twenty minutes later, two huge tubes were full of my extra-leg-stuff and my leg wrapped up very tightly in 5 layers of bandage, tape and cotton. Instant pain relief, thank God, although now a slightly different needle-bruise pain but totally manageable and I am more than ready to get out of the hospital now! Ah, no. Two more doctors have come in and Mother asks the male junior doctor (through enthusiastic charades, obviously) to take a look at my stitches on my other foot as she is worried about the medical work carried out previously by the female doctor. How rude. How embarrassing.

Of course, the work on my foot was totally fine and I am 'healing very well'. 

Here we are at the final stages of The Accident. I am still on somewhat of a rest order, so no swimming in the ocean for a few more days *sob*, however I'm off the meds! Yay! My knee is still significantly larger than the left knee but I'm hoping it will die down. The doctor said she couldn't take any more fluid out because it would traumatize my knee (more traumatising than Mother's behaviour this week? Doubtful) so apparently the extra fluid will disperse through my leg in time. So far, it has dispersed to my ankle and I now have a cankle?!?!

Send prayers for my foot and knee and cankle.

xoxo

 

Accessorizing.