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.