After yesterday’s post complaining about my knee, I do feel slightly better having got medical confirmation that yes I did dislocate it and cor that is a lot of bruising…
A whole morning spent in A&E confirms that firstly, when your kneecap falls off, then yes, that is a full dislocation; secondly, grabbing your knee and cracking it back in as soon as it falls apart is indeed a good thing; and thirdly, the A&E services that the NHS provides are everything I would hope for from my GP (friendly, listen, treat me like a human and super efficient). I was in, seen, xrayed, rammed back together and stuck in a splint all in under 2 hours and sent off on my merry way with the addition of “better crutches” to help with wrist sprains around the house. The sheer volume of Velcro I have strapping various supports to my body now means that I crackle every time I move. Add this to the joint popping and I’m basically a one (wo)man band!
My newly given mission was to head to the mobility shop to get a leg riser for my wheelchair. Armed with the make and model, I asked if they stocked anything. Apparently, what I requested was tartan paint and was assessed with the intake of breath generally attributed to those of the plumbing or car mechanic trades. And in true air sucking form, it did cost me. £132 lighter I emerged having hired a chair for a week which did have a leg riser. (Admittedly £100 of that I’d a deposit, but still.). So now I’m not just navigating with wheels, I also have a battering ram. A very sore and swollen battering ram.
When we got back, I called work and explained that new bits had fallen off and with the additional battering ram out the front I just can’t get around the classroom (or manage the stairs, or drive). So that’s me grounded for the rest of the week. Or at the very least, using Google Classroom to the limits.
Just when I thought my day couldn’t actually get any weirder, we took the kids to their trampolining class and I was wheeling myself towards the bar (for lemonade Judgey McJudgerson ), when a terrifying child’s carer stops me in the leisure centre and asks if child can pray for me… ummm… I don’t want to upset child… that, and I’m a naive Englishwoman who assumes praying is going home and quietly talking to your diety in your own time and space, and that everyone else has the same personal space and eye contact agreement that was secretly declared when the London Underground was formed, so I say yes….. I promptly find myself with full laying on of hands praying from both of them in the middle of the leisure centre reception… with me desperately resisting the urge to wheel myself off shouting “for science!”.
How on earth are you meant to react to that??!