Weston by Crutches - Part 1
6th August 2019
Categories: Latest News
A surprising new blog, surprising new challenges…
Hello again, ‘Blog Fans’ – it’s been a while since I’ve badgered you all with my musings, but with good reason!
You might recall I was writing a weekly blog that told the story of my ‘journey’ from ‘Tourist to Tourism Marketing Officer’ (apologies for my use of ‘journey’; it’s such a cliché now isn’t it? Makes me sound like an X-Factor hopeful or an Anti-Hero reality TV star…). Well, that particular blog was put on hold for a couple of weeks whilst I busily organised some national marketing campaigns for Weston-super-Mare – my actual job, not just some fun side project; priorities I’m afraid! And I had every intention of picking up where I left off as soon as my workload allowed, but what’s that expression about ‘best laid plans…’ and all that?
Circumstances have taken a bit of a turn for me, but determined not to focus on the negatives, I’m turning the hand - or foot, I’ve been dealt (don’t worry I’ll explain in a moment) into inspiration for some blogging in a whole new direction.
Following a very kind invitation by the Lions Club, I treated D (for those unfamiliar to my blogging code – that’s my long-suffering, lovely Westonian boyfriend) to being my ‘Plus One’ and attended their Real Ale and Cider Festival on the Beach Lawns. Opting to soak up the atmosphere and buzz of the festival on the opening night, we went along on the Friday and had a brilliant time; dancing away to the live band, sipping some tasters of different ales and ciders and catching up with friends. I had really enjoyed my first Westonian beer festival, despite being fully aware I was working the next day - Weston Pride was taking place in Grove Park and I’d volunteered to work in a Visit Weston gazebo, handing out maps, giving advice and such like. Consequently, I had taken it very easy on the drinks and certainly wasn’t tipsy!
No, really! What do you mean, you don’t believe me?!
Leaving the Beach Lawns responsibly early, D and I walked up into town to meet a friend and say hello, before booking a taxi home. By half-past eleven we were stood on Waterloo Street looking up the Boulevard trying to see a taxi that looked like ours, but to no avail. My mobile rang and a frantic taxi driver began asking me where we were, as he was about to drive off; he’d parked almost on the corner by the Royal Hotel and was impatient for us to get in, so he could take us home and collect another fare. Determined not to miss our booking, D sprinted off ahead to catch him before he departed and I broke out into a ‘light jog’ along the pavement to show willing…
Then -
BANG!
Something hard and forceful hit me in the back of my right calf muscle. My leg buckled, but I managed to stay upright, now hobbling towards the taxi. Looking round and behind me to see what I’d just ‘ran into’ (no, I know that doesn’t make sense, but in the moment, my head was a shed – as well as having a near-useless leg) Obviously, there was no sign of anything I’d just impaled myself on, and so suspicions turned to the lone chap stood outside Sass, ‘had he just kicked me in the leg?!’
Of course he hadn’t, he was several feet away, and anyway – what kind of person does that?!
‘Come on! Keep up!’ D shouted from the passenger door – him being completely oblivious to what I’d done as I hauled myself along the railings of Sass, still utterly bewildered as to what-the-heck had just happened.
Climbing into the backseat, I apologised and added that ‘something’ had just happened to my leg, and that I thought I’d pulled a muscle but it was very, very painful. Dan reached around into the rear foot well and rubbed my calf muscle, which very nearly shot me though the back window in pain, but I hoped it might be therapeutic, somehow.
When we arrived at home, it dawned on me that getting to the taxi was only the start of my problem, I now had FIVE flights of stairs to scale, just to get up to our flat.
Knowing now what I’d done, I can only assume it was sheer adrenaline that got me up all those stairs, but somehow I succeeded.
Safely on the settee and with a bag of ice on my calf, I began Googling ‘feeling like you’ve been kicked hard in the back of the leg’. Amazing, isn’t it what those snoopy ‘Google Bots’ can decipher from our vagaries, it’s almost as if they know before we do… anyway, I digress.
All evidence pointed towards some trauma to my Achilles tendon, which didn’t sound too encouraging. I shared my concerns with D:
‘It’ll not be that’ he said, ‘you’d be out for six months with an injury like that’. ‘Be out?’ I think this was the first time I’d ever been likened to a professional sportsperson before, for many, many reasons!
The outcome of most articles I’d read online, was that I should get myself seen at A&E – pronto. Anybody else detect a problem with following that advice at midnight on Friday night/Saturday morning? Yeah – not ideal, I’m just glad the first and only instance of needing the Accident & Emergency department out of hours, was for me and not S (for first-time readers, that’s my 6-year-old daughter).
We climbed into bed and I promised to be sensible and realistic about my chances of working at Pride the next day – not wanting to let anybody down or get into trouble, but being very wary that a walk down to Grove Park and a five-hour stint on a stall, with a dodgy leg, might not be the best idea.
The next morning, I woke up with a leg that felt like concrete - if concrete could be agonisingly painful, that is. It was glaringly obvious that I was in no state to work on my feet all day and so dropped ‘The Gaffer’ a text with my apologies – I hate letting people down, especially five months into a new job. Thankfully, I was met with empathy and concern and not a P45!
My next task was persuasively rousing a bleary-eyed D from his sleep to drive us over to Weston General – not a nice idea to face early on a Saturday morning, especially as we’d be joining the queue of people in need of treatment that would also have been waiting since 10 o’clock the previous night, and some, undoubtedly, in a worse state than I was.
The A&E staff were incredible and within three hours, I’d been seen and treated. My concerns were proven right and I was indeed diagnosed with a ruptured Achilles tendon (just like David Beckham, well, I am an ‘elite athlete’ after all!) My smugness at being right was soon over-turned by hearing the treatment plan, as the Nurse Practitioner delivered the news:
‘I’m sorry; the treatment is seven to fourteen days in a cast from today, then you’ll come back and see an Orthopaedic Consultant, maybe a scan, maybe surgery and then more casts or a boot for twelve weeks…’
Twelve weeks? That’s like, November?!
Furthermore, my first knee-high cast had to be only ‘toe-tip weight bearing’ to stabilise my tendon and so it would be impossible for me to put my foot down or walk normally at all. I’d booked off the next week from work, but with the intention of spending a full week of fun, quality time doing summer holiday activities with S. Now I wouldn’t even be able to walk! The future looked grim.
My first ever time in plaster would be a real learning experience, never having used crutches before either, it would be steep learning curve to all of a sudden, be completely reliant on them. My foot had been set with my toes pointing downwards like a ballerina ‘en pointe’, and so now was only able to hop on one leg until I could come back and see a specialist in ten days’ time.
And so began my new ‘journey’ (cringe…); from so fortunately being a fully able-bodied person for thirty-three years, I have suddenly found myself forced to experience life from a whole new perspective, albeit thankfully for only the next three months.
Inclusivity and equal access for all is high-priority goal for us at Weston-super-Mare Town Council; we’re working to gather information and feedback from all members of the community in order to make improvements wherever we can. This considered, I’ve decided to blog my experiences of living and working in Weston for the period of my recovery, whilst dealing with limited mobility and how this is (or isn’t) facilitated throughout the town and on my travels.
Next time: the trials and tribulations of navigating Weston on crutches, high kerbs and even higher stairs, steep hills and terrible pavements, scooters in supermarkets and hospital car parks.
