Weston by Crutches - Part 2
9th August 2019
Categories: Latest News
Twenty Costas, two WH Smiths, five arcades and a McDonalds
If you read part one of my ‘Weston by Crutches’ blog, you’ll know that a fortnight ago I ruptured my Achilles tendon by having the cheek to jog – I know, right? How dare I?
After a trip to our most excellent (but part time) A&E department I received the news that it’s a long, slow and painful recovery for this injury, stage one of which was spending seven to ten days in a plaster cast, with my foot set in a pointed-toes position, on which I could bear no weight. I was handed my crutches and told to make an appointment to see the Orthopaedic team that would take over my treatment. I had ten days to wait, hope, pray and struggle.
Struggle number one came when trying to leave A&E and get back to our car. D, (long-suffering, lovely boyfriend, don’t forget) had parked as close as possible to the entrance, but still far enough way that now it seemed like miles.
Being the stubborn, too-hard-on-myself, self-administering tough love person I am, I was determined to master the crutches immediately; I take it badly when I can’t ‘do’ something straight away and then sulk when I can’t. But seriously? How hard could it be? Turns out, quite hard…
Hopping on my good leg and slowly edging forward on the two crutches was immediately more strenuous than I’d imagined, and so I was soon feeling the burn in my arms, my leg and my hands from gripping hold of the handles for dear life. As awkwardly and slowly as I was moving, I was making progress along the path from A&E, that was until I met a kerb.
Now anyone who’s navigated the Weston General carpark will no doubt be aware of the layout, but for anyone needing a reminder – THERE ARE A LOT OF KERBS! And more annoyingly, no marked walkways for pedestrians. There’s a barrier at the entrance and exit and a one-way system for cars, but pedestrians (you know, patients, children, the elderly…etc.) are left to fend for themselves in this melee of ups, downs, grass verges, barriers and parking spaces.
I stood at the edge of the kerb, looked at D (who had used crutches some years before when he’d broken his foot) and asked ‘How do I do it? What do I do first? I can’t work it out!’ I was panicked and felt stupid, how could something as simple as a five-inch kerb give me such anxiety? He calmly explained how to tackle it; crutches down first, then hop down the kerb - seemed simple enough. As he checked for oncoming traffic, I started my manoeuvre and then - SPLAT!
I landed face first on the road; crutches crashing down around me, grazed and bleeding palms, grazed and bleeding knee on my good leg and grazed and bleeding toes sticking out of my cast. A great start. I felt humiliated and sore, tired, hot and sweaty, D felt guilty for not having the reactions to catch me before I fell… It was a horrible few minutes that felt like hours, as I hopped the rest of the way to the car.
Driving back along the seafront towards home, I couldn’t help but have a little cry. I was frightened that I’d be like this for twelve weeks, not be able to work, not be able to leave home but most importantly - not be able to do anything fun or worthwhile with S (superstar, unicorn-loving, beautiful six-year-old daughter). This week I’d booked off from work was meant to be spent sharing quality time, enjoying our first summer holidays in Weston, celebrating a year of living by the seaside, visiting attractions and making memories. Now I couldn’t do anything. I felt awful.
Arriving back at home I was faced with another Everest moment, this time more literally. Our flat is on the fifth floor of a glorious Victorian townhouse, great for views over the bay, but not so good for crutches. One kerb had just floored me, how was I going to manage five flights of stairs?
The answer?
On my bum!
For anybody who has experienced (or witnessed) childbirth, you’ll know there’s no dignity in it. You know what you have to do, and you just have to get on with it, whatever it takes, whoever is watching, however undignified or embarrassing. I’m now adding my stair-climbing to my list of the most humiliating (and equally exhausting) things I’ve done in my life.
Hauling myself up each step with my arms and pushing off on my good leg, was an efficient enough method, but my goodness it was tiring. The three external, metal flights have punctured and textured treads too, so as not to be slippery when wet, they’re also pretty painful when digging into your hands that you’ve just grazed. Fifteen minutes (and a ‘few’ swearwords) later I was back in our flat, breathless, hot and bothered, sore and now properly fed up.
The next day was Sunday, and time for S to come home from her Dad’s in Yorkshire and begin her ‘fun’ week with Mummy. I’d promised that she could decorate my cast however she liked, but had explained that we’d not be getting up to much anymore. The idea of being Mummy’s nurse seemed to appeal though – she’s fascinated by medicine and wants to be a Doctor when she’s older. I was pleased that the bum-shuffling stair descent was considerably easier than going up the day before, and when we got back to Weston, I shaved an impressed FIVE minutes off my previous upstairs time too! Still, I’ve never wanted to live on the ground floor more in my life.
The pavements on our street are also abysmal. Where we live is a pretty steep hill (as are most of them, up our end of town) but the climbs and descents are made even more tricky when the paths are broken up, full of loose stones, holes and uneven tarmac. Forget crutches, some of them are just as awful to walk on with two good legs, let alone use with a wheelchair or pushchair.
With D at work, we were housebound for a few days which was tough. We had a lot of ‘I’m bored….’ But brilliantly, D took S out every evening for a few hours after work to let her run off some steam in the parks before tea. Tea that he had to cook, and wash up after, whilst I sat on the sofa feeling guilty.
During all this sitting down I’d had time to research my injury and the treatment plans I might expect. Surgery was the worst case scenario and one I dreaded; not because I’m fearful of operations, needles, hospitals and all that jazz, but because if I did need surgery, I’d be in another cast like this for a fortnight afterwards, and so even more time would be spent in this one-legged state. What I really hoped would be the case, was that at my Ortho’ appointment, they’d be happy to treat me without going under the knife, and I’d be transferred to a surgical boot immediately, beginning twelve weeks of rehab where I could bear weight on both feet, so at least I could walk again. Ever the optimist, I convinced myself that that’s what would happen and however miserable I felt now, would only be for a short time.
D managed to book some days off from his job and so things looked rosier for the latter part of the week. I already knew that some of the bigger supermarkets offered free wheelchair and mobility scooter hire for shopping in store, and so with D to help to get downstairs and the car to get around in, the three of us ventured to Asda.
BEST. SHOPPING. TRIP. EVER!
After being housebound for over two days, being able to drive around Asda on one of their (several) electric scooters was the most liberating thing I’ve felt in a long time. S filmed me driving around the fruit and veg aisles as we both laughed at how funny Mummy looked, and the smile on my face was nothing compared to how I felt on the inside. Thank you Asda, (and the other supermarkets that offer this facility) you never realise until you need these services, how valuable they can be to somebody’s sense of freedom and ultimately, state of mind.
From one great idea to another, D suggested we use our time off together to go and visit my family back in Doncaster. My Dad was working away that week, but the thought of having a few days back home with my Mum, and to see my brother and his family, would definitely give me the lift I so desperately needed. Also, I’d able to have a shower and wash my hair in my Mum’s shower cubicle! This was huge for me after a week of getting by on dry shampoo and body washes from the sink whilst sat on the toilet lid… Nice…
Again, it’s not until you’re not fully able-bodied that you realise how the world is predominately designed for those who are. It’s the little things that make the biggest difference: nearby parking spaces, free-to-use mobility aids, wet rooms, disabled toilets.
Ah yes, toilets. One of my experiences on our 200-mile journey to Doncaster, has left me so bewildered and angry, that I have decided to try and lobby for change. I’m open to suggestions too, by the way.
Motorway service stations. Yes, those. Love them, or loathe them, they are a necessary part of travelling round our country. Calls of nature, emergency cups of tea, the sudden urge to spend a tenner on a burger… it’s good to know they’re there. But why, oh why do their toilets have to be the furthest point from the front door?!
I know why. Hello, I work in marketing! They make you pass all the things you can spend money on, before you use their facilities for free and drive off again. I understand, it’s the way the world works, unfortunately. But seriously? Put a disabled loo near the entrance please!
Whether you’re in a wheelchair, or on crutches, or have Crohns, or MS, or Alzheimer’s – whatever your reasons are that mean you need to get to a loo quickly and without any further discomfort, the last thing you need is to be forced to navigate twenty Costas, two WH Smiths, five arcades and a McDonalds before you can have a wee! And, as an able-bodied person, if you’re ever tempted to save time or energy by using a disabled loo or parking in a disabled space – please think again before you do. The little things can make life so much easier when you can’t get around quite so easily.
Anyway, rant over. We had a lovely few days at my Mum’s; I didn’t whiff anymore (too much information, sorry) and I spent most of my time sat in front of the telly, watching the Ashes first test (yeah, let’s not dwell on that either). S went back to Daddy’s for another week and I felt happier that at least she’d have half a chance of making something of her summer without my limitations.
We came home to Weston on the Sunday afternoon, D and I both full of excitement and nerves at what tomorrow would bring. Monday morning, 09:20 Orthopaedic Outpatients Department.
Would I get the good news I’d kept everything crossed for?
