‘Up your bum, Lynn!’ said Paqui this morning. I managed to keep a straight face, as I think her efforts to speak my language are kindly meant. I am sure I commit equivalent faux pas on a regular basis.

Paqui has been working on me and my foot twice a week for months. Yesterday, thanks to her, for the first time in what seems like forever, I danced. Not in public, I hasten to add, but I lurched about in a rhythmic fashion in the company of three people I love. It was a milestone.

When Paqui accidentally insulted me this morning, I knew the time had come to blog about the foot saga.

As you know, I broke my ankle very thoroughly at the end of February. It was not a pretty sight and resulted in some serious meccano being inserted into me. It has been a long and rather tiresome road to recovery, but I have been blessed with a capable, kind and very patient husband, good friends who have helped and supported us and the truly excellent care of the Spanish health service.

You would think that the enforced rest would provide a fantastic opportunity to finish Ships and Shoes and Sellotape (the follow up to Not Really, but Thank You – available from Amazon, from me, if you see me around and on Kindle. Yes, this is a truly shameless plug!) to drag my little unfinished romp of a novel to a happy conclusion and to blog extensively. Not a bit of it!  The Muse legged it as soon as she saw the first syringe of morphine approaching and has been in hiding more or less ever since.

I do believe though, that I saw her peeping out from behind the physiotherapy gym equipment this morning, so in her honour, today I am going to share a few snapshots of the leg saga.

Once the wonderful staff at our local hospital had finished with me, I was discharged into the care of one of my oldest friends, who lives not far from us. She and her husband took care of me with kindness and sensitivity, allowing me to sleep the first few days away and supplying me with cups of tea and feeding me when I felt like eating.

When my beloved returned from his very necessary trip to the UK, he took over nursing duties and waited on me hand and foot. He is a very skilled peeler of grapes and as well as purveying naked fruit, he has looked after me, the house and the menagerie.

I was discharged with my foot in a very heavy back slab and bandage arrangement and strict instructions that I must not put any weight on it at all. We were able to borrow a wheelchair, so I became quite proficient with that and crutches to get around the house. Our lovely neighbour, Lesley, had set up a bed in the sitting room ready for my return home.  I was set for the foreseeable. Fortunately, we have a downstairs bathroom and wide doorways!

Three weeks on, I had my first appointment back at the hospital. The heavy plaster came off and the many metal staples were removed. It was not a very pleasant experience, but the entrance of the doctor took my mind off it nicely. Think Yul Brynner in his prime and you will not be far off.

He proudly showed us the x-ray of my newly bionic ankle and explained what they had done. He expressed satisfaction with progress to that point, told me to start flexing my ankle as best I could, instructed me to keep my weight off the foot for another month and gently stroked my cheek as he bade us farewell.

Another month of doing almost nothing followed. I bathed and gently scrubbed at my foot, marvelled at the technicolour bruising and watched the wounds turn into fairly neat scars.

I remembered the physiotherapist favoured a rocker to encourage movement when I  broke the other ankle eight years ago. It was not difficult to cobble one together, using a chopping board, a rolling pin and plenty of gaffer tape.

A second visit to the lovely Yul and more x-rays showed things were progressing nicely, so I was sent home with permission to start putting a little weight on my foot.  He said he would refer me for physiotherapy, but not to hold my breath, as waiting times were substantial. This time, he blew me a kiss as he said goodbye. Unorthodox, but a rather glorious bedside manner, I thought.

In June, we visited the UK. I was amazed at how painless airports can be when you have assistance booked. As we bypassed queues in a golf buggy type thing and were raised on a special platform to board the plane, we decided it was almost worth breaking an ankle for such special treatment.

Travelling in the hire car was less comfortable, but we worked out how to keep Foot as happy as possible on the grand tour around various relatives’ homes.

Time passed, Wimbledon came and went and I developed some very impressive callouses on my hands. I began to get out and about a little more and my beautiful pistachio green crutches were admired by many.

A third appointment with Yul revealed that he was not only the orthopedics outpatient consultant. He proudly told us that it was he who had taken over two hours to put me back together. There is no other surgeon at the hospital. I am the unique surgeon.
I was mildly disappointed when he gave me a manly squeeze on the shoulder as we parted.

Eventually, I was called for physiotherapy. Every Tuesday and Thursday we make the trek over to the hospital. The gym has all manner of interesting and arcane looking pieces of equipment. Ropes and pullies abound, as do balls and straps and bars. I spend much of my time there tiptoeing between sandbags or walking on them like stepping stones. Another favourite is walking up and down a ramp and some stairs, forwards, backwards and in various orders.

Today, while I tiptoed among the sandbags, three other patients followed each other up and down the ramp and stairs, reminding me of the lovely machines in the Doctor Seuss story of the Sneetches.

After forty minutes or so of these exercises, Paqui manipulates my foot for a while. Because of its history, my right foot also has scars and metalwork. On one occasion, Paqui started working on the wrong foot. When I gently pointed out the mistake, she smote her forehead theatrically.

‘I thought it was articulating really well today!’

She was so busy giggling she had difficulty explaining to the other physios why we were having hysterics.

So here we are, more or less up-to-date with the foot saga. Progress seems slow and there are frustrations a-plenty, but looking back to where we were just a couple of weeks ago, I can see real differences in how it looks and what I can do. As the weather changes from the ridiculous heat of summer, I can begin to imagine being able to break out the cement mixer and crack on with the Chicken Palace.

In October, I shall see the Big Cheese in the Physio department, who will assess and decide whether I continue with physiotherapy, or go back to see Yul. When I finally go back to see him, he will probably decide whether or not I have to have the metalwork removed next year.

Meanwhile, I shall attempt to lurch rhythmically when the opportunity arises, I shall putter a little in the garden, attempt some light housework, try to make some progress on a book or two and spend lots of time in my gorgeous new hammock.

 

 

 

 

 

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