Mostly Armless
A few weeks ago I had a Showdown with my Nemesis. Everyone has a Nemesis. For Dr Who it's The Master. For Sherlock Holmes it was Moriaty. For me, it's The Back Steps
Ever since they were built by Robbie Burns the local builder about 3 years ago, The Back Steps have lain in wait, plotting my demise. These are no ordinary steps - every one is a different width and height, and perilously devoid of anything resembling a handrail, for as we know, Local Builders laugh in the face of building regulations and 'Elf and Safety and all that rubbish. When decorated with a coating of algae, dead leaves and/or snow and ice, they make the journey down from where I park my car to the kitchen door laden with Tesco carrier bags a fraught process requiring much clutching at the butterfly bushes growing to one side in lieu of the non-existant handrail.
I've fallen down these steps before, usually to the detriment of my knees and shins, but obviously this was not entertaining enough for this escaliated personification of pure evil, because three Sundays ago they got bored and overnight craftily grew some ice, and as I stepped back from filling the bird-feeder for the Psychotic Robin and his friends, my foot met the friction-free step and failed to do what feet are supposed to do, which is to stay in contact with the ground.
As I described an elegant arc backwards I had just enough time to think "This is going to hurt" and wonder exactly which part of me was going to hurt before the accurate landing on my elbow put paid to the suspense.
After the inevitable kerfluffle, The Husband loaded me into the truck and set off for A&E, optimistically assuring me that they'd stick my arm in a cast and I'd be home in time for a late lunch. Unfortunately when the doctors looked at the X-rays, lunch was off the menu. And dinner. And supper*. If they'd been car mechanics, they'd have done that thing where they suck their teeth and get the pencil out from behind their ear to start planning their holiday to the Seychelles, but as it was, I got a brief description of the mechanics of the elbow joint illustrated by my X-rays -
"... well, you haven't actually got an elbow joint at the moment... Look at that bit there - it's just... exploded!"
- and two nights in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary having bits of bones screwed and plated back together again. Except for the exploded bit, which they just removed. Because apparently there are bits of your skeleton that you don't actually need. Who knew?
The NHS hospital experience was... better in some parts than others, let us say. However since I emerged from it with a reasonably functionable arm and my bank balance undiminished it seems churlish to complain when there are many who cannot say the same.
I am now signed off from Container World until the end of March, and have recently graduated from the horrors of a fingers-to-shoulder plaster cast to a rather more futuristic-looking brace, because the torture physiotherapy has to start early with elbows, otherwise they seize up faster than a two-stroke lawnmower engine in a damp garage. Apparently, though, I will never be able to do press-ups again. Oh, the humanity!
This leaves me lots of time for Googling grim stories of why it is not a good idea to do this to your elbow, and watching YouTube videos of elbow operations involving metal screws. (ewwww!) And on slow days picking all the flaky skin off my arm.
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* and breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day too! in fact, I went from Saturday evening to Tuesday lunchtime without anything to eat! (and still didn't end up skinny, there is no justice!)
Ever since they were built by Robbie Burns the local builder about 3 years ago, The Back Steps have lain in wait, plotting my demise. These are no ordinary steps - every one is a different width and height, and perilously devoid of anything resembling a handrail, for as we know, Local Builders laugh in the face of building regulations and 'Elf and Safety and all that rubbish. When decorated with a coating of algae, dead leaves and/or snow and ice, they make the journey down from where I park my car to the kitchen door laden with Tesco carrier bags a fraught process requiring much clutching at the butterfly bushes growing to one side in lieu of the non-existant handrail.
I've fallen down these steps before, usually to the detriment of my knees and shins, but obviously this was not entertaining enough for this escaliated personification of pure evil, because three Sundays ago they got bored and overnight craftily grew some ice, and as I stepped back from filling the bird-feeder for the Psychotic Robin and his friends, my foot met the friction-free step and failed to do what feet are supposed to do, which is to stay in contact with the ground.
As I described an elegant arc backwards I had just enough time to think "This is going to hurt" and wonder exactly which part of me was going to hurt before the accurate landing on my elbow put paid to the suspense.
After the inevitable kerfluffle, The Husband loaded me into the truck and set off for A&E, optimistically assuring me that they'd stick my arm in a cast and I'd be home in time for a late lunch. Unfortunately when the doctors looked at the X-rays, lunch was off the menu. And dinner. And supper*. If they'd been car mechanics, they'd have done that thing where they suck their teeth and get the pencil out from behind their ear to start planning their holiday to the Seychelles, but as it was, I got a brief description of the mechanics of the elbow joint illustrated by my X-rays -
"... well, you haven't actually got an elbow joint at the moment... Look at that bit there - it's just... exploded!"
- and two nights in Aberdeen Royal Infirmary having bits of bones screwed and plated back together again. Except for the exploded bit, which they just removed. Because apparently there are bits of your skeleton that you don't actually need. Who knew?
The NHS hospital experience was... better in some parts than others, let us say. However since I emerged from it with a reasonably functionable arm and my bank balance undiminished it seems churlish to complain when there are many who cannot say the same.
I am now signed off from Container World until the end of March, and have recently graduated from the horrors of a fingers-to-shoulder plaster cast to a rather more futuristic-looking brace, because the torture physiotherapy has to start early with elbows, otherwise they seize up faster than a two-stroke lawnmower engine in a damp garage. Apparently, though, I will never be able to do press-ups again. Oh, the humanity!
This leaves me lots of time for Googling grim stories of why it is not a good idea to do this to your elbow, and watching YouTube videos of elbow operations involving metal screws. (ewwww!) And on slow days picking all the flaky skin off my arm.
+
=
* and breakfast, lunch and dinner the next day too! in fact, I went from Saturday evening to Tuesday lunchtime without anything to eat! (and still didn't end up skinny, there is no justice!)