Once again, post has been delayed due to crappy internet.
We should be sorted for a while now. This happened on 28/3/12
I thought that only 10 year
olds were supposed to fall off their bikes and break a leg – not 56 yr olds!!!
However, this has now happened to me.
We are in a town called
Merida in the Extremadura region, famous for its Roman ruins and now for ruined
ankles. We were pottering about the town, when my bike slipped on a piece of
glossy paper that flew into my path. I crashed to the ground and broke my ankle
plus tibia and fibula – a trifecta.
With the help of the local
police and ambulance I made it to the emergency room, had the usual x-rays etc
and was examined by the resident orthopaedic surgeon - all without pain relief.
He was wrenching my poor broken foot around and telling me to relax, when I
developed sudden onset Tourrette’s Syndrome. I don’t usually swear at doctors,
but this was beyond my level of tolerance, the pain was incredible!!! He got the message.
Anyway, they whisked me into
surgery under epidural (blessed numbness) and I’m now sporting a plate and 9 screws.
My ankle now looks like it belongs on a shelf in Bunnings*.
Thankfully I needed only 2
nights in hospital. Whilst it was a modern hospital with modern equipment, it
was very Spanish, with nurses who had clearly been to the Hitler Youth School
of Nursing, efficient and brusque. They insisted on talking to me loudly in
Spanish in the hope that eventually I would understand them. My Spanish is
still limited to ordering beer and coffee, not really helpful in this
situation. Anyway for future reference I learnt the 2 most important words you need
in a Spanish hospital - dolor (pain) and orinar (urinate) ie; I need drugs, and
I need to pee (no catheters!!).
The noise level in the
hospital was incredible, often sounding like there was a cocktail party in full
swing right outside my door. I have no idea who all those people were, but man
they could talk – and loudly.
 |
| Sitting Outside Mog and Poky Cabin |
 |
| Sore Paw |
So now we are holed up in a
small cabin at the campground, waiting for me to be able to fly to the UK where
I will stay with friends to recuperate. Lawrence will get the Mog there somehow
– hopefully by ferry from the Atlantic coast of Spain. I’m crap at using
crutches I’ve discovered - I’m terrified of falling over, so need lots of
assistance. Gin and crutches don’t mix.
The insurance company so far
has been great, and all is being taken care of financially.
Not sure when the next blog
will be – probably from Pete and Kath’s in N.Wales (my baby-sitters).
Watch this space for next
exciting instalment.
2/4/12 Update: Have left
poky cabin and now in lovely Parador, which has enough room to swing a cat, if
one so desired.
Adios
*like B&Q in the UK
