Is there anyone able to help? Chapter 13

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Five weeks after the accident I was still confined to bed 🛏 . I was managing to navigate the stairs with help and take a shower 🚿 if my husband was around. I was still in considerable pain 💊 and this was limiting everyday normal physical activity. The same might be said about my brain, 🧠 as it was being impacted by both boredom and meds. So I could not work.

The home visit for my ESA remained elusive so I had no choice now but to chase it up. From my call log I identified the number☎️ I used before to ring for an update. Learning from previous failures I called at 11am which, even with the crystal maze element, 🔮proved useful as it was answered within 20 minutes. In fact this caught me a little by surprise; Mozart was playing on a loop on loudspeaker on my phone. The monotonous lilt was boring me into a semi-slumber, although the relaxation 😋 was a welcome relief, when a brisk “Hello” interrupted my reverie. I grabbed the phone before she had the chance to hang up and managed to articulate reasonably quickly that I was calling about my planned home visit. Was that a stifled a laugh? 🤪

This was the call that rumbled the dirty tricks 😡. deployed by the previous two encumbents. Claims were recorded over the phone at this call centre. Not emailed. Despite the two earlier calls to this number I learned, despite my details having been taken, they had no trace of 😵 me. She was about to start the process of form filling when I begged her to check again. Up to this point I must have been speaking Swahili 💩 as she could hear me but clearly not understand what I was on about. I’m unaware of what exactly caused her to stop in her tracks and check some other system, but she finally found my details and lo and behold agreed I had been referred for a home 🏡visit. My elation was short lived, but she could not help me, I now had to call the DWP.

The DWP has a slightly less confusing version of the crystal maze 🔮to permit you access to a human person. I felt quite smug to have made it through on the first attempt. This was another trick. The human person that answered my call was only programmed to provide responses to the right questions. There are no clues🔬 provided as to what these questions are. There is a strong assumption that you have been on Mastermind 📺 with DWP/ESA as your specialist subject. No normal, polite interactive conversation where you each take turns at trying to find common ground where they assess your need and direct your enquiry, here. Every thing was responded to with with a sneering 🤨combination of “I don’t know what you are talking about”, “who gave you this number?” “This is not a Universal Credit Line”

I don’t know if it was the pain, the boredom, the frustration, or my patent lack of ability in all matters benefit, but I lost it. 🤬 He had the ability to put me through to a Job Centre in my area but was electing not to. I fumed and snarled, (articulately of course) the rabid dog 🐕 was back, go Jax ! And somewhere in the tirade I must have appealed to his inner conscience, either that or he just wanted rid of me, because mid stream🐸 he put me through to a helpful person at the Job Centre………….

Enter your post code after the tone. Chapter 12

Fresh from our embarrassing and uninvited visit to the Job Centre, (it’s fine we just peaked too early). I now had a new number to call to process my ESA claim and make an appointment to progress it … guess where, at the Job Centre.

Nevertheless, I made the call. The government call centre’s are automated; you mainly just press numbers but they do ask you to speak your postcode. Postcodes, remember, are important because they determine if you can claim Universal Credit. Universal Credit eligibility enables you to claim ESA etc, etc. Anyway I have no idea why they make you speak the postcode? Wouldn’t it be interesting to discover how many calls fail due to frustration at this stage? I certainly gave up, albeit after six attempts, and in at least one of them I was shouting at the phone.

It is not as if we have an obscure post code; it concludes with an F, so I always use the phonetic alphabet for clarity, especially on the phone. However, the auto-Matilda didn’t permit that helpful approach (this reference to the Handmaid’s tale not entirely misplaced). Neither does she have any tolerance for the well spoken Scottish dialect. So I hung up. Fuming.

I re-dialled when I regained my composure two days later. In my defence I was not well and was easily stressed. I had a couple of gobstoppers stored in my cheeks to aid diction. And, with all the determination of a lemming driving blindly towards the cliff’s edge, I managed to navigate the system just before I was lost in the abyss. A cautionary note, during this process Matilda will ask questions about your Universal Credit claim. Be warned this is a trick, don’t fall for it, keep listening and wait for the option that takes you into ESA. It is not easy but DO NOT LOSE FAITH at this stage. Just persist, persist, persist.

Once I passed through the crystal maze I waited a further 90 minutes (wondering at this stage what the key performance indicators might be for this call centre?) to be spoken to by a human person. I was again perilously close to the 6pm deadline which I’ve since realised heightens the chance for errors. If you are able to make the call well before 4pm; catch them fresh.

What should happen ( although this was not made known until much later in the process) is that the call taker should have verbally taken me through the form and completed it at their end (some 50 questions= Some 60 minutes). Then an appointment is made for me at the local job centre to do the same all over again but this time in person. Crazy. However, as you will recall I’d already been sent the form and completed it, totally unaware this is not normal procedure. So the call taker, half an hour to finishing time, was audibly relieved when I declared this and moved straight to making the appointment for the job centre. But I cannot walk, or sit, or travel to a job centre I panicked. “No problem,” says he “we will arrange a home visit.”

Well, I was taken aback by this offer and quite chuffed I’d achieved it. However, I waited, and waited, and waited but the home visit didn’t materialise. I began to worry, then I started to think they were spying on me monitoring my movements from a white van, to find ways to bust me as a fraud for asking to be seen at home. Never mind that I was genuine, applying for this benefit was beginning to make me feel as if I was some kind of cheat. I was feeling a lot like Daniel Blake…..

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You need to eat well to climb Everest. Chapter 11

I:Daniel Blake was a moving and tragic story 😕 of a man denied employment and support allowance (ESA) when he falls ill and cannot work. The dramamentry was designed to evoke extreme responses at the horror 😈 and unfairness of the bureaucracy that engulfs the system. It made me desperately sad, and deeply ashamed at the way we treat those in need.

However here I was in a similar situation albeit less dramatic. Reflecting on my experience I’d suggest navigating the process is akin to conquering Everest.🏔 For the uninitiated the best place to start is Google.👀 This promptly directed me to the government site for all things ESA. I wasn’t actually prepared to leave my brain 🧠 at the depository but after an initial forage into the unknown it was clear mine was not wired for this particular escape room. It would have been helpful 😺 to know someone who had done it before but I only had Daniel Blake and we know how that story unfolded.

Climbers burn 20,000 calories on the day of the summit climb on Everest and an average of 10,000 a day on the rest of the climb. My appetite 👅 hasn’t been that great so I wasn’t particularly physically able for this challenge either. It affected my ability to process effectively the information available; confusion 😵 began on the website. There are 3 types of ESA, new style, contributory and income related. I selected contributory, easy. Well you’d think so. Although there are 3 types an important distinction before you decide on your choice depends on whether or not you live in a Universal Credit 👾 postcode. This is important as it immediately reduces your choice from 3 to 2 types. Universal Credit it seems is not universal at all. 😡

I typed in my postcode and reviewed the extensive list before I deduced that I did not live in a Universal Credit area.❌ Except I do.✅ Told you brains are not useful. You can only claim contributory ESA if you don’t live in a Universal Credit area. As far as I could see I didn’t, so I phoned ☎️ to make the claim. That’s when my climb to the summit definitely demanded more calories; it took 90 minutes to answer the call. “Sorry you need to make a claim for new ESA you live in a Universal Credit area” “ How do I do that?”You’ve guessed it another number and another 90 minute wait on the phone.⏰

You need to be entitled to claim Universal Credit if you want to claim new style ESA. Universal credit is a benefit based on your income. I do not meet the eligibility for Universal Credit. I know I’ve made sufficient contributions but according to the new rules and guidance I won’t get it. 🐷 This is immaterial however as I was claiming contributory ESA which is incorporated in new style ESA but only in Universal Credit areas. Still with me? I’m losing sight of that summit, and the will to live. 🤢

My call was now ringing well after closing time but determinedly I hung on. It was answered but rather than have a meaningful or informed conversation I was hurriedly asked for my details and sent a claim form by email and rather smugly I was thinking “Yes I’ve smashed it!” 🤩

I completed the form and then combed the website for the next steps. OK maybe I didn’t comb more of a skim. Eureka! Its the job centre. I despatched my husband 🙃 off to our local job centre with the completed, printed form in a discreet envelope ( he doesn’t like drawing attention to himself) and he dropped it off before making a bolt for the exit. He’s much better at escape rooms than me. 🤪

There I am lying staring at the ceiling when the phone rings, “ Hello, Is that Jacqueline? It’s the job centre here, you’ve dropped off your claim for ESA, sorry you don’t do this. You need to make a claim over the phone then make an appointment at the job centre, can you get the person who dropped this off to come back for it………………”

😲

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Masters in Mixology. Chapter 10

Without question not doing very much for several weeks has been soul destroying. For anyone with an active and busy lifestyle I’d equate it to someone removing hair from your armpits with tweezers. Pulsatingly painful and tedious. So it was exhilarating today when I managed to leave my cell. (Sorry room).

It has been 7 weeks since my accident and today I was coaxed out into the autumn sunshine for a little stroll. I felt like a baby being dangled by the arms by an overly keen parent as my husband tried to make sure I managed to complete this task without ending up on my backside. I soon found my rythmn with the crutches but the drop in temperature was like a boa constrictor crushing the muscle and making it loupe. So it was an abrupt about turn and back to the house.

It’s a bit of a miracle I could do this as Monday, when I went for physio, I was reduced to a blubbering idiot. The short walk into the department, combined with a lengthy seat in the waiting room, just put too much pressure on the injury and I was in extraordinary pain by the time I was seen. In the end we had to abandon the session. So what made the difference today?

Pain relief. Managing the pain has been troublesome from the beginning. Initially given co-codamol augmented later by diazepam and then 5mls of morphine it was clear this pain needed a particular strength of relief. Since then I’ve also been prescribed paracetamol, oramorph and ibruprofen. I used to work in a bar but mixology when it comes to drug cocktails is not my forte. I also agonised over taking so many tablets so at the first sign of improvement I jumped at the chance to reject them. Anyone who suffers pain for longer than a day has my sympathy because finding a long term solution isn’t easy.

In my situation there were a couple of factors; medical people were split between using the least and best available. Mixing or combining is confusing; it needs a masters in chemistry and it’s never quite clear anyway what combination will bring the best relief until you’ve mastered it. When you are in so much pain its difficult to concentrate or even remember what works best.

Then there’s the “Oh I’m actually fine today” and you skip the meds in the vain hope you might be on the mend. Monday was the result of one, two skip a few, 99, 100. The main culprit was in missing the night-time morphine, which had been bringing me instant relief. And much needed sleep when finding comfort through the night was almost unachievable. I was so cocky I took nothing and the next day I paid for it.

Medication is not a cosmetic comfort. Any medic will advise you of this. Take the medication and take it regularly, particularly in this type of injury. At present the only relief is with the morphine, paracetamol and the ibruprofen. It does not numb the pain completely, its still there, but I am much clearer about the need to stick to the plan if I want to get up and go.

That is why today I was as graceful as a gorilla, a little less like Frankenstein looking for Halloween. I passed my mixology exams and finally got to strut my stuff outside………

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Hamstring Injuries- the facts. Chapter 9

Once diagnosed and home I was keen to explore 🤓 more about this injury. I went straight to Google only to discover it was limited in this regard. Particularly the NHS website which states “grade 3 – a complete muscle tear. Severe hamstring tears will usually be very painful, tender, swollen and bruised. There may have been a “popping” sensation at the time of the injury and you’ll be unable to use the affected leg.”

According to the much more detailed Wikipedia “A grade 3 hamstring strain is a severe injury. There is an immediate burning 🔥or stabbing pain ⚡️and the individual is unable to walk without pain. The muscle is completely torn and after a few days a large bruise 🌑 may appear below the injury site caused by the bleeding within the tissues.”

The Wikipedia description is more akin to my own experience. My report on my initial visit to A&E was that the muscle was burning, on fire 🔥, it felt like a dead leg and I was unable to walk or sit. Although not evident at this presentation, the bruising 🌑 appeared when we were in Harrogate 3 days after the event and was certainly visible on the second visit. I felt I had made the correct representation of my symptoms but it had not resulted in a diagnosis at either of these visits to A&E and I’m still not sure why that was the case.

There were also a couple of blogs 📄 from doctors or physio’s who had also sustained a hamstring strain but most of the information related to lesser injuries sustained as a result of training or sports 🏋️‍♂️ and threw no light on my situation.

However I did find some academic studies that reported sufficiently on Grade 3 injuries to suggest a diagnosis was possible. Grade 3s were more commonly associated with slips 🤸‍♂️ and falls (caused by block heel boots). Individuals aged between 40-60 👵🏼 (I just made that) were more at risk and women 👧 (definitely made that) were approximately 3 times more likely to suffer hamstring strain than males with the majority of these being from non-sporting scenarios. (again those block heel boots) Yep, it was all out there, but I’m guessing Wikipedia is not on the trainee doctor reading list.😨

And, with the absence of diagnosis, of course comes the guaranteed lack of treatment. 🔬The recommended treatment for this injury is the RICE protocol — rest, ice, compression and elevation. This treatment is the same regardless of the severity of the injury, and should be commenced within the first five days. RICE is primarily used to reduce bleeding and damage within the muscle tissue. Of course this would have been useful if that was what I had been advised but the first and second visit to A&E failed to even identify the problem. 😳

In the immediate aftermath I needed to know this. Instead of going to Harrogate I should have been home with my hamstring rested in an elevated position with an ice pack applied for twenty minutes every two hours. Lower grade strains can easily become worse if the hamstring is not rested properly. Bleeding needs to be reduced but in my case this had not been addressed and my blood loss was significant. 🤭 Complete ruptures require surgical repair and rehabilitation but as I had not had my diagnosis for over a week the window for repair had apparently weakened and surgery was less likely.

On this evidence an apology from the consultant does seem appropriate, but I have also raised this as a concern with the NHS so that others with the same problem get the right help when its needed…….

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In Sickness and in Health. Chapter 8

The occupational therapist 👨‍🔬 was enthusiastically promoting the benefits of the zimmer and raised toilet seat 🚽 to someone of my disposition when my husband returned. I could see his eyes widen 👁 as I shimmied along on the zimmer, but it was the realisation that the raised toilet seat was also for me that made them water. He wanted to be subtle but his obvious horror🙀 was palpable. I knew he was doing everything he could to divert his thoughts from my ablutions and the assistance 🛀 he might need to provide. As I said in previous blogs, our marriage 💑 vows ( much like my hamstring) were being stretched to their limits.

I know him. His future flickered fleetingly before him; me in my tartan slippers, rolled down stockings, woolly housecoat and curlers 👵🏼. But that wasn’t his biggest worry, no he was wondering how the hell he was going to get this equipment out of the hospital and into his car without anyone 👤 seeing him. He didn’t hear a word any one said for the next ten minutes as he frantically worked out his escape plan.

I attempted to roll off the bed into my crutches with all the glamour and class 💃 of Marilyn Munro but in reality was more like Patsy from AbFab tumbling out of the car legs akimbo🤸‍♂️ with the Bolinger 🍾 unscathed. My husband had already disappeared conducting a surveillance of the immediate environs for anyone that might know him. Leaving me to pile my newly acquired household accessories high on the zimmer, much like a Thai flitting on a moped 🛵. I edged out of the cubicle hoping to achieve a seamless exit with a single manoeuvre, a big enough challenge without a hamstring injury. Needless to say I failed. 🌀

When he caught sight of me 😲, common sense returned momentarily as he put me on a seat, planked the gear at my side and revealed his detailed plan on how we could leave without fear of being noticed. This plan worked reasonably well until the electronic door 🚧 in the ambulance entrance closed behind him leaving me abandoned with the raised toilet seat in a hospital no man’s land. If it wasn’t for the morphine dulling my senses I would have cried, instead I sat there numbly 🤐waiting for the next ambulance to arrive and set me free.

In that moment of solitude I had time to digest the discharge 🤯 advice; to rest at least for 6 weeks, with the longer term repair likely to take up to 9 months. I’m a pretty active individual; was cycling 🚴‍♀️ , playing badminton 🏸, walking🚶‍♀️ and of course enjoying frequent holidays🌴🌞. Suddenly the enormity of this situation hit me; I was going no where fast in this corridor and it would be the same with this injury. It was going to significantly impact on my social, leisure and working life and I had no idea how I might get through it.🙊

Within minutes my hero 👼 was back, realising he’d lost me, laughing at himself and finally accepting the toilet seat 🚽 was his responsibility. In that moment I knew he would get me through this 💞and I was in awe of his commitment to me, while he grappled with more immediate matters. With a swift gaze around the exit, he swung the toilet seat over his shoulder shielding his face from the passing public and threw it in the boot. Such was his haste to escape unnoticed he drove 500yds before he realised the tailgate was still open and the whole world could see what was in the boot.🤣🤣🤣

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Strike #3 Chapter 7

I entered A&E for the third time somewhat relieved 😕 that, on this occasion, I had a diagnosis. While waiting to be seen I heard a nurse 👩‍🔧 call out to everyone, and no-one in particular, that they were at 4 breaches (presumably of the four hour waiting time). The four-hour A&E waiting time 🕰 target is a pledge set out in the NHS Mandate. The operational standard is that at least 95% of patients attending A&E should be admitted, transferred or discharged within four hours. On this visit, as with the previous two, I was discharged around the 4 hour mark.

I would argue this level of performance is more applicable to McDonalds 🍔 than our hospitals.🏨 It is only likely to hinder treatment and hamper diagnosis especially in situations a little bit more complex than ordinary. It’s not just patients🤒 who suffer, staff are likely to be frustrated and constrained 😡 in their effectiveness by such measures. It’s not unrealistic to presume that in my situation this measure did impact on the effectiveness or accuracy of my diagnosis.

Additionally, without question, on each visit I made resources were stretched 🤯 to the limit with the sheer volume of people presenting. I have no idea to what extent the people waiting required to attend A&E but I’d put my pension on at least a quarter of them being able to be treated elsewhere. 🤧 This compounds the 4 hour measurement exponentially and its not difficult to see why errors are made, it also underlines why our expectations can rarely be met.

There was a very different response on my third visit, and this was entirely due to the intervention of the Musculoskeletal Consultant Radiologist. 🤩 Thanks to his personal representation of the facts (and his opinion of them), the on call A&E Consultant managed my admission. This by no means resulted in favourable treatment, I still had to lay on a bed 🛏 in the corridor for the most part of the visit. But she did have a purpose as I was to find out later.

For the first time bloods 💉 and blood pressure 📿 were taken. Both were low and explained by the large blood loss when the hamstring ruptured suggesting why I was feeling so poorly and lacked any appetite. My blood count hadn’t been taken on the first or second visits so it was difficult to see if it was improving 🔬 but on the plus side I had just managed to avoid transfusion this visit.

The Trauma Team (you may recall I was referred on the first visit) take referrals 📥 from A&E. They hadn’t yet contacted me but I was still hopeful they would. However the Consultant disavowed me of that expectation; having reviewed my notes 🗂 following the first discharge, they determined that their intervention in my case was unnecessary.

The Consultant was surprised 😳 about this herself admitting she had made an assumption that referrals for similar injuries would at least warrant contact. I slowly realised why the radiologist had been so angry and she saw this. Without prompt she offered an apology on behalf of the NHS. I could see this was an uncomfortable truth for us both and awkwardly 🙄 I dismissed it as if it didn’t matter, but it had. It mattered a lot that she did that and I was so thankful.

There’s very little you can do for a stage 3 hamstring other than wait for it to heal, but the consultant re-referred me to the Trauma Team and summoned the Occupational Therapist to assess my mobility needs. My husband was dispatched to collect my medication 💊💊 and I began to relax to the point of sharing a joke, we’d mended the professional rift between us, order had been restored. We even shared a laugh 🤼‍♀️ about the need to provide me (at my age) with some assistance at home.

Then the OT arrived with a zimmer and raised toilet seat…………………………………

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Blue Brogues with pink lining. Chapter 6

When the telephone ☎️ rings early in the morning, in our house anyway, it’s generally been sad news. So the call at 8am the morning after Ben, was answered in trepidation, but instead it was good news! 😀 I had an appointment with an ultrasound scan at 1030. I was elated and immediately guilty that I had been so disparaging of Ben.😢

In stark constrast to last Friday when my preparations included getting my nails done and wearing block heel boots. 👢This Friday, owing to the fall, I had to wear my clown 🤡shoes; (my husbands name for them) ultra comfortable, flat brogues in bright blue leather with pink leather lining. Suitably adorned with sensible shoes, 👞 loose clothing and crutches under arm my husband drove me to our local hospital. The journey, only 7 minutes long, was excruciatingly painful.😬

Again like Frankenstein🧟‍♂️ I stumbled into the department where the scan would take place while my husband parked the car. Rather nervously I gave my details to the receptionist fearing that someone had made a prank call👅 ( Ben?) and I had in fact no appointment at all. But after a few tentative clicks 💻 of the computer she directed me to have a seat.💺 Now, as you know, this is not an easy manoeuvre for me but my options were limited. I sat, clinging to my crutches and with the walk in taking its toll, my distress 🤦‍♀️ was palpable.

A nurse 👩‍🔧 wandered past and, wowed by my shoes, she stopped in her tracks to admire them only then noticing at this point I was wincing in pain. She swung into immediate Nurse Mode and got me onto a bed🛏 , thank you so much shoes! She then went off to try to hurry my appointment on but advised me I was being seen by a consultant👩🏻‍⚕️ so would have to wait. I didn’t mind this, it gave me some comfort, although I nervously admitted to my husband I was worried they would not find anything wrong. I had lost all confidence in my own assessment of my condition.😟

When the Consultant arrived he was brusque 😠 and I felt instantly guilty at being there. He slaggered gel across the front of my leg and asked me what happened. I regailed the story in summary. “When were you in A&E ?” “A week ago” I whimpered and fresh from the Ben experience felt again I was wasting his time. “And last night” I added . He asked me to flip over. ( like it was easy) and slaggered more gel on the sore bit of my leg. “ They have asked me to scan the wrong part” he seethed. He seemed astonished 😱 at the discolouration on the injury site and asked if I was in pain or unwell. “Both” I mumbled. He sighed and muttered under his breath and I caught “ it beggars belief”. “OK” he said “get dressed.” “Am I ok?” I enquired. “ You have the worst hamstring injury I have ever seen.” 🤐

I have to admit I broke down in tears 😭 with relief at this statement. He outlined the size of the tear; width 5cms, the depth 6cms and length 18 cms accompanied by a massive blood clot. He suggested I had lost a lot of blood 💉 and I should never have been sent home. He summoned my husband into the room. “Take her back to book her into A&E while I make this report personally”, he stated “this warrants it.” 🎉

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Strike #2 chapter 5

It’s never straightforward getting from A-B is it? The train ran so late we missed our lift. My husband organised a taxi to take me to the doctor then drive him to collect our grandkids👫. The train had made us both late and stress 🤹‍♂️ levels were extremely high. The rabid dog 🐕 stuck with me as we parted company for our respective appointments.

Naturally the dog didn’t make it into my consultation but I was in some distress😢 by then and my leg was swollen so badly I thought my jeans 👖 would need to be cut off. The GP took one look at me and advised a second visit to A&E 🏩 for further investigation was necessary.

My poor husband was trying to make the kids their tea 🍱 when I summoned him back to my GP to transport me to A&E. He dispatched me rushing back to make sure the oven hadn’t incinerated the chicken nuggets.🔥

A&E was busy; I was informed at check in there would be a three hour wait. 3️⃣ OMG three hours…😩. I grabbed a seat closest to the exit, but sitting down was just impossible. My containment of the rabid dog now manifested into tears 😭 the pain, gnawing so much now, was unbearable, I was close to hysteria😜 .

Around me mayhem 👀 ensued, its hard to accept that everyone there was actually an emergency although I’m mindful of assumptions. Everyone appeared to contain their distress more than me, even kids. Some lovesick 👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨teenagers, supported by their friends did well to conceal any obvious signs of ailment. 🤒 A number of kids in football ⚽️ attire with blood stained 🤕 faces, suggested theirs hadn’t been the friendliest match, and numerous older people 👵🏼watched every newcomer with nervous anticipation 🙀 that they might lose their turn.

After an hour I was called for triage where I was offered some pain relief 💊💊. With only a chair to sit in I was in major discomfort. Once through the first tier, 🚑🚑🚑 3 ambulances arrived with more patients and I was in this line waiting to move closer to a doctor. Chaos didn’t seem to cover it.

Then it was my turn and we met Ben. 🧛🏻‍♂️ Ben is well versed in the habits of hysterical women. He has nice 🐝 manners. He has honed his bedside manner 🛏 to relax you. He tried to establish what we really wanted as he noticed we had been at A&E last week! Isn’t it tedious 🗂 these people who keep coming back? “What do you need to happen?” He was acutely patronising 👺 and despite my GP referral it was evident he thought we were time wasting. “I need further investigation” I sobbed 😪 “I need to be admitted to get the pain sorted” But any idiot 🤪 could read the signs that was never going to happen. Ben thought it appropriate to examine my leg but he was perplexed. As with his peers last week he didn’t know what was wrong. “I think you should go home and I’ll try to get a scan for next week” he said washing his hands. “She needs pain relief” said my husband, “ its 15p at Asda” he replied 🤫 smiling and extending his hand as he dismissed me. “ It was so nice to see you in A&E.” It’s not a blinking holiday Ben!!!!!!

“I don’t think they believe me I wept” as I stuttered toward the car……………………..

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Rabid dogs and Frankenstein Chapter 4

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So one day into our Harrogate trip and it was evident it had been a big mistake ⚡️ coming here with my leg in such pain. Although getting into town was fairly easy, I was walking like Frankenstein 🧟‍♂️ and it was not a good look – I had to get rid of the crutches.

Shopping 🛍 and eating🍱 out are among my guilty pleasures in life, so sair leg or not I wasn’t prepared to forgoe either, and the crutches weren’t going to hinder me so I ditched them. However by 2pm my leg was throbbing so the promise of fine dining was deserted for a reduced price Tesco Egg 🥚 sandwich. This decision of course gained maximum kudos from my husband as it saved him money💷. By some miracle I stumbled and hobbled my way back to the hotel clinging to lampposts and moaning incoherently like a jakey despite the lack or pleasure of any wine🍷! I immediately launched myself into the bath when we returned and I noticed extensive purple bruising had started to appear on my leg😈.

By Wednesday I couldn’t sit at all so tried to book a train home a day early. Although possible it was costly 🤑. Pondering this in light of the egg sandwich decision, I considered we could wait one more day since we already had first class tickets 🚞and all the comforts and extras those promised. In a strange twist of fate the hotel owner noticed I was in agony and shared that she had slipped in the kitchen a few years ago and ripped her hamstring in two. She’d spent 6 days in hospital and it took 9 months to heal. How bloody awful I declared, ha little did I know!🤪

On Thursday we set off home, and I made a Doctors appointment en route because the pain 💊💊 was now as bad as it had been when I fell. We boarded the on-time ⏰ first train to York but our luck 🍀 didn’t last. Because of Storm Ali the previous days trains had been cancelled and now our train was over 2 hours late, burgeoned with extra passengers and devoid of any seats and refreshments. 🙀

By now I was I was barking and snarling like a rabid dog 👹 trying to contain the pain. All the money I had saved did little to endear me in this state to my husband who was wishing this particular trip to Harrogate had never happened. He was unable to provide any meaningful assistance and his best efforts failed to return me to the even tempered puppy 🐶 he started out with.

When the train arrived every seat, suitcase and corridor floor space in first class was occupied. Despite hobbling among the crowds trying to look needy to the very important businessmen they avoided my gaze 👩‍💻, perhaps my best Frankenstein impression scared them off. The offer of a seat was eventually provided by an elderly lady 😇 who availed me of my misery as we hurtled toward Edinburgh and home and I took it 🤭 (forgive me). I just hoped our train would get in on time.

My husband loves travelling by train but he had no seat until Newcastle and we were delayed a further hour on route. We had nothing to eat or drink until we arrived in Berwick and suddenly the loaves and five fishes 🐟 appeared in the guise of bacon 🐖 sandwiches for those of us brave enough to be travelling on to Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿. Not long now until I saw the doctor and all my problems would be resolved. I was salivating 🤤 like Pavlov’s dog at the thought of that ….