Broken Ankle - Fractured Life !

One evening I was at home after the usual frantically busy day at school (I’m a teacher) and some extra work afterwards. My husband and I had a Chinese takeaway and about 10.30 we prepared to go upstairs to bed. He had gone up first and I was just on the third step (wearing new, lovely but probably in no way sensible shoes) and I felt my ankle twist right round before I slid to the floor. I fell at an extremely awkward angle and the pain was intense. I was unable to move my right foot at all. I slid down the steps back into the hall. Blood was pouring out of the wound on my ankle all over the floor. Fortunately the floor there is wooden, so easier to clean! I was shaking all over with shock and panic. My husband immediately descended the stairs, wrapped my ankle in a towel in an effort to stop the bleeding and called an ambulance. I have a total horror of all things medical and insisted that I did not want to go to hospital but he was extremely firm with me. I lay on the floor in a state of acute terror at the thought of being in a hospital. I have never been in one except to give birth to my daughters many years ago. I would in all honesty rather have taken my chances on the floor in a pool of blood than gone to hospital.
The ambulance guys arrived very quickly and my terror increased. I found them rude and patronising when I tried to insist it was only my foot that hurt. They said I would lose my ankle if I did not cooperate. This upset me so much I just lay slumped on the floor and longed to cry but I was numb and in denial of the enormity of what had happened. I felt humiliated and that they had zero respect for me. They did what was necessary to get me onto a trolley and into the ambulance and drove with full on emergency signals to the local hospital. Even then, I was in total denial and thought that they would treat me before letting me come home. How wrong can one be!! My injury was treated as an emergency and I was dealt with immediately. They rushed to do x rays and said it was one of the worst fractures they had ever seen. Apparently it was an open bimalleolar fracture with the bone sticking right out of the foot and an open wound. Not a great scenario for the surgeon. (I later discovered that my lovely shoes were a size too big for me which was almost definitely the main reason I fell.  Consultants and nurses from other parts of the hospital seemed keen to look at the x rays as I also found out much later. (For teaching purposes??).
As I am terrified of hospitals and medical procedures, my next moment of horror came when they announced they had to do an ECG to ensure that my heart was strong enough for the operation they had in mind. I tried to object but nobody would listen to me and I felt strongly that I was being forced into doing something I in no way wanted. After the ECG, they moved me to a ward. I was appalled as lack of privacy is something I utterly detest. I discovered there were six women in the ward (horror of horrors) and, even worse, one of them shouted and screamed all night ceaselessly. On arrival at the ward, I asked to be moved to a private ward and said I would pay whatever it cost, but again nobody would listen to me. I might as well have been invisible. I felt devastated and again humiliated. I was just a non person. I lay awake most of the night in a state of stress and shock. I had just fallen into an exhausted doze despite the loud noise when I was awoken by a nurse to take some antibiotics. I did not sleep again that night. They then woke me at about 5am and the day began.

I was not allowed any food or drink as my emergency operation was scheduled for that afternoon.  I was put on a drip to prevent dehydration.  I was obviously still in a state of intense stress and was convinced I would never wake from the anaesthetic if I didn’t bleed to death on the operating table.  Happy thoughts!  My other worry was that my husband had taken my mobile home so I had no way of contacting him.  Not one to give up easily, I asked to be taken in a chair to the office area where I repeatedly called my mobile leaving him messages.  Why the hell hadn’t I memorised his mobile number.  Such an idiot!  Eventually I asked a nurse to call him and he arrived 20 minutes later.  Somehow we got through the rest of the morning which included a visit from my orthopaedic surgeon who described my operation.  The waiting ended at 2pm when they wheeled me to theatre.  My terror increased and my heart was leaping around.

I was wheeled on my bed into a small room where they gave me a strong anaesthetic and the next thing I knew I was in the recovery room.  It was similar to waking from a dream and I saw lots of people rushing around.  I suddenly realised they were nurses and one started talking to me.  I must have made appropriate responses as I was then taken back to the ward where I was reunited with my family.  I had had a four hour operation!  It took twice the estimated time!  At least I seemed to be still alive.  Such a profound relief.  I felt dazed and very confused but seemed to suddenly be forced into a position where I had to keep the conversation flowing.   I do vividly remember both my daughters alternately handing me cardboard containers to vomit into (such fun) as I was chatting.  Effects of all the drugs!  Think I’d prefer to stick to nice old alcohol in future though!  When they left, my husband and I said goodnight and yet again I attempted sleep.

The next day, Saturday, was spent refusing disgusting inedible food, having a ridiculous number of medical checks and seeing a physio who got me walking, or rather hopping, first on a frame and later on crutches.  I was very keen to succeed at this as I knew full well it was my passport back to the real world.  The morning was unutterably boring as visiting time only began at 2pm.  I spent a pleasant afternoon and evening with my family which was cheering.

Sunday was a frustrating day for me as it really sank in the extent to which I had lost any ability to move alone.  I was now able to get to the loo using a walking frame and to wash myself using a bowl but the thought of bathing or showering remained just a dream.  I was terrified of the horrific lifestyle that lay ahead of me for a number of months.  I practised hard so I became proficient with the walking aids.  By mid evening I was dreading seeing the doctor the next morning in case he didn’t discharge me.  However, after an agonising wait on Monday morning, he announced that I could go home.  I ecstatically informed my husband who picked me up later when I had been fitted with a plaster cast.  I was in a state of euphoria for the rest of the day as it was so wonderful to escape from the total lack of privacy and the ghastly people and food.  There only seemed to be one problem: I was not allowed to put my injured foot on the floor for six weeks so had to hop all the time on the crutches!

Week 1 post surgery

During this first week at home, reality hit me very hard.  On waking I instantly remembered my useless leg and had to manoeuvre myself up from a low sofa bed in the living room (no hope whatsoever of attempting stairs), and, being very careful not to let my right foot touch the floor, I hopped through to the kitchen.  There I drank some pre-prepared tea sitting on a chair before using a bowl to wash myself standing on one leg.  I then hopped to the armchair where I was to spend the day.  This was a routine with which I became very familiar during the six NWB weeks.  I have never in my life done so many puzzles or read so many newspapers.  I absolutely hated being so dependent on my husband.  I couldn’t even access my clean underwear which was of course up the forbidden stairs.  I was unable to cook or even to prepare a sandwich.  The total loss of independence and the unbearable boredom of the long dreary days took their toll and it was at that time impossible for me to imagine ever being physically able to resume my previous busy lifestyle.   At the end of the first week home, I returned to the hospital fracture clinic for a check up.  My husband had to put a chair outside so I could manoeuvre myself into the garden without using the step which I couldn’t do.  The registrar told me the incision side of my foot was healing extremely well but I also had an open wound.  (Not a good scene, as fractures go!).  This still had a long way to go and he gave me antibiotics to minimise the risk of it getting infected and made another appointment for the following week……..

I was really upset by this and could not get the thought that I might need to go back in for more surgery out of my mind.

Weeks 2-6

The consultant and his registrar monitored my wound every week whilst I was non weight bearing and eventually, by the end of the six weeks, it had started to heal.  This was an extremely frustrating time for me and I went though many moments of thinking I would never get back to normal.  I was told to do a minimum of hopping around to give the wound the best opportunity of healing so I was coping with intense boredom, frustration and anxiety.  I only went out twice during this time apart from the hospital visits!! During weeks 3-6, my leg was in an extremely ugly air cast boot.  I felt humiliated and a freak whenever children (and, more appallingly, lots of adults stared at it).  Ironically this happened mostly at the hospital!

Week 7

At the end of the six weeks, I was disappointed to see that my usual registrar was not at the fracture clinic as he had guided me through the entire post surgery care to date.  However the new reg told me that all looked good and the wound was at last healing.  He then signed me off for six weeks to my amazement. I felt somewhat abandoned given earlier events!  I was given permission to weight bear whilst wearing the air cast boot.

During week 7 I saw my two physiotherapists.  They could not be more different.  One barely does the routine stuff and actually got me to walk upstairs (my stairs are extremely steep) without first checking that the rail extended to the top two stairs!  This was very stressful and emotionally upsetting for me since I had fallen down the bottom three stairs originally and, having got together the state of mind required to face the climb,  was appalled and hugely disappointed not to complete my task.  However a few days later my second physio arrived.  She examined my ankle and got me to walk the length of the house without the boot.  She was fantastic giving me huge confidence.  With her instructions I also managed to get into the front and back gardens (going up and down steps instead of using chairs as before!).  For the first time today I actually started to visualise myself walking normally again.  I cried a little after she left for the first time since the accident seven weeks ago.  She had given me back my belief and hope.