Some background

I would like to say that I broke my ankle doing something rather exciting or brave, but the sad fact is I just fell over.

On the night of 31st July, getting out of bed to turn the light out I had a severe case of pins and needles which meant that as I got out of bed to walk across the room, I had no feeling in my legs and immediately fell. I knew that I had ‘done something’, but I had no idea what. I thought perhaps a sprained ankle, I could move my toes so (thinking back to my girlguide training) assumed that nothing was broken. Ian was quick off the mark (once my shouts were heard over his trumpeting snores, and he eventually woke) and we managed to get me onto the bed, with ankle wrapped in frozen chickpeas. This was the beginning of many indignities.

For too many long and boring reasons to go into, Ian was due to be dropping a hire car off in Seville the next morning which meant leaving the house at 6.30. We weren’t unduly worried as we both believed that the ankle would be better in a couple of hours. However it wasn’t and whilst laying in a pool of melting chickpeas I was laying there wondering about the first problem – how was I going to get to the loo. A little while later this problem became a bit more urgent – so again I needed to wake up the slumbering nose-trumpeter next to me and we were wheeling me through the house on a armchair and then trying to lower me onto the loo without falling over or doing further damage. I think I realised then that this probably was not a sprain and that I was looking at something more significant.

Hence at 6.45 I was sat in the Urgencia section of Llerena Hospital awaiting to see a doctor and to try and communicate what had happened with a mix of mime and o’level Spanish. Luckily the swelling gave them a bit of a clue, and my shout of panic when they grabbed the ankle indicated the sort of pain I was in.

By 9.00 I had been x-rayed and was sat on a trolley waiting for further information. My key concern at this point was how I was going to get home when Ian was not going to be back from Seville until much later. So it was with surprise when a doctor came and told me I would have to stay in hospital for 24 hours. My lack of Spanish and his lack of English meant that my questions as to why I needed to stay in hospital needed some additional support – so another doctor was drafted in to tell me that I had broken both bones in my ankle, that the break was severe and I would have to have an operation to fit plates. This was a complete shock and I hoped that something had got lost in translation – however as they came for my clothes (thankgoodness I was wearing my birthday pants) and started measuring my heart, x-raying my chest and fitting drips that it fully hit me that I was not going to be home for a few days. It was also a surprise as the x-ray seemed to show 3 broken bones - surely that can't be right....?

In between the above I managed to make a call to Ian to tell him what was happening and he had to negotiate the spanish coach and bus system to get back from Seville and some and see what was happening.

Tuesday was a difficult day, I was very much in the system by then, and seeing surgeons and doctors, getting medication and trying to think positive thoughts. I was also getting used to hopping with the support of a Zimmerframe type contraption and trying to do my ablutions on one leg. I was also finding out about the joys of the Spanish hospital food – feed the patients up seemed to be the moto – and I was facing huge meals 4 times a day. I was even woken up to have the final meal of milk and biscuits in the evening!

Wednesday the nursing staff was trying to communicate the plans for the next day which was surgery day. The surgeon told me I had an unlucky ankle and that whilst the operation was difficult it was routine. The nursing staff kept coming into to brief me with different bits and pieces. I didn’t fully understand what was going on, so we rang one of our spanish speaking friends to speak to the doctor and to translate what was happening. It was quite simple and not as complex as we thought – it was simply a case of the fact I had to be ready first thing in the morning in case they were running ahead of time, and I had strict instructions of what I was supposed to be doing in the morning in term of washing etc.

I had a sleeping pill on the Wednesday so had a good night sleep and then on Thursday Ian came in at 8, we washed me down in some form of super antiseptic and then I had a special gown and I sat on the bed in a cool and calm manner. Well it is all true but the last bit – I got into a bit of a panic and a kindly nurse gave me some form of tranquiliser to calm me down. This worked and the rest of the day desolved into some fuzzy hazy mist.

I had a epidural which meant I was still vaguely with it. I can remember the operation – and the sensation of the ankle being cut. Is that normal? It didn’t hurt but it wasn’t nice. I could also see a screen with an x-ray of the plates going in – and hear the noises – again unpleasant, so I hummed over the top of it, something which would have been equally unpleasant for the surgery staff.

I was pleased to see Ian after the op – in all it came to about 90 mins before I was back in the recovery room, and as the feeling started to come back in my legs so I was able to wiggle around a bit and make sure that everything felt right. It did - and all I was aware of on my ankle was a bulky cast.

The rest of Thursday was a blur and on Friday I saw the surgeon who said he was pleased with how things went. One tricky moment in hospital after the op. The Spanish word for toes is the same as fingers - dado. The surgeon obviously knew the one translation which was 'fingers'. So he was there studying my toes, but asking me to move my fingers. I was laid down so couldn't see where he was focussed and I was busy wiggling my fingers as requested. The surgeon got increasingly disturbed as he was telling me to move my fingers, I was saying that I was, but he could see no movement in my toes which he was studying. Just as he was convinced that I had lost the feeling and movement in my foot he realised what the 'problem' was and promptly disolved into tears of laughter. After that - along with all the other indignities suffered, I also had to suffer the surgeons flexing their fingers and collapsing in laughter when they came into see me!

I was very touched by the number of people from the village who came into see me - I was also amazed at the number of people from the village who work there. Every day people would pop into say hello - which was great, and as they would drop in often before or after shifts then it meant that people were visiting from early to late in the evening. Unfortunately my limited vocabuary meant that conversations were fairly brief - however I did find I learnt a lot of new spanish words, which is always useful!

I asked to be discharged on Sunday – however they said they needed me to see the doctor on Monday so Sunday was spent with a heavy heart. The hospital was fine – but it is quite lonely being somewhere where you don’t know any one – or speak the language, I found the nights incredibly long, but that did mean I dozed a lot during the day.

Monday was discharge day. Hooray. We had to buy our own crutches, so Ian went over the road to the orthepedic supply shop and bought a pair. It would have been helpful if I had given them a bit of practice before having to negotiate the way out of the hospital - but hey, I was nearly home.

The trip home entailed rolling around in the back of the transit and being dumped outside the front door whilst Ian took it round the back (rather than block the road whilst I spent ages working out how to get over the front door setp. I was delighted to get home into my own environment.