About two months ago I injured my ankle. Since then, I haven’t really been in the mood for anything, despite all the loony things happening in the world. I remain fixated on the discomfort in my leg, and it is pissing me off.
So–like exorcising demons–perhaps saying its name will get me back on track, back to being and feeling normal, whatever that is.
The kneebone’s connected to the?
In my case, a fractured tibia, multiple avulsion fractures, and Grade 3 tears to my anterior talofibular ligament and my anterior inferior talofibular ligament.
Yup.
While those are the main attractions, the supporting cast includes joint effusion, marrow oedema, tenosynovitis and something called “intersection syndrome at the Knot of Henry” which I mistook to be a nautical term referencing something you’d want to avoid when rounding the Horn of Africa.
My general practitioner shall remain nameless, let’s call him Dr B.
I have a good relationship with Dr B. because I see him so often. As a diabetic, it’s unavoidable. He is (usually) a superb diagnostician. so when I limped into his surgery in late July after a catastrophic fall while hiking, Dr B’s reassuring “it’s just a sprain” was met with the usual deference to his expertise.
I quietly exited with a script for anti-inflammatory meds. But–this time–also with a doubt.
Just a sprain?
Two weeks later, I limped back into his surgery and very apologetically suggested he was wrong. The meds had done nothing, I was still in savage pain, but now also frustrated and anxious.
He shrugged not-quite-apologetically and referred me for a CT (computed tomography) scan. Which showed the fractures I knew were there all along.
Oops, Dr B.
This triggered a rapid avalanche of events which have re-ordered my life.
I am now on ‘restricted duties’ at work — chained to a desk, effectively — for the duration of my recovery. My HR guy (btw) has been a UTTER CUNT so far and clearly needs to enrol in my free HR masterclasses from back in ’21.
Let’s call my HR guy Steve.
I have also been subjected to Hulk-inducing levels of gamma rays via MRI (magnetic resonance imaging) in order to explore the mysterious ‘high ankle sprain’.
This extra procedure (for only $600) confirmed the need for a referral to a specialist, so that (for only $320) a young orthopaedic surgeon could tell me my ankle is temporarily but NOT PERMANENTLY fucked!
Capitalisation for added effect. He didn’t shout at me, no. He was too busy on the www picking out the perfect mags for his racing yellow M440i.
But the good news is that I am six to eight therapy-filled weeks away from fighting fit, and my first appointment with the physiotherapist (for only ??? per hour) is at 10:30am today.
Phew.
Seems I won’t be amputated below the knee, just at the wallet.
We may have the best public health system in the world, but unless you want to go on a 12 month waiting list to get it free, prompt professional medical care in Australia will cost you an absolute arm and anklebone.