In the far
and distant future… when space colonisation is accepted as our only option for
survival, the great-great grandchildren of the Spice Girls are ready to go on
their second reunion tour and Twitter is the lengthy telegram by which old
people write their memoirs… someone, somewhere will dust off the 2016 census.
First
they’ll giggle at the belief that any of the information was ever truly secure,
then they’ll notice a preponderance children with aggressively misspelt names,
and at some point they’ll wonder why gay people were choosing not to get married in Australia during this era.
Distracted
by the discovery that a stage production of the latest Fast & Furious
sequel is playing via hologram (with prologue delivered by Global President
Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson*), they won’t get any further than that. If they did, they probably still wouldn’t
care about the strange fact that on the day of the census, I was being housed
in a neurology ward in Canberra.
If that
seemed like a lengthy way to get to the point of this post, consider it an
analogy for how long it took me to get out of hospital after breaking my leg.
 |
| To be filed under 'Things That Make You Go: May require surgery' |
Due to the
rampant popularity of hospital food, patient overflow forced me to bunk down in
neuro while I waited for the second operation to actually set my broken
bones. I wasn’t alone – a fellow ski
accident victim shared my four person room, and remarked that we had pretty
much the same injury. He got out after three
days. When I was finally released two
and a half weeks later, I came to the realisation that he was a cruel, cruel
liar.
You know who
didn’t leave me? The amnesiac patient,
and the elderly Croatian woman who didn’t speak a word of English. If that’s not the start of an excellent
conversation every day, it’s at least the beginning of a ‘walks into a bar’
joke.
That first
week, with the metal pins sticking out of my leg, it took three people to take
me to the bathroom. The second week,
with the metal plates inside the limb, it was merely two – with so few of us
involved in the endeavour it began to feel downright private.
Undoubtedly
the high point came with my first shower at Day 12. Only a single nurse was needed to help me do
that. I know what you’re thinking, and
the answer is: Yes, it was less satisfying to harmonize with just one other
person.
At least I
was truly alone at night. Just me, the beeps
and buzzes of medical equipment, and my brain doing its circuit – this hurts > don’t think I’d cope with childbirth
> how come Olympic long jumpers don’t get injured when they fall? >
falling > stupid skis > remember Dad taught you to love skiing > glad
Dad didn’t end up in hospital > Dad > this hurts…
Halfway
through August I realised I hadn’t seen the sky that month.
There are
awards, of course:
Best helpers
ever: a sister that brought me tea, an aunt that brought me berries, a mother
that spent a lot of time driving backwards and forwards to Canberra.
Worst helper
ever: the nurse who thought my leg looked crooked and tried to correct it
without noticing the metal pins holding it in position.
Best
overheard statement without context: “The doctor wants to know how many fingers
I can fit in your mouth, so open up.”
Best phone call: my boss wanting my full name to help with a cleansing
ritual at the office to try and lift the curse.
Best segue: the friend who, upon discovering I was in hospital with a
severely broken leg, used it as an opportunity to tell me about his terrible
cold.
Let me
reassure you now – that friend’s cold… has passed. I will let him know you’re thinking of him.
Everyone
keeps reminding me this leg business will pass as well. I know it will, but with another three weeks
until I can put any weight on it, it sure is taking its sweet arse time. Odd to think, in that far and distant future,
the census might be the only evidence on record that it even happened. That and the crippling arthritis my doctor
now assures me is inevitable in the limb.
Like a lot
that’s occurred this year, something so big will be reduced to a memory, and an
ache.
 |
| Airport security comedy will surely ensue |
On the
upside, I’m further down the path of becoming the Bionic Woman. I’m going to fight crime with my knee of
steel, before the inevitable robopocalypse forces me to choose sides between
humanity and our artificial intelligence overlords. I’m still undecided on that one (pending the
US Presidential election).
 |
| Full Metal Legging |
Painefull
Out
* = The Rock
is ageless. Go with it.
