I know I was in Melbourne only a few short weeks ago, but I returned again quickly for a very good reason: the wedding of two beautiful long-time friends. Our group of friends (the original posse I was a member of while discovering who I was as an adult) flew in from right along the east coast, from Brisbane to Hobart, in order for a reunion and party weekend of epic proportions. Most of us FIFO guests organised to bunk in together in Airbnb accommodation, in order to spend as much time as possible in each other’s company. These are friendships that will last my entire lifetime and I miss these people fiercely on a regular basis.
However, as much as I want to wax on about my beautiful friends, this post is for whinging instead. I’m almost thirty years old and I’ve finally broken a bone, hooray! Except not hooray. And possibly even maybe no I haven’t. The joy of injuries! At the least, I have a grade 3 (“severe”) ankle sprain (aka a torn ligament). There’s a small chip of bone that’s come away, too, and at the most there could also be a hairline fracture in there too, but I won’t find that out until Monday’s CT scan (over a fortnight after my original injury, no big deal or anything).
I mention both the Melbourne wedding and the injury because the injury happened directly after the wedding. Thankfully not DURING the wedding! But literally directly after the wedding. I suppose it’s a half-decent story for the future:
the wedding had been amazing, and delicious beverages flowed from an open bar. (I really do need to get the name of that rosé.) The staff were efficient in that “I know none of you are driving home from this” constant top-up/new glass kind of way. My friends and I spent hours catching up, eating, drinking, and most importantly celebrating our sweethearts, and eventually the night wound to a close.
A number of us wandered toward a tram stop (as most of us were sharing accommodation) and as we wandered, the tram number we wanted was pulling in. But it was going to beat us! So we ran! Because who knows what time of night it was! It could have been the last one! Or maybe there wouldn’t be another one for half an hour! But there was one RIGHT THERE! Sprinting isn’t something I ever do, but when you’ve had a few too many drinks, you’re a superhero. And I WAS a superhero, but my power was NOT sprinting. I was even wearing heels, which isn’t something I’ve been doing a lot of lately.
And from a sprint, I splatted onto the concrete.
We missed the tram. My left knee was bloodied; my leggings were torn. My right ankle hurt, a lot. We caught the next tram probably less than ten minutes later, of course, because Melbourne. As under the influence as I was, I knew I was in trouble when I decided I couldn’t make it to Hungry Jacks with everyone once we were off the tram, and I took myself straight up to our accommodation. My BFF helped me wrap a tea towel full of ice around my ankle and gave me the other half of her burger (BFF! F, I say!), while another friend put band aids over my bleeding knee before I could properly clean it (“I’M HELPING!”) and then I went to bed.
Epic story, right?
I still had a day in Melbourne when I woke up. I cleaned up my knee while my bandaid friend bought a pressure bandage for my ankle and I managed to fit my foot into my Doc Marten boot, then I limped out for breakfast with the crew. They’d been good to me and hung around while I hummed and hahhed about whether I’d even be able to walk, so breakfast was more like lunch and then I headed off not long after to make my way to the airport with plenty of time available. I was stupid to struggle along as much as I did—I already had a return skybus ticket to use up, but the hike to the skybus and then from the skybus to the Tiger terminal to the plane itself was hell. I had a minor meltdown at the airport, because on top of everything else, I’d tried to call up to add checked baggage that morning once I realised how bad my ankle was (I didn’t want to worry about carting anything more than my busted foot around), but I didn’t have time to wait on hold. Never add checked baggage at the airport, dear readers. Never. Not even if you’ve got a really good sob story.
Having said that, I do want to note that this was my first time trying Tiger Airways, and both my flights were on time and absolutely fine. The lovely guy at the airport obviously had restrictions as to what he could do as far as baggage was concerned. He blocked the seat next to me so I’d have space to stretch out (I ended up with a whole row), he got me onto the plane with the priority boarders, and he offered me a wheelchair out (which I super dumbly refused BUT then after my great hike out to the plane I quickly accepted the offer for landing, as well as scoring a lift down to the tarmac in a weenie crane lift thing that was terrifying but also fun). A+, would fly Tiger again.
This story is SO LONG, I’M SORRY, I’M VERBOSE.
Back at home I finally peeled off my boot and saw the amazing colours that had come up on my foot. My friend who had given me a lift from the airport bundled me straight back into the car and down to the hospital, and three to four hours later (in between a LOT of waiting around) I’d been x-rayed, wheeled around, told I had a “grade three, or severe, ankle strain”, and given a backstrap cast—plaster along just the back of my shin down to the ball of my foot, wrapped over with gauze, to help immobilise until my appointment with the specialist.
A week later.
I am lucky enough to have an amazing mother, who was able to come down and help me out for a week. She’s just gone home today and I’ll admit I was a little devastated to see her go, especially after my specialist appointment yesterday didn’t go nearly as awesomely as I’d hoped. I hopped out of there with a bigger, thicker, heavier cast than I’d gone in with, and the verdict that there could possibly be a hairline fracture on one of the bones in my ankle. I didn’t question further on which one, because I think I was pretty shocked. I’d been hoping to walk out of there in a moon boot, but I guess I should have been wise to the old “always get a second opinion” adage when the emergency doctor suggested that outcome.
I’ve spent a week and a half lying on my couch with my foot elevated (toes above the nose, as the saying goes). I’d gotten used to manoeuvring around with the first measly cast, and now I’m trying to adjust to this bigger beast. I was supposed to head back to work today but after a bad night’s sleep, mum and I leapt up to dash out to Moonah for a last-minute wheelchair hire for work (because crutches are DEVIL STICKS), and then just before I was due to be picked up for work (I miss you, independence!) mum jumped in a cab for the airport and I just couldn’t really deal with anything much. So I’m going back tomorrow.
My darling friend who was going to take me to work today instead gave me a big hug and then ran around and grabbed my extra day’s certificate from my amazing GP, some stuff from the chemist, and some stuff from the sugar chemist aka Sweet Envy (shout out to wonderful Al who totally spoiled me last week, too). While I’m shouting, let’s not forget the gorgeous creatures who got me out of the house on Sunday for brunch and the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary Special screening at the State Cinema, ferrying me almost literally from door to door to door, and offering plenty of sympathetic faces. To my amazing mother, for whom I will never be grateful enough. To my aforementioned amazing GP, and the sweetheart who took me to ER and kept me company for the first couple of hours until I pushed her out the door. I really hate leaning on people—I love having people around me, I’m mostly extroverted in that sense, but I’m very independent so having to depend on others is pretty distressing for me.
This has been a whingy and personal post, but that’s all that my last week and a half has been! Here’s to things getting better in the future. Pollyanna, Pollyanna, Pollyanna.