STOP FOBBING ME OFF!!

Do you ever get told or advised something by a person of authority that you know you're meant to believe and listen to, yet everything inside you is screaming “YOU’RE WRONG!!!”?! That was me when the Orthopaedic specialist looked at my infected scar and told me it “looked fine” and “just keep an eye on it.” Much like the nurse said a few days prior. She'd put a nice fresh dressing on it which I thankfully hadn't oozed blood and pus through like the last one, and I was told to remove it after a few days. I wasn't convinced. If the infection had supposedly gone, why was I still in a world of swollen hot leg pain? Initially I was looking forward to seeing the specialist two days later, so I could ask him all my many questions in the hope he'd have all the answers to things like: “Why has this happened?”-  “Why is my knee still enormous?”-  “Why won't my leg bend?”- “Do unicorns exist?”- and “How did they build Stonehenge?” were just some of the questions I ask myself daily.

“What happened here?” He asked, looking down disapprovingly at my leg dressing.

“It got infec-“ before I could finish, he suddenly whipped off the entire dressing, ripping out all my leg hairs along with it. Oww!!!

“It looks fine, just keep an eye on it”, He said, nonchalantly.

There goes that same old phrase again: “Just keep an eye on it.” And I was doing. Constantly. And to me, it was NOT looking or feeling fine! Much like when us girls say to our boyfriends “I'm fine” after an argument. Trust me, we're not!

The next day I was back with physio guru Jeff and he was not happy with the state of it. He could see with his expert eye it was still infected and he urged me to go back and get a second opinion, before I headed off to the Scottish Highlands to celebrate my aunty’s milestone birthday. I was already going to be ‘the girl with the broken leg’ at the party. I didn't want to be known as ‘the girl with the infection’ too. My mind always jumps to gross things when I hear the word ‘infection’, and I assume people will think I’m in some ways dirty, like I haven't washed for a week, or rolled around in mud, or just been a slut in order to get one. (NONE of which were true by the way! I do everything by the book, especially when it comes to healing my leg, so go ahead and put that Angel emoji next to my contact in your phone.)

Although I must confess something.. I started removing my leg brace to sleep, then subsequently as soon as I walked through the door when I got home. I'm telling you now, it was a better feeling than taking your bra off at the end of the day!

Sleeping was and continues to be challenging though, as the constant biggest ache I've ever felt carries on to this day, and I wake up in a panic thinking “What happened to my leg?!” Immediately followed by “Oh yeah, I broke it.”

The morning of the 8 hour drive to Elgin was delayed by me (Obvs) as I managed to get an emergency appointment at the doctors for another wound check.

“Ohh dear it does look a bit red...” they said, shining their iPhone torches on it. “Just keep an eye on it.”

That effing phrase again!

“…And here's a prescription for some more antibiotics if it gets worse. But wait and see before you take them.”

Great. Here we go again. Maybe it would calm down and the drive to Scotland and change of scene would do me good?

If you're ever asked to describe a horrendously uncomfortable scenario, try 8 hours in the back of a Nissan Juke with a recently broken, throbbing leg and only ONE twenty five minute pitstop at Gretna Green. Dad doesn't like stopping, music or talking so yes, it was a very tedious journey but so worth it once we got there to fabulous auntie Jan and Derek!

The air was fresh and scenery vast. The furthest I’d been since coming home from hospital. One thing I thankfully didn't have to pack for this mini break were my anti blood clot injections! I'd recently jabbed the final one in my stomach after six whole weeks of that nightly horror show. I'd like to say they got easier, but they never did. I just cried and shouted slightly less as time went on. If you're going through nightly injections right now, I'd recommend creating a really calm and comfy environment to do them in. I.e- light loads of candles, switch on salt lamp, lay on bed or sofa, put on some nice music or a scenic drive on YouTube, and have a Ferrero Rocher next to you for your reward, post-stabbing, when it's all over.

The next morning I was late surfacing as it takes me forever to wash and dress myself. Dad panicked when he knocked on my door about 11:00 AM and I was nowhere to be seen.

“Where are you?” He asked worriedly.

“I'm down here!” I called from the floor on the other side of the bed. “Don't worry-I put myself here, I'm doing my physio exercises!”

I was having a lovely time for the first half of the day, catching up with family I don't often get to see and planning my outfit for Jan's big birthday bash. (I was going Leg brace-less! Woohoo!) Until about 4:00 PM when a miniature volcano began erupting in my scar and the boiling pain cranked up 10 notches, and the redness spread like lava spewing. Ohh shit. Looks like I really do need those antibiotics after all. But what pharmacies are open in rural Scotland past 5:00 PM on a Friday? Ermm None! Enter hero Uncle Derek to the rescue, who ended up driving about 40 minutes in the direction he’d just come back from, armed with my little prescription slip to get me my pills.

Gosh- this injury is so flippin’ high maintenance! Physio Jeff was right: it was still infected, and I was so annoyed all the so-called ‘specialists’ had missed this and fobbed me off. Shedding no light on the situation other than their iPhone torches.

I quickly swallowed my first clarithromycin, delightfully washed down with a glass of ‘No-zeco’ and got on with celebrating, while wearing a beauty queen style tiara along with all the other female guests.

The fear was creeping in though: A massive scar, enough metal work in my leg to supply a local scaffolding company and a spreading infection dangerously close to it... this is when a massive catastrophic thinking grenade got lobbed into my head and exploded with the very possible scenario that if my infection spread to my bone (which could happen) I'd lose my leg. But try and not go there Sophie!!! Go back to your tiara and No-zeco!

My anxiety got dispelled the next morning when we all went to a local farm and farm shop for breakfast, and I spent ages trying to feed carrots to the cows. Apparently, they loved them and were on a strict vegan diet, but they appeared to not want my carrots and seemed unnerved by my leg brace and very non-farm friendly attire. I was wearing all pale grey and cream hues… I tried to tell them I was one of them and spent three years working on a farm from the age of 13, so I really should have known better with my clothing choice. The smell of manure transported me back to that happy place. I loved my farmyard days!

Then I remembered I'd recently started eating fillet steak and it's like the cows knew! It was as if they could see my thoughts and was staring at me with a look of “WE KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER!” Like that 1997 horror movie. Either that or they could sense the ongoing horror show happening in my leg.

When we finally arrived home to Cheshire, Christmas festivities would be in full swing. But while everyone else would be rushing to the Manchester Christmas markets, the only place I’d be rushing to would be back to hospital...