I never thought I'd see the day when an afternoon out to hospital was somewhat entertaining for me. Chainsaws sawing off casts and stitches being pulled out of my leg aside, obviously. The rest of it was positively thrilling, and the smallest things were blowing my mind in both good and bad ways. Once fitted with my new bionic leg brace strapped too tightly around my leg, it was back out to the waiting room to await the discussing of my X-ray results with the specialist. It was like being with my own kind: All the broken people together in a room, all asking what one another had done to themselves and how. I still think I had the coolest story and the biggest scar. It was mental to me how many people who I said "Brands Hatch race track" to or “the BTC final”, thought I was talking about horse racing! And they assumed I'd snapped my thigh dismounting the winning horse. Horses scare me at the best of times, so I'll definitely stick to cars.
“Sophie Wright please!” Called the most polite nurse ever. Dad sprung up and wheeled me into the room where I met not one but two doctors, who were both scrutinising my X-ray on the screen. It did look pretty impressive! The sheer amount of metal in my leg for a start.
“Will I beep at airports?" Was my first question and all I really cared about at this stage.
“Well obviously you can't fly for months but no, it won't beep.”
Ohh. OK, how convenient yet surprising. Maybe my metal was special?!
On the large screen the massive crack right through my femur was still very apparent and I could only hope those plates and pins did their job in holding it together. They both seemed pretty blasé about the metal, the scar, the surgery... but they were more concerned about HOW THE HELL I managed such a car accident standard break just stepping down off the pit wall. So, they referred me to have a bone density scan. Aka: a DEXA scan! Fancy! And much like a fancy party, I shall have to wait for my letter of invitation to pop through the post.
It was then time for another trip down the corridors. This time, to the pharmacy. Sadly, to pick up more anti-blood clot injections. Damn it! The hospital in Kent hadn't sent me home with enough and I was hoping that meant I could just do less, but no. I don't know what pissed me off more: that, or the fact the Costa in the hospital wasn't a real Costa, it was just masquerading as one, and they didn't have coconut milk or know what a cortado was. The M&S Simply Food was legit though and I enjoyed an extortionately priced Hummus and falafel salad, alongside my disgusting double espresso with soya- while waiting for my injections to be prepared.
WHAT IS LIFE???!!!
Then it was back in an ambulance (with a different crew this time) to take me home. I enjoyed chatting to the paramedic who was sat in the back with me about how he once broke his femur too, amongst many other things like getting his fingers severed off, then put back on again. He was an ex-soldier and snapped his thigh also jumping down backwards off something. An army truck while in combat to be exact. All of a sudden, my pit wall accident at Brands seemed very low key. But I appreciated his encouragement and that he was apparently back running 8 miles a day after just eight months… until he broke something else.
When I woke up the next day, I was on one! Fresh from my day out and under new instruction to begin to try and bend my leg to 30°. But it wouldn't budge. Would it ever? Had they pinned those pins to my kneecap? Would the swelling ever go down or would I have a fat knee forever? No one had told me how to begin mobilising it safely or effectively, and I was still waiting for an NHS physio which could take months, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.
I was going to do everything in my power to get this recovery ball rolling as quickly as possible! Starting with my diet. Let's work from the inside out! I ordered the best bone broth collagen powder I could find, I started eating sardines and any other insanely high in calcium fruits, veggies and supplements. I spent a fortune and several days researching everything. Then I did something very out of character and I feel almost sleazy telling you…
I had a STEAK! Actual cow! Something I hadn't had in years, unless you can count the In-N-Out burger I ate the last time I was in LA. (When in Rome, my friends! Or California I should say.) This Steak was a fillet so only the best for my femur! But for someone who only eats fish, I felt like I was chewing for DAYS and my pickiness reached whole new heights when it had to be the prettiest cut possible, with none of those weird white bits on it, and I absolutely wasn't going to touch it to get it in the pan. I could barely even look at it as it was cooking. I must confess though, it was quite delicious and my haemoglobin was poppin’ afterwards! No more blood transfusions needed here!
The next morning, guess what!? I was still alive and didn't have mad cow disease, only to be woken by scaffolders erecting a platform outside my bedroom window. Hmm, is this some kind of spectators platform for anyone who wants to peer through the glass to see a real life femur fracturer in her natural habitat? Obviously no- it was for the lead flashing on the roof and my leaky wall. Between this easy access for burglars and perverts, and a shouty scaffolder yelling “’Scuse me Love- do you want me to close ya window?!” While I sat there in bed wearing a tiny strappy night dress, I'd never felt so robbed of all privacy in my sacred space. All my independence had long gone out the window as I shouted dad to pull the blind down for me again, and bring me my Zimmer frame so they wouldn't see me making a painfully slow exit.
I did something else very out of character too… I let someone MOVE my car! Only about 3 metres but still, someone else sat in the driver's seat. One of my fab valet guys and all-round trustworthy human being. Poor Pedro had been put away filthy as I’d planned to wash him when I returned from Brands Hatch and handed back the ugly hire car. Although I couldn't drive him, I felt like such a bad mum that my car-child was locked away in the garage, un-driven and un-shiny. So, after briefing the poor guy tasked with manoeuvring and cleaning him, I could rest easy knowing my pride and joy was sleeping prettily rather than rotting while I healed. Who knew when I'd be able to drive again but shout out to my Porsche Club GB friends for fixing me up with a trickle charger, and being more concerned about if Pedro was PDK, than about my broken femur!
“Oh you'll be fine then! See you on a drive in a couple of weeks!” they joked, but with much seriousness.
Some other amusing and actually very helpful happenings were the amount of super bike riders or sports people who popped into my DM’s, sharing their top recovery tips and gory X-ray pictures of their smashed pelvis's or legs. I much preferred this than being sent pictures of 'other' body parts I definitely didn't want to see. Many insightful conversations followed as they recommended the best supplements, collagen, top notch physios and hyperbaric oxygen chambers. Hyperbaric what now?! Sounded like another language but after a bit of research, it just so happened there was one of these mythical chambers a short distance down the road from me. I promptly booked myself in and also managed to secure an appointment with one of the best physios in the land. Buzzing! In less than a week I'd be venturing out twice more and the ‘Fabulous Femur Rehab Programme’ will officially begin! Until then I had to settle for sitting on the bench outside for 10 minutes to get my kicks. Or having multiple men balancing on planks of wood outside my bedroom window...
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