WHEN SCARS ATTACK: THE SEQUEL!

For a moment, cast your minds back to December- “It's the most wonderful time of the year…” as the song goes. For many, it probably is. But not if you've got an infected leg, you’re on your second course of antibiotics that still aren't working, and NO ONE is listening to you!!! Like everything, I tried to make the best of it though. I'd make damn sure I'd be putting my little pink Christmas tree up and adorning my apartment with giant pink candy canes and glittery pink tinsel, feathers and snowflakes, in a “If Lapland was sponsored by Barbie” theme. But have you ever tried putting up Christmas decorations on one leg? Yes, my Flamingo impression was getting pretty good at this stage and in keeping with my pink theme, but when you drop your baubles on the floor- you're screwed.

I was still working on my weight bearing and part-time walking, but sometimes the ache was too great and I reverted back to one-legged life. Dad was hiding in the safety of the kitchen as a crescendo of dropping decorations and huffing and puffing ensued. I was determined not to, but eventually I called him in for help. He just stood there like a human fairy light dispenser because I didn't know what else to do with him.

Despite still being in the very early stages of recovery, I was really good at keeping myself busy; whether it was wrestling with Christmas decorations, doing my physio exercises, writing and recording this blog, working on my second book, going in the hyperbaric oxygen chamber and also attending my NHS physio appointments, now they’d finally started. I was already weeks ahead of the game with physio Jeff, so I was excited to show the NHS crowd what I could do, and hopefully what they could do for me. I quickly realised it wasn't going to be a very hands-on approach when the young guy I was working with at the hospital asked me “Am I OK to touch your leg?” as if he was about to poke a bear.

“Yes mate- get stuck in!” I said, wondering if this was a trick question. Surely that's part of his job description? Stretch, pummel and mobilise my leg as much as possible?! It still wasn't bending anywhere near as much as it should, no thanks to that bloody infection and all the puffiness it brought.

Days went by and more antibiotics were swallowed. I stayed dedicated to the course, yet my leg was getting worse with every pill I popped.

“CLEARLY THEY’RE NOT WORKING!” I said, on yet another visit to the GP's. But they wouldn't do anything- apart from shine their iPhone torches on it again and tell me to come back when I'd finished the course. Unless it suddenly erupts again and starts bleeding and pussing everywhere like a bad Christmas cracker. Then I'd need to come back immediately or go to A&E if they couldn't fit me in that day.

Speak of the devil- two days later- an evil Christmas scar fairy gifts me with exactly that; When Scars Attack: THE SEQUEL!

I pulled on my now fifth pair of one-legged joggers and got myself back to the doctor's surgery. While I lay there on the bed with a wad of bandages soaking up the gunk from my scar, I sang Mariah Carey in my head and tried to change the lyrics to “All I want for Christmas is an uninfected leg”, but it was too many syllables. The nurse then burst back into the room followed by the duty doctor, and I eventually broke down in tears. Not because of my pathetic choice of song lyrics but because- “This is my LEG!” I sobbed. “The antibiotics clearly aren't working. I've got pain in my leg and in places I didn't have before this infection, and I'm sick of everyone telling me to keep an eye on it and finish my antibiotics! We need to change tactics!” I wailed, fully at the end of my tether.

So that's what they did… on the 12th day of Christmas my doctor gave to me- New hardcore antibiotics used to treat malaria! (Yes I know that didn't fit with the song either but don't @ me!) Although I didn't want yet more antibiotics, these were a different sauce. Even more savage than anything I'd had before. (Apart from maybe penicillin which I'm wildly allergic to). These ones required me to stand up for half an hour after taking them and avoid sunlight. What?! Am I a vampire now???! That's not very festive! But whatever Trevor. All good bacteria had been well and truly been nuked from my body anyway, and the only sliver of serotonin making its way up to my brain was the thought of driving Pedro again and throwing my leg brace out the window at speed.

It was getting increasingly more difficult to look on the bright side. When people with zero emotional awareness would ask “Are you looking forward to Christmas? I bet you can't wait!” I wanted to scream in their faces: “I've lost my mum and broken my femur- what do you fucking think?!”

But contrary to what my antibiotics advised, there would still always be sunlight on the darkest of days if we look for it. It could be in the form of brunch with good people, like my dear friends Ian and Bobby. They bought me an early novelty Christmas present of a mini hacksaw to cut up my crutches when the day finally came!

Or the Christmas Day Curry that me and dad went for. We knew we had to do something totally different this year, being the first one without mum, and a rammed glitzy Curry house full of hilarious drunk people and a mountain of naan bread would serve as the perfect distraction. The people watching opportunities alone were golden and I've never received so much fuss and special treatment from waiters and managers over my leg! It was like parting the Red Sea when I made my way across the crowded restaurant to the loos. Then I got another funny surprise when an apologetic drunk lad barged in while I was at the sinks.

“Oh shit! I've come in the wrong one! Oh shit- what happened to your leg?” He blurted. The whole experience was mental. Like walking into an explosion of a loud, drunken, spicy-smelling Christmas party twilight zone! Then leaving with the party bag of Peshwari naan. I'd recommend this if you're facing your first Christmas without a loved one and need a break from tradition or something totally untriggering.

The way the year had gone, I was simply grateful to get to the end of it still alive. And saving money by watching my neighbours New Year’s Eve fireworks out my living room window.

Good times were coming Sophie! Like the time when my system would be free of antibiotics (please pray for my gut microbiome in the meantime) Or the time when my apartment would finally be clear of all mobility kit and start looking more like Sophie-Land again. And most importantly to me: when I could drive again! I had been asking about this every time I went for my follow up appointment, and to my delight the orthopaedic specialist said I could try it.

“Go for a spin but stick to 30mph, and only go a short distance to see how it feels.” He said. Go for a spin? What a great choice of words! But to follow that with “stick to 30”, made me chuckle as it’s like he could tell I was desperate to absolutely floor it, without me having to say a word. Maybe I just reeked of ‘Porsche-mum’ vibes, and he could sense my poor car child was locked away in a garage on a trickle charger, longing to be driven. It was one thing suggesting it, but a whole other story me actually doing it. I have to contort myself into the weirdest shapes to slither into my car because the garage is so narrow. I wasn't Cirque du Soleil flexible yet and to be honest, never have been, so until my leg started bending more, I knew I was going to struggle. BUT- as I’ve found with most milestones on this recovery journey, you'll never know unless you try…