» Ouch!

Exposing the dangers of Duck Duck Goose
This is my first post, but conveniently, it's also the story that most people know me for. For example, even though I was the woman's captain of a university sports club, pretty much all the members now refer to me as "that Duck Duck Goose girl". In fact if you do know me, this will instantly out me, so it might restrict the chance of future stories of sexual deviancy and intoxicant adventures.

Cast your mind back two summers. I'd moved in with my then-boyfriend to a beautiful house, cleaned it a little bit and then immediately started a summer job with a language travel company in Brighton. I spent the next eight weeks frantically running around after a variety of European students trying to teach them a little grammar, whilst hoping they wouldn't get knocked down by a car, drown in the sea or find themselves lost in the deepest depths of Moulsecoomb late at night. Eight weeks of this took the inevitable toll; I was severely behind on the washing up, I never really found a chance to unpack, I hadn't had a real conversation with my boyfriend for months, and I was therefore really, really looking forward to that day in August when I could stop checking my mobile for urgent calls about train times and would use a participle without mentally querying its formation.

August the 7th 2008, three days before my contract finally finished, the students had completed their end-of-course tests and it was a beautiful sunny day. I took the executive decision to reward them with an afternoon of typical English games in the college garden-area. British Bulldog: went off without incident. Stuck In The Mud: perhaps a little too contact-friendly for a group of hormonal teenagers, but hey, the French pretty much invented frottage anyway, who am I to deny them? But maybe it's time for a quiet little sit-down game.

So, after herding them into a giggling circle on the ground, I proceed to demonstrate the finer points of Duck Duck Goose. Unfathomably blonde Swedish girl? Duck. Messy-haired Italian skater kid? Duck. Tubby uncompetitive Austrian goth? Ah, we have a winner! Goosing the child in the only way that won't immediately violate my CRB form, I start to run in the opposite direction as they blunder to their feet and hesitantly wobble round the circle. Nearing the vacant spot, I start to do that thing where you slow to a mocking walk, punctuated by a few skips for effect. Oh, but shit! They've built up speed and look like they might just get there first. In a hasty dash, I lunge for the gap and skid into it in true baseball style.

SNAP.

This is the worst sound I have ever heard in my life. The second worst sound is that of 15 students collectively gasping at my foot, which is now turned 90 degrees to my knee in a gruesome attempt to mimic Mary Poppins. The bone is gently poking out of that mound in the middle of your ankle, and there are little drops of blood welling at the corners. Fuck. Fuck fuck cunty bollocking arsemonkeys. This is all unfortunately vocalised, immediately contravening all my good efforts not to teach them any bad language, but definitely bringing a sense of proportion to the situation. Whatever happens, mustn't cry in front of the children. Brave face on, I remind them to call 999 (no, NOT 911, we've gone over this before) and the boys proudly go to flag down the ambulance while the girls huddle round my face end, far from the offending appendage, and consolingly offer me a Penguin bar. The ambulance comes, gives me nitrous oxide (ahhh), takes me into hospital, medics wrench my foot into the correct position, I get surgery the next day with 8 pins in one side and two screws through the other. Yes, I broke both bones. According to a surgeon much later, the X-rays showed that my bone had actually been smashed by the impact of my fall as though it was a Crunchie bar.

Also, here is a picture of my ankle post-op. It's pretty gruesome, like some sort of extreme piercing, and there's the same on the other side but longer, about 15cm.

tinypic.com/r/rr2vqh/3

And here-in lies the rub. Because a broken ankle isn't that much to deal with, right? Everyone does it. Apparently, when I do it, I do it thoroughly. It took me until Christmas to walk without crutches, and two years later I have developed post-traumatic osteoarthritis which means that I still walk with a limp, have the largest cankle you've ever seen on a 23-year old, and the bone has grown back over the joint massively restricting my ability to walk or even stand up straight.

Because of the latter problem, I have to go into hospital tomorrow for an athroscopy, and they're removing the metalwork at the same time. I'm kind of scared, which the rational side of my brain scoffs at since I know general anaesthetic is practically risk-free and unlike some people I do trust the NHS... but still. This operation won't fix the pain I get when I walk (this type of arthritis is pretty much untreatable) but it might allow me to run, which I haven't been physically able to do for two years - all I manage is a lumbering gait which makes dashing to catch a bus even more of an embarrassing experience. So the real ouch wasn't the break itself (that was numbed by shock and the wonderfully quick administration of nitrous) but the fact that I'm only 23, and I will be unable to walk without pain for pretty much the rest of my life. Luckily I work as a carer, which is great for putting some perspective on your own health-worries.

Anyway, if anyone knows what I can do to get them to let me keep all the screws they take out of my bones tomorrow, please let me know; particularly if you have any follow-up ideas on a suitably gruesome artwork I could make with them...
(Tue 3rd Aug 2010, 13:54, More)