Thursday, went for check-up, which required the cast coming off. The plaster tech felt I was tensing up to much. I felt the plaster tech should be slightly less gung-ho about shouting at people to stop tensing up while he was waving a rotary saw at them. The nurse came in, rolled her eyes, and left us to it.
Consultant had a poke, hummed and hawed, called me a freak again and told me the ankle was looking as good as he could have expected considering what it looked like when he got to it, BY THE WAY YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE ABLE TO DO THAT*, and I could start putting some weight on it in the new cast, NO MORE THAN 25%, DO YOU HEAR ME?
Then they put a walking cast on. And failed to realise that just because my foot squidges up, you should not necessarily squidge it that far, so the cast ended up wildly tight and much misery ensued over the weekend. I stuck it out on Friday because I reckoned it was swelling from the poking and prodding on Thursday, plus the attempts at putting some weight on it, but by Sunday I’d had four hours sleep and my toes were going funny, so Monday morning, I rang up Fractures and whimpered at the staff nurse, who told me to come in and get it changed.
This meant much waiting about, because I wasn’t on the schedule, but I got the lovely plaster tech Paul, who sorted my first two casts out, knows about my completely irrational conviction that my foot is going to fall off and understands the need for my toes to be free. He also made me take my other shoe and sock off so he could make sure my foot was lined up properly for standing in the cast, which makes him a) a genius and b) my hero.
So now I am staggering around making utterly wussy attempts to put weight on my ankle. A walking cast is essentially what I had before with an extra layer of fibreglass around the bottom and an obnoxiously heavy velcro shoe thing to protect the bottom. It takes an astonishing amount of concentration and I overheat and get exhausted incredibly fast when I try it outside. It’s also incredibly sore – not when I’m doing it, but when I sit back down and get my foot up again. I’m hyper aware of the ligaments I tore, especially the one to my second smallest toe, which is making its opinions known every time I put my socks on.
I’ve been sent a care parcel filled with books and floofy socks from the Londiniums and am working my way through it. My peanut gallery may have a collectively evil sense of humour, but they know their floofy socks. My mum recommended a gilet with a hood instead of my big winter coat to solve the overheating issue, so I bought a nice deep pink one with a fluffy trim and it arrives tomorrow. I’m very glad I didn’t ditch all my big flared jeans before Christmas, as I was tempted to do, they’re about all I’ve got that goes over the cast and have pockets. This is what happens when your default wardrobe is skinny jeans and knee boots. You buy three pairs of nice work trousers and YOUR FOOT FALLS OFF.
*He’s taking the fact I completely dislocated my ankle without breaking it surprisingly personally. I have slightly broken a senior orthopaedic consultant. Yay?