The NHS and me

Stupid, silly, muddy, wet garden.  I did wait till the rain had stopped. I had been looking sadly out of the window every morning at the forlorn flower beds waiting for a sunny day to cut back the tangled mess that calls itself my garden.  And here it was – time to get the new gardening gloves out that I had been given for Christmas, and pretend I knew what I was doing pruning the roses.  I was also trying to be tip toe quiet so as not to wake the tortoise – last thing I wanted was him at my feet feeling grumpy following a too short sleep.  Fab husband suggests a cup of tea and if only I had said yes, because then I slipped on wet leaves and mud and fell saving myself, I thought wrongly, and knew, just knew, I had broken something.  My hand at rather an obscure angle was a bit of a give away too and this huge lump that I thought might be bone had me totally in tears and a panic.  Luckily North Devon Hospital is five minutes drive away, it looked like A&E was pretty full, but have to say they were amazing.  Saw me more or less straight away, I think they probably didn’t want me snivelling all over their chairs and causing a disturbance.  But an hour and a half, and two X-rays later, I was on my way home, full of pills and my lower arm covered in plaster.  Fab husband now has six weeks of me whingeing, needing help to bath, dress, wash hair, eat, can’t drive, shop, iron, ten minutes to put contacts in with one hand, and really only comfortable on the sofa with my arm up watching crap television.  Jolly good thing I married him!

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