Me and the crutches have fallen out.
It's not been the best of relationships to be honest. Over the past week, although they have been quite supportive, they have also given me blisters on both hands, and several nasty bruises around my upper arms where my skin has been pinched. Actually, my arms look like I've had one of those tribal tattoos done, so there'll be no spaghetti straps for me for the next few days (just as well summer seems to have taken a well earned break, as I can get my cardies out again).
Yesterday was judgement day. As you know, I was whittled down to one crutch last week, with instructions from the physio to 'put all my bodyweight onto the crutch rather than my foot'. Easy for her to say. I seem to have developed an interesting gait since Wednesday, leaning over to the left at a 45 degree angle and looking like I've had one too many sherberts if you know what I mean.
So yesterday I was on my own in the house for the afternoon. The males in this house have tried very hard to keep it running as smoothly as possible while I've been incapacitated, but to be honest, their sporadic attempts at washing, ironing and tidying have been inadequate to keep my 'bubbling under the surface' OCD at bay. Clutching a couple of bin liners yesterday, I hopped up the stairs, with a view to one bag being filled with any rubbish I could find, and the other was for all the hangers so I could do the ironing (this was risking becoming wedged between the shelf and the ceiling such was the amount of of clothing which needed flattening).
Hobbling back down the stairs half an hour later, with two full bags and one crutch, I dumped the hangers, and carried on outside with the rubbish to stick it into the bin.
It had been raining.
Now this has the effect of turning my patio into an ice ring, so I planted my crutch very slowly and carefully making my way to the wheelie bin. As I turned the corner, I had the misfortune to plant my crutch onto a particularly slippery paving slab (as it's on the corner, it doesn't get the same food tread as the others so is like glass). You all know what happened next...
The crutch went.
The bag of rubbish went.
Luckily, the wheelie bin stopped me from completely lacerating myself on the gravel which surrounded it, and I slowly heaved myself up.
'Bloody crutch', I muttered under my breath. 'I've had enough'.
So this morning, the two crutches have been reunited and are languishing behind the wardrobe in the spare room once again. I know the physio was adamant that I should use the crutch till Wednesday, but the rate I'm going, I'll do myself more damage than good. I'm sure she'll be fine about my decision, but just in case, I might take the crutch out of retirement for my next appointment with her.
She doesn't scare me, but she does have access to that machine which puts electric shocks through my calf to help with the healing, so I don't want to upset her too much.
So today, I will mainly be doing a watered down goose step around a field of vintage cars. This is the husband's idea of a 'good day out'.
I beg to differ...