House Broken

“We can’t take you anywhere!” they cry.

“We need to wrap you in cotton wool!”

“You’re not safe going outdoors! Stay inside!”

And that, my friends, is where the problem lays.

have been indoors; stuck inside due to a crazy pandemic that is screwing with people’s minds.

haven’t been venturing outdoors.

I have, however been housebroken. Literally.

I think it’s just my body thinking of creative ways I can get a break; some time to myself, and time to sit or lay down peacefully for a few moments. Particularly given I have requested time to myself several times, from a calm and polite request, through exasperated and curt statements, and finally, the screaming tantrum.

None of these methods have worked, so one must do what one can to get what one needs. Right?

A few weeks back, it was a nice neat slice to my pointer finger on my left hand. This occurred the week a we Melbournites had a curfew imposed upon us.

It also scored me three hours out of the house, and a few good long moments of sitting quietly, alone, and uninterrupted. Admittedly, the peace was punctuated with a disembodied voice complaining they were hungry and wanted to go home, and a few visits from near-Hazmat suited professionals to assess how they were going to join the separated bits of my finger up.

Funny story, during the whole process of injecting my finger with local anaesthetic (I did ask for a general, but they said no because that was unnecessary; I wasn’t asking for my finger, I was asking so I had an opportunity for a good, solid sleep) and poking it with the needled-and-thread, an artery gave way.

First up, I know fingers had LOADS of blood vesselly type things, hence the copious amounts of bleeding even the smallest of cuts do, but I did not know they had arteries.

Secondly, I am fascinated, absolutely fascinated, by such things, so when the doctor went of to fetch another doctor, I made sure I got some good quality video of the exposed and pulsating blood to send to my husband, who had dropped me off and acquired pizza to feed the rest of the fam whilst I basked in Being Left Alone Delight.

Anyhoo, a handful of stitches were added to the pad of my pointer and I was sent home – after curfew! – with a somewhat anticlimactic and understated bandaid.

The next incident was three weeks ago, and this time I scored myself a full twenty minutes alone and lying still, eyes closed and focusing on calm, deep breathing.

Admittedly, it was in an MRI machine, and only up to my mid thigh. But you gotta take what you can get for your mental health right?

Sadly, the need for the lazing around having MRIs was the result of a well executed roundhouse kick to the head. No one’s head was harmed in the process.

(Also, that sounds a little more bad arse than I’m sure it looked.)

My left ankle, however, rolled and my knee took the responsibility of trying to hold me upright, because, basically, my ankles are hyperflexible and do a rather shit job at … ankle-ing.

Despite having performed this rolling motion multiple times over the years, with no repercussions other than my looking stumbly-drink at inopportune moments, this time my left leg decided it’s mix things up a bit.

My knee kinda popped out and back in again, gave me grief for about five minutes whilst I sat still with an ice pack on it, took some ibuprofen, had a shower and went to bed.

Next morning, I made it down the stairs without incident.

It’s going up that I usually have trouble coordinating.

I added milk to my mug, poured my coffee, and turned as I stepped – as I usually do – to walk out of the kitchen.

Apparently, my left knee has chosen, not unlike a toddler, to prefer not to perform this stunt, and promptly fell apart. Ok, not apart, but it gave way and I nearly spilt my coffee!

It was by sheer coincidence that I had a physio appointment booked for that morning, for an entirely different body part, and she was so pleased I had something more fun for her to focus on.

Also, she knows how I roll (and how my ankles roll) and was more concerned that I wasn’t feeling any pain where most normal people would. I have an ridiculously high pain tolerance, which means when I do think like explode a bone in my foot, it makes it rather difficult for medical professionals to appropriately diagnose whatever the hell it is I have possibly done.

Thankfully, she trusted her gut and not my lack-of-pain symptoms, and sent me off for my twenty minutes of peace.

Turns out I have acquired my second elite-footballer-injury (and second major injury ever) and have completely torn my anterior cruciate ligament, or more commonly known as the ACL.

Basically, one of the two ligaments that holds the bone in your shin to the bone in your thigh.

So, my knee is a bit fucked.

But at least it got me out of the house, and got me some of the quiet time I’ve needed.

Also, I think inside is far more dangerous for me and I really should be allowed to leave the house more often. Don’t you think?

photo credit: InAweofGod'sCreation 11. Wroute 1 Wreck via photopin (license)

Leave a Reply