Fracture Clinic

"So where does it hurt exactly?" says the consultant.

We have been sent to the fracture clinic. "But there's nothing broken. We know that from the X-ray", I say to Hubby. But the fracture clinic it is - because it is an easier word for people to remember than the Orthopaedic Department.

It's a bit like when I was having babies in hospitals. One set of paediatricians used to refer to themselves as "paed's" apparently. One paediatrcian who visited us, told us a story that he thought very funny, when one woman, clearly a little post maternal, had been asking to see "Pete". It had taken the staff a little while to sort out the confusion. I think that now they refer to themselves as children's doctors.

"It's my knee." I say, earnestly.

He looks at the mad woman who has fallen off a stage in a very kind, very nice but ever so slightly patronising way. He gives the sort of look that you might give to a slightly helpless and dumb animal.........

"Yes", he says. I think that we have established that.

Just then, the phone rings. A mobile. I panic and think of all the notices around the hospital asking you to switch off your mobile phone. Did I switch mine off I think? Or is it Hubby's?

No, it's o.k. it's the consultant's mobile phone.

His bank manager or someone needs to speak to him about pressing matters.

At least it wasn't my phone that sent the heart monitors flying. Phew!

"You need complete rest." He decrees. "And this thing isn't doing any good at all." He is referring to the stocking that they provided me with in Casualty on THAT Saturday night.

Instead, he rolls out draconian nurse to place leg brace on said knee.

After much huffing and puffing, she finally manages to get on said leg brace. It looks like a sort of blue corset for the leg, pulled together by Velcro. Very nice!

The only problem is that it goes right into my crotch as I stand up.

"Is this the right size," I ask?

"Oh yes" she says. "They are big and uncomfortable." I look at hubby. He looks back at DN. Surely not? We eventually persuade her that perhaps the next size down MIGHT be a little more comfortable.

More huffing and puffing and a smaller leg brace - still very big though - is produced, and put on.

I get sent round to x-ray to make an appointment for an MRI scan. Unfortunately it is a wild goose chase. Contrary to what had been believed in the fracture clinic, appointments can't be made on the spot and so I huff and puff all the way back, on my crutches, back to the front of the hospital again with the VERY large, but slightly less large than the last one, leg brace.

We get into the car.

"Have we got the instructions for this leg brace?" I say to Hubby.

No evidence of any. So off he goes, back into the hospital and claims a new set of instructions. I read them avidly. With a cocktail of analgesics affecting your brain powers, it's amazing what you find interesting.

"This leg brace is for someone of 5'10"!" I say. Slightly on the large side for someone not quite 5'3".

Hubby turns the car round. Goes back into the hospital AGAIN. Negotiates with DN. She isn't happy. Apparently they are sized according to leg width as well as length. Hubby, who a scientist and so very good at understanding things like measurements, points out that all the lengths come in different widths, so there is one designed for my, clearly very wide, but very short, leg.

He comes back to the car triumphant.

I get home and realise that I haven't asked the consultant any of the questions that I wanted to ask.

So I call. Trouble is, that I don't have his mobile number like the bank manager, so unfortunately his secretary is unable to help.

Never mind.........

Thank goodness for common sense in the place of six years at med school!