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ventaThe story begins at Day 1. The short version: I fell over skiing and hurt my knee. As we begin this, I am still in Germany.
ChrisC, bless him, is a very foresighted person and had phoned ahead to Lufthansa the previous day: please could we have assistance getting on the plane and around the airport. I'll be fine, I said, I have crutches. Just in case, he said.
After a few false starts (person A sent us to desk B, person B sent us to desk C, etc...) we got to the right place and I was furnished with a wheelchair. Looking at the vast expanse of airport corridors and malls, I was pretty grateful to sit down and let ChrisC push me about. Me, the crutches and the legbrace had to be swabbed for explosives at security, and I discovered that there is no wheel-chair-height passport counter in Munich airport.
At the gate, a concerned lady explained about boarding and asked me whether I could do stairs. Err, no. Right. Leave it with her, she said. (I'm obscurely proud of having managed to do this and my subsequent conversations with her in German, my German is really quite rusty.)
Eventually, I (and the wheelchair) went down in a hidden-away lift, I hopped awkwardly into a bus and went across the tarmac, then into another vehicle which was a sort of portable lift. It trundled over to the aircraft and lifted me up to door-height - on the "wrong" side of the plane, where a door opened specially. I squeaked in just before all the rest of the passengers came tripping up the steps into the plane on the usual side.
At the Heathrow end, I was met by another wheelchair and zoomed through a fast-track passport queue (all the counters at Heathrow are much lower).
Incidentally...
Munich airport wheelchairs: operable by the occupier, nowhere to put luggage at all, relatively comfortable.
Heathrow airport wheelchairs: giant workhorses that judder as they go over bumps, but which can also transport vast amounts of luggage. Cannot be operated by the occupier, but come with an attached human to provide the motive force.
We had debated how we were going to get home, and decided that a taxi was the way forward. And then one of us remembered, as ChrisC offered to drive me to the doctor's appointment I'd managed to organise for the afternoon: our car is in the garage with its gearbox in bits.
Most fortunately Ash, a friend of ours, runs a car-finding business (Palmdale, I highly recommend them if you want a second-hand car) and he usually has spare cars lying around. Could he lend us one? He could. And where were we flying into? Heathrow T2? He'd send one of his drivers with the car to pick us up. Dave, whom we'd never met before, scooped us up and got us home.
The other thing we'd remembered on the way home: our block of flats currently has no lift. It has a liftshaft, and a lot of bits of machinery, and some people working very hard to transform the creaky and busted 1930s lift into a shiny new functioning lift. But what it lacks is any means of changing floors other than stairs. Timing. I has it.
Stairs on crutches are hard. Bumping up one step at a time on your bum is also hard. My left leg, usually known as the bad leg but now pressed into overtime service, was beginning to object to the whole process.
Still, my GP was lovely. Yup, she said, ligament damage. Though probably not too serious, as it isn't that swollen. (By my standards, it's bloody swollen. But apparently it could be much worse.) She looked askance at my hardcore German drugs, telling me that she didn't think the daily stomach injections were necessary. I'd managed to do one myself (leaving considerably less of a bruise than the medical professional had left!) but wasn't sorry to hear I didn't need to do another.
But yes, she said, definitely MRI. Except GPs can no longer order MRIs. I would need to be referred to a consultant. She phoned the orthopaedic department of my local hospital and asked them to see me pronto: they might be able to fit me in this week. Or next week. I should go home and wait for a call.
I went home, rather dismal. Next week? I'd hoped for a bit sooner. Maybe it was time to break out the BUPA.
(Note for non-UK people: BUPA is a private medical insurance company. The alternative here is the National Health Service, which is state-funded mostly-free healthcare for all.)
I have occasional moral qualms about private medical cover. I don't feel that being able to afford private healthcare should mean you get better healthcare. On the other hand, if I am seen privately then I'm less of a drain on NHS resources. On the third hand, am I encouraging doctors into private practice and away from the NHS? On the fourth hand, getting treatment early often means less treatment in the long run. I ran out of hands and decided to call BUPA. ChrisC got his running shoes on and collected my referral letter from the GP more or less as the surgery doors closed (in my head it was rather like Indiana Jones).
I left a message for one of the specialists BUPA recommended, and retired to bed.
Haven't yet dared tell![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rapperaddict.
Heroes of the day: Ash, Dave, my GP, ChrisC.
ChrisC, bless him, is a very foresighted person and had phoned ahead to Lufthansa the previous day: please could we have assistance getting on the plane and around the airport. I'll be fine, I said, I have crutches. Just in case, he said.
After a few false starts (person A sent us to desk B, person B sent us to desk C, etc...) we got to the right place and I was furnished with a wheelchair. Looking at the vast expanse of airport corridors and malls, I was pretty grateful to sit down and let ChrisC push me about. Me, the crutches and the legbrace had to be swabbed for explosives at security, and I discovered that there is no wheel-chair-height passport counter in Munich airport.
At the gate, a concerned lady explained about boarding and asked me whether I could do stairs. Err, no. Right. Leave it with her, she said. (I'm obscurely proud of having managed to do this and my subsequent conversations with her in German, my German is really quite rusty.)
Eventually, I (and the wheelchair) went down in a hidden-away lift, I hopped awkwardly into a bus and went across the tarmac, then into another vehicle which was a sort of portable lift. It trundled over to the aircraft and lifted me up to door-height - on the "wrong" side of the plane, where a door opened specially. I squeaked in just before all the rest of the passengers came tripping up the steps into the plane on the usual side.
At the Heathrow end, I was met by another wheelchair and zoomed through a fast-track passport queue (all the counters at Heathrow are much lower).
Incidentally...
Munich airport wheelchairs: operable by the occupier, nowhere to put luggage at all, relatively comfortable.
Heathrow airport wheelchairs: giant workhorses that judder as they go over bumps, but which can also transport vast amounts of luggage. Cannot be operated by the occupier, but come with an attached human to provide the motive force.
We had debated how we were going to get home, and decided that a taxi was the way forward. And then one of us remembered, as ChrisC offered to drive me to the doctor's appointment I'd managed to organise for the afternoon: our car is in the garage with its gearbox in bits.
Most fortunately Ash, a friend of ours, runs a car-finding business (Palmdale, I highly recommend them if you want a second-hand car) and he usually has spare cars lying around. Could he lend us one? He could. And where were we flying into? Heathrow T2? He'd send one of his drivers with the car to pick us up. Dave, whom we'd never met before, scooped us up and got us home.
The other thing we'd remembered on the way home: our block of flats currently has no lift. It has a liftshaft, and a lot of bits of machinery, and some people working very hard to transform the creaky and busted 1930s lift into a shiny new functioning lift. But what it lacks is any means of changing floors other than stairs. Timing. I has it.
Stairs on crutches are hard. Bumping up one step at a time on your bum is also hard. My left leg, usually known as the bad leg but now pressed into overtime service, was beginning to object to the whole process.
Still, my GP was lovely. Yup, she said, ligament damage. Though probably not too serious, as it isn't that swollen. (By my standards, it's bloody swollen. But apparently it could be much worse.) She looked askance at my hardcore German drugs, telling me that she didn't think the daily stomach injections were necessary. I'd managed to do one myself (leaving considerably less of a bruise than the medical professional had left!) but wasn't sorry to hear I didn't need to do another.
But yes, she said, definitely MRI. Except GPs can no longer order MRIs. I would need to be referred to a consultant. She phoned the orthopaedic department of my local hospital and asked them to see me pronto: they might be able to fit me in this week. Or next week. I should go home and wait for a call.
I went home, rather dismal. Next week? I'd hoped for a bit sooner. Maybe it was time to break out the BUPA.
(Note for non-UK people: BUPA is a private medical insurance company. The alternative here is the National Health Service, which is state-funded mostly-free healthcare for all.)
I have occasional moral qualms about private medical cover. I don't feel that being able to afford private healthcare should mean you get better healthcare. On the other hand, if I am seen privately then I'm less of a drain on NHS resources. On the third hand, am I encouraging doctors into private practice and away from the NHS? On the fourth hand, getting treatment early often means less treatment in the long run. I ran out of hands and decided to call BUPA. ChrisC got his running shoes on and collected my referral letter from the GP more or less as the surgery doors closed (in my head it was rather like Indiana Jones).
I left a message for one of the specialists BUPA recommended, and retired to bed.
Haven't yet dared tell
rapperaddict.Heroes of the day: Ash, Dave, my GP, ChrisC.
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no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 10:03 am (UTC)If you're that worried about
BUPA's a bit odd. It was founded by a bunch of provident associations a little before the NHS, so although it's a private company it isn't run for profit. I don't know if that helps any.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 10:26 am (UTC)Thank you for your kind thoughts. It is not as bad as it could be, and friends (and ChrisC) are all being amazing.
no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 11:38 am (UTC)I'm glad the airports were reasonably helpful, and top marks to your handy car-firm-owning friend!
no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 11:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 07:35 pm (UTC)And thank you for the offer of assistance!
no subject
Date: 2016-02-26 11:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-27 06:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-27 06:35 pm (UTC)Mostly due to excellent support from friends and partner!