venta

The story begins at Day 1. The short version: I fell over skiing and hurt my knee. As we start, I am back in my own flat.

The day got off to a good start, when I managed to get myself into the bath and wash both myself and my hair. Pretty much everywhere I write "I", by the way, I mostly mean "we" as doing most things by myself is presently a bit of a non-starter. ChrisC has very generously taken some time off work, and is basically waiting on me hand and foot. He is also being very tolerant of the fact I am a terrible patient who keeps trying to do things by myself, and then he has to dash in and catch me when I overbalance.

Then I tried to ring the consultant who hadn't returned my call. Then I rang BUPA to find out why the details of the other consultant hadn't been mailed to me. Then I rang the other consultant... All in all, I spent about 90 minutes on the phone to various people and their on-hold systems. I emerged triumphant with an appointment to see a knee and ski-injury specialist (who, critically, would have the authority to order an MRI scan) in the evening.

Since I was (a) doing not much but sitting on the sofa and (b) have a job where all I really need to get on with stuff is a laptop, I got on with some work. Sitting still, I wasn't in any pain so it seemed a bit malingery not to. (In my employer's defence, my boss has repeatedly said that I should feel no obligation to work unless I'm 100% sure I feel up to it.)

Getting about the flat was proving quite a challenge, though. My arm and pectoral muscles were protesting at the exertion of hauling me bodily about on crutches as I still couldn't put my right foot to the floor at all. My left knee was reminding me quite vociferously that it is usually the 'bad' knee, and that it really wasn't appreciating the current situation. I hurt as well, you know, it grumbled. How come I have to carry that lazy Right bastard around, too?

In the evening, I sallied out to Chelsea. You know you're entering a private hospital when you are greeted on the door by a uniformed concierge wearing a top hat (I'm genuinely not joking). The waiting room was furnished with a bewildering range of beverage options - I'd been impressed in the Austrian hospital when the water cooler offered still water and two different levels of bubbliness. Disappointingly, I didn't really want a drink at the time.

Mr Specialist took one look at me hobbling in and said "skiing?"

Um, yes.

He got down to business. He asked questions, he listened to the answers. He explained things clearly as we went along (using a small plastic model of a knee), and was very matter-of-fact. In fact, he was pretty much everything I would want from a medical person.

I removed my brace and he waggled both my legs around, demonstrating on my uninjured leg what ought to happen. See this moves a lot, here. And this moves, oh, actually quite a lot as well. Ruptured medial ligaments in both knees, then. ("I told you I was ill too", muttered left knee.) I am not a squeamish person, but having your anterior cruciate ligament's function tested when said function is absent both feels and looks repellent. "Gone", was Mr Specialist's swift diagnosis.

He showed me an exercise he wanted me to do, which was quite painful, and by the time I got off his couch I was feeling extremely sick and dizzy. Don't worry, he said kindly, as he sat me down and instructed me to take deep breaths. Apparently talking about injuries frequently triggers the vasovagal response, and he's quite used to his patients fainting on him. (It was touch and go, but I didn't.)

While I was deciding whether to faint or not, he and ChrisC examined my funny foreign legbrace. Mr Specialist twiddled with some settings, and changed it from a thing that held my leg dead straight into a thing that could bend to a sixty degree angle.

He referred me for MRI, of course, but said he was "90% certain" it would confirm rupture of medial ligament and total rupture of ACL (like everyone else, he comments that it's weird my leg isn't more swollen). Apparently the medial ligaments will heal themselves in 4-6 weeks. The ACL won't, but I may be able to manage without it (what with me not being a pro footballer). If not, there will be reconstructive surgery in my future, but wait-and-see is the best option. The one thing he was uncertain about is whether the meniscus, the little disk of tissue between the leg bones, is damaged. The MRI will confirm that, and if it is damaged then that will definitely need surgery.

However, the good news is that apparently I should be way better in ten days when I go back to see him. By then it'll have settled down a bit, and we can talk about how it's healing, look at the MRI, and see what needs to be done. If anything. Given that wait-and-see seems to be the order of the day, I feel a bit guilty about my keenness to be seen quickly. On the way out of the hospital, I came over all unnecessary again and flopped into a handy purple leather sofa. A passing orderly took pity on me, fetched a wheelchair, and trundled me down the long corridor to the exit.

All this planning for the next ten days may become irrelevant when I tell the rest of my dance team that I can't make the competition, as