My Charity Run Challenge

On August 30 2022 I started my charity challenge run. 1000 miles in 12 months, what could go wrong?

Now I have plantar fasciitis – achy feet. It turns out when you run 100 miles in 8 months, you wear down your trainer soles a lot quicker than with walking, and then they do not protect your feet from the concrete.

The first month I ran a mile a day and my longest run was 9 miles. I went from struggling to run a mile to having so much stamina that I didn’t get tired until I had run 7 miles. My heart beat more efficiently, so I had to run further and faster to get the same health benefits, as my heart rate did not increase as much. My calves became more muscular so my leggings became tight and I had no problems with my weight, dropping a dress size.

I had bought the best pair of trail run trainers (off-road) and road running trainers that I could. I ran so much that I needed a new set of clothes for it while the others were waiting to be washed. I started out doing it properly – mixing in resistance training to keep my muscles strong and incorporating rest days for my muscles. I built up the mileage gradually.

By March I got lazy and my mileage dropped. Then in April, after a month of not doing anything, I was walking to work when I got achy shins, and then they ached for two weeks while I rested. After that, I went to see the coronation, eventually getting to see it on a screen in Hyde Park. We walked for over 12 miles trying to get past Buckingham Palace cordons to our hotel on the other side, in Westminster. Eventually I asked a policeman, who said that you couldn’t get past the palace on foot either in front or behind it, you could only get past it on the Tube.

I tried one run when I got back and that was fine, but my feet ached after it. My feet were sore after netball, and then, one day, I had to turn back after a mile. Then I couldn’t stand for hours in a museum without the aches and a new very mild stabbing pain. It had become chronic. I took ibuprofen, which then aggravated my IBS, but no pain no gain.

Why did I take on the challenge? Because I had to focus on a project after suffering an ectopic pregnancy in June 2022. Whilst the physical aspect of it was over fairly quickly, the psychological aspect took longer to heal from. All my brain knew was that I was pregnant and then I wasn’t, so it processed it as if a baby had died, rather than a bunch of cells disintegrating.

There was no support for the psychological impact from the NHS – you only get that after three miscarriages. This makes no sense, as I would probably be more prepared should it happen again. I had no idea what was happening with me and how it would progress, and NHS staff had no time to tell me either, one nurse did not know. For me, knowledge is power, and The Ectopic Pregnancy Trust gave me that, the power to understand what on earth was happening to me, and why.

So what have I learnt from my running challenge so far?

• Check the soles of your trainers and replace them when they wear down.
• Use a fitness tracker watch to easily track your miles/kilometres and heart rate.
• Get gait analysis if possible to work out whether your running style means you need a particular type of support in your trainers. Some running shops do this. You can also work out whether your foot rolls on impact by checking the soles of your trainers.
• Mix in resistance work (weights).
• Include rest days.
• Try and include most of your running on mud, grass or gravel. This has less impact on your muscles and bones than concrete or tarmac and means you will be less likely to get an injury.
• Ensure you have enough running outfits, and have cold and warm weather ones.
• Use a foam/plastic roller on your calves after your run. This helped me avoid injury.
• If you get an injury, rest until it is healed. You can keep your stamina up by doing non-impact exercise such as cycling or swimming.
• It is amazing for your mental and physical health.
• Build up the mileage slowly, it is ok to start small.
• See your GP if you experience any injuries or aches that do not resolve with rest.

I have experienced a better quality of life from doing more exercise.

Listen to your body and once the stamina kicks in you’ll enjoy it more.

Until then, enjoy the feeling after you run, the relaxation, contentment and sleeping better.

My ADHD Diagnosis Journey

I have always been different, no matter how hard I tried to fit in.

When I went on holiday with a friend to Vietnam and Cambodia, I realised something was interfering with the trip. For some reason I found it really hard to organise myself and to avoid forgetting things. What was wrong with me?

At 14 I had the maths age of an 11 year old and the verbal reasoning score of a 16 year old. Maths was boring, so I just didn’t pay attention and doodled or daydreamed instead. The educational psychology assessment meant that I did not have to do Design and Technology GCSE. Before I was exempt I nearly broke a sewing machine needle when I got distracted, and made muffins without dough (inedible) as I couldn’t follow the steps without getting distracted.

I tried to do a nursing degree, but it took me an extra week than it should have to learn leg bandaging, after seeing two different techniques. After this I was diagnosed with a “non-specific learning difficulty.”

I got distracted during the assessment by a noise in the waiting room, and felt maybe I hadn’t performed well because of that. I got withdrawn from the nursing degree as I was “not consistent and competent enough”. This was just after I had seen a disability assistant, who said that with strategies I could learn what I needed to. The Royal College of Nursing said I had suffered discrimination and were willing to take the case further, but I realised that I could not learn the practical skills and was unsure why. I was not stupid, so why had I been trailing behind my course mates? As my personal tutor had suggested I had autism, like her son, I went to the GP.

I got referred. Back in 2018, the NHS wait was a mere six months. It’s now four years.

The consultant psychologist asked me to tell her about my life for an hour. She then said “I wouldn’t worry, most of my patients with ADHD [Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder] struggle to have relationships and hold down a job, so you’re doing well.” She signposted me to a local support group. I apparently did not have ADHD badly enough for a diagnosis. I also did not have autism.

I went to the group, and for the first time, I sat in a room full of people where I felt I was on the same wavelength and I could understand them. We talked fast, we had lots of ideas, we were emotional, we were interesting. Here, for the first time, I fit in. They spoke of being let down by the NHS and their struggles firstly to get assessed and then to get medication and to get changes to this. They spoke of mistakes and failures in their lives that they felt had been caused directly or indirectly through ADHD, and they sought help in managing the chaos.

ADHD continued to affect me, but I did not do much research, as I reassured myself that the NHS had told me I did not have it badly. It was a spectrum and I was at the mild end of it, so I was fine. My boyfriend and friends disagreed. I had gone from my mum organising things for me and finding lost property to my boyfriend doing that. I was so frustrated – why couldn’t I do this like most of the people I knew? What was wrong with me, and what on earth could I do about it?

After some research, I realised that I had not been adequately assessed on my life before the age of 12. This meant that I could not have been diagnosed with it, as you had to have it before then. I asked the GP for a reassessment, explaining how it affected me on a daily basis. However, weeks later, they informed me that the reassessment request had been declined due to insufficient evidence of ADHD. I was so frustrated, upset and angry. So I just had to keep struggling? I was fed up of being distracted, emotional and forgetting things.

I could not afford a private assessment and I was lucky that my boyfriend could. He shelled out £1200 and within weeks I had an appointment with a psychiatrist. There were no private appointments in my city, so we had to travel to a city nearby.

Before the appointment, my mum and my boyfriend completed a questionnaire and I was asked to bring school reports. “Your boyfriend scored you 9/9” the psychiatrist explained, “and your mum scored you 4/9 for your childhood, which is one below the threshold for diagnosis. However, it is possible that your parents compensated for any difficulties during that time, and so they might not have been as noticeable. Have you brought your school reports?”. She read through every single one up to the age of 12, nodding and making notes.

“There’s enough here for me to score you 5/9 for your childhood”.

She then asked me about my life and how ADHD affected me. At the end of the appointment she confirmed that I had it, and I proudly announced it to my boyfriend in the waiting room. We had finally come to the end of the assessment journey.

I feel that I have been let down by the NHS and as a result I have had years more of difficulty due to a flawed assessment.

The BBC Panorama programme on ADHD has received 1800 complaints and counting. A reporter who was told by an NHS psychiatrist that he did not have it went to three private clinics, where he was assessed by a pharmacist, a trainee nurse with a supervisor, and a psychologist, who was more interested in playing with her hair. In my opinion only a psychiatrist should be able to diagnose patients. Unfortunately due to staffing, the NHS as well as private clinics have trained up psychologists, nurses and pharmacists to deliver the assessments, and from what I saw on the programme, they were not of good quality. The clinicians were asking leading questions. But the reporter was also answering as if he had ADHD.

I’m glad that I got assessed by a psychiatrist and that the process was thorough. I feel sorry for those who have shelled out and have been let down. I also feel bad for those who, like me, were let down by the NHS. I am also disappointed that patients are not offered CBT therapy for ADHD, to help them manage things such as emotional dysregulation. All diagnoses should come with support for patients to understand the condition, how it affects them, to come to terms with it, and to work out how to mitigate it. It is not simply enough to say right lets put you on medication.

The reporter’s programme and article was unbalanced – it only included how the private clinics had got it wrong. The NHS psychiatrist on the programme then wrote a more balanced article for The Guardian where he explained that many NHS patients had resorted to private assessments due to waiting lists, and that there were undoubtedly many sound diagnoses from the private system.

The problem is that the BBC article and programme discredited the private system to the effect that two family members and a friend have now suggested I don’t have it. What’s ironic is that they’ve all seen the impact it has on my life, and theirs, as they reunite me with items left at theirs, or put a “phone, keys, wallet” post-it on the door…

My Ectopic Pregnancy

Around one in 90 women in the UK experience an ectopic pregnancy, and most of those take place in the fallopian tubes.

Unfortunately, in the unlikely event that you do get pregnant with a coil, there is a raised risk of an ectopic pregnancy, which means the embryo cannot grow.

I had my second copper coil, otherwise known as an Intra Uterine Device, in 2018.

I had come back from an epic hike round the Pyrenees – a mountain range in the south of France. We had driven down there to explore the area and walk the five day “Pass’Aran” route.

When my period did not arrive, Google reassured me that this could be caused by low progesterone (hormone) levels, which could be caused by “extreme exercise”.

Then I had sore breasts, and once again Google said this was due to low progesterone levels, but as I was also feeling a bit more tired than usual, I checked with a pregnancy test.

Pregnant.

It didn’t say Not Pregnant. It must be a mistake.

1-2 weeks (it confusingly showed 2-3, but this meant weeks since conception which the leaflet explained was 1-2 weeks pregnant).

So it was early. I walked around swearing, head in hands. What was I going to do?

Did I want it? It was so inconvenient – we were in the process of buying a house, my boyfriend works away, we were going to New Zealand…now was not the time.

But I could not kill something that was both of us and I could not kill something I really wanted. Yes it wasn’t the right time but when was?

I didn’t have time to process, I had to get to work.

But I had to get dressed first and find the few bigger clothes I’d bought from another time I temporarily gained weight.

I wondered who to tell. Should I tell anyone but Jonny?

Maybe Jonny wouldn’t want it and then there’s the shame of abortion, so I wouldn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone judging me.

I couldn’t keep it in and I needed emotional support, so I confided in a close friend and it really helped. Her cousin had had an ectopic pregnancy it turned out, and they had also found out at six weeks. She had her fallopian tube removed, as the embryo can damage it. At least we are born with two.

Before seeing the GP I wanted to talk to Jonny – then I could ask for an abortion as well as a scan if needed. He was shocked and froze but he wasn’t annoyed or upset as I expected. He said we should see what was going on with it first, before we made a decision. Ever the pragmatist.

“Is that the only one you did?”

“No, it’s the third.”

“Oh………Is there anything else that could make it test positive?”

“No Jonny!”

The next morning I contacted the GP first thing and filled in an online form. Almost immediately I was text with the first appointment of the day. I explained how I’d started spotting instead of a period and then how my breasts had become sore and that as of Thursday night, it looked like I was having a period.

The doctor examined me and referred me to the Gynae Accident and Emergency department at the local hospital for a scan (my second time as an emergency patient in a year). She said to make sure Jonny was with me and to tell Gynae if I had symptoms that would suggest even more of an emergency, like pain or heavy bleeding.

After an hour of waiting at reception, the nurse did a safeguarding and general information interview. “From your dates you’d be six weeks pregnant” she said.

She took me round for a urine and blood test and after waiting for ages, I had a scan.

I was excited as I held my boyfriend’s hand down the corridor, wondering how he’d feel when he saw our baby.

“Do you want me to show you the embryo if I can find it?” the nurse asked.

“Yes please” I replied. “Jonny, do you want to see it?”

“Yes” he said, looking both excited and confused.

I had read that an embryo of six weeks sent out an electrical signal that sounds like a heartbeat on a scan. It would be the size of a pomegranate seed and look like a tadpole.

I waited to hear the signal.

There was silence and a lot of prodding. It was uncomfortable but didn’t hurt.

“I’m very sorry to tell you this, but I can’t find a pregnancy in your uterus. I can confirm that it’s likely to be an ectopic pregnancy, which means it’s growing outside of your uterus.” I was devastated.

“It’s growing next to your ovary.”

“Next to the ovary?? outside the uterus?? not on the ovary then??”

“Do you want to see?”

“Yes please”.

The nurse rotated the screen and there was the dark space of my ovary and then a dark space next to it that looked like a comma stuck to my ovary. I couldn’t make out any details as it was grainy.

“I can’t be certain, but that may be the sac there.”

It was so strange to see, but it made it feel more real and I was glad for that, as it helped me to accept that this was really happening, and I needed to get my head around it.

Not only was I pregnant, but it could not continue. I knew logically that was good as it was the wrong time for us, but it didn’t make it feel any better emotionally.

How? why? why me?

I then waited two more hours for the blood test results.

Jonny came up with lunch. I felt sorry for the other pregnant ladies, who had also been waiting hours. One woman had an overweight partner who was snoring loudly and continuously falling off his chair. He hadn’t got her any lunch, but if he did there was a risk that he wouldn’t hear what the nurse had to say. I wondered why they didn’t have a ticket system, like they did with blood tests.

The doctor called me in, finally.

He explained about the pregnancy hormone they had measured for. I replied “oh yes, Human Immunoglobulin something…”

“yes, that one. It’s at 500. We need to wait and see what happens, because there is a still a chance that you are pregnant in the uterus and we can’t see it, as it is so early.”

“But I thought there was a mass?”

“Yes, but that could just be a cyst.”

“So we will have you back in in two days to see what has happened. If it doubles it is likely to be in your uterus. If it doesn’t then we can confirm an ectopic pregnancy.”

My treatment options were:

1. Expectant management – waiting to miscarry (and hoping I didn’t die from a ruptured fallopian tube).
2. Have an injection to stop the cells growing, and make them reabsorb into the body (genius).
3. Have my fallopian tube removed with keyhole (laparoscopic) surgery (also genius, but less chance of getting pregnant in future).

I felt fortunate that as of the 1980s, option 2 had also become available. The drug was previously only used in cancer treatment but has no bad side effects. Also, keyhole surgery has drastically reduced the time you need to spend in hospital – you can leave the same day instead of being on bed rest for weeks.

Google informed me that 500 HcG was the average reading for five weeks of a pregnancy in the uterus.

Dame Laura Kenny, the Olympic medal-winning cyclist, has recently spoken out about her ectopic pregnancy experience and this is why I’m blogging about it – it helped me to read about other women’s experiences.

I was relieved that hospital was done with. I had a missed a day of work and I was emotionally drained.

When I got home I lay on the sofa for a while, but life goes on, I had a night out with the netball girls.

Turns out you can’t enjoy alcohol pregnant – it just made me feel sick.

And so did a Dr Pepper can and a frangipani almond croissant. I didn’t like salad before, but now I want lots of dark leafy green salad and steak. Your body craves what it needs.

Best to act like it isn’t happening! I’m at the back putting.

The truth hurts

You did it to yourself.

It’s your mental health.

The lady lies.

She tries.

You’re the expert.

What we learnt from the property market

Apologies, it has been so long since my last post. I got discharged an an outpatient after months of physiotherapy, some hydrotherapy and an overnight splint, as my arm is now just 5 degrees off full extension. I can now lift 20kg with my biceps and even do press ups, but I can still only lift 2.5kg with the triceps.

After the accident I could only straighten my arm by about 75%, getting it to 95% was really rewarding. I am currently in my last month of gym membership subsidised by the gym, a fantastic government scheme that is usually enjoyed by diabetics and those with high blood pressure. It must save the NHS a fortune. I am so grateful to our NHS for enabling me to fully use my arm again and now I can do all my usual activities.

Life got busy as we started looking for our first family home for when we have two children. However, Jonny then announced that he wanted to work in France. I will not be travelling with him due to work. We are still looking for our first family home though.

Jonny would like babies after France, but I would like it to be just before the contract finishes. First that was six months, then twelve months, and now it may be 18 months. So if your partner is broody, just get a career-enhancing job and leave the country. Problem solved.

We have been looking at houses since Summer 2021, on and off. Things have only got worse. At the start it was normal for houses to go £30,000 over the guide price. Now they sell for up to £60,000 over the asking price in the areas we are looking. A house in a bad school catchment area (a school rated as requiring improvement) will be on the market for up to £80,000 less. We are looking for somewhere close to the city but the closer you get in a nice area, the more the price increases. You get more for your money the further you go from the city centre.

We got a lot of our furniture for free or at a discount on apps such as Gumtree and NextDoor. A couple giving away an oak coffee table said that they bought their house for £40,000 about forty years ago. Houses in that area are now about £500,000. My friend bought her two bedroom flat near the city centre for £80,000 eight years ago and she has just sold it for £130,000 without renovating anything.

Our criteria are a garden, a drive, a garage and a good secondary school catchment. We have looked at so many houses where they ended up having a pocket garden because they extended into it, and “three bedroom” houses where one is a box room that you couldn’t swing a cat in. We want cats. I am also missing a garden.

We pay almost as much as a mortgage for our two bedroom rental. I would not be surprised if the state of the housing market is what is keeping the UK population down.

Even a “doer-upper” which is a shell of a house that needs building and decorating work sold for £410,000. Yes it had four bedrooms, but no carpets or furniture. My cousin is a builder and warned me against the craze for buying a ruin, doing it up is not always cheaper than buying it renovated.

So what have I learnt from this frustrating journey?

1. Viewings often get booked up within 48 hours, 24 hours if it’s a high demand area and property. Call the estate agent. We missed out on a house because the estate agent said they would “let us know”.
2. Don’t get caught up in a bidding war frenzy. Look at what it cost for the last buyer, look at what other similar properties in the area sold for and if it gets overpriced, walk away.
3. If you plan on having children or have them already, don’t forget to check the school catchment area and how the school has been rated over time. Some schools sadly do not improve over time.
4. Think about the house from a practical point of view and ignore the cosmetic aspects. Yes, it may have a new kitchen, but could you relax in the garden? can you easily commute to work?
5. Questions we ask are how old the boiler is, when windows were put in if they look old, if it has a flat roof, when that was installed, why they are moving, whether they are in a chain and what is happening with that, and whether it has had any offers already.
6. At the moment properties we look at usually have an offer after a week and sell in two weeks, usually for £50,000 or £60,000 over the asking price.
7. Budget so that you can offer about £50,000 over the asking price.
8. Remember that as a first-time buyer you are an attractive buyer to a vendor wanting a quick move, so do not feel pressured and remember to request your own survey first.
9. Make sure you have useful local shops within walking distance if possible, such as a post office, pharmacy, grocery shop.
10. Enjoy it and do not stress, you will find the right(move) property if you just keep looking.

ORIF recovery – my metal elbow

I am now enjoying being four months post-op. In the last two months I have made so much progress.

I can now tie my hair up and wash it properly.

Hydrotherapy and intensive physiotherapy has enabled me regain a “functional” range of movement of 100 degrees, considered to be enough to perform daily tasks.

Hydrotherapy was my favourite appointment – a warm swimming pool with just your physio and one other patient and you did slow and gentle stretches and resistance exercises with various props.

I also have a thermaplastic splint fitted to wear at night, which I am told would cost £30, but is free thanks to our NHS.

I have just been allowed to lift up to 5kg. I have finally been allowed to put a little weight through the arm, like doing standing press ups.

I am not yet able to go on long bike rides or run on unsteady ground because the muscles in my bad arm are weak which makes me unbalanced when I’m moving.

I am now allowed to use the physio gym with its padded exercise bike, treadmill and basketball hoop to help with conditioning, building and strengthening muscle.

The therapy I am receiving is outstanding. I have gone from only being able to bend my arm 90 degrees to being able to flex it fully. I am now just 10-20 degrees off full extension as well.

My arm still aches or stings if I lift anything too heavy or rest it on a desk without having regular breaks. The tricep exercises hurt quite a lot – that muscle hangs loose, but the bicep is coming along nicely and after three weeks of being able to put weight on it for the first time, I already feel stronger.

I am continuing with daily exercises and practicing goal shooting when I can, as I am determined to get back to playing netball as soon as possible, hopefully back to my position as Goal Shooter. I also really miss climbing, but it will be another few months at least, I am told, before I can be discharged. I need to build up my triceps muscle and be able to fall safely. Hopefully it won’t be much longer now…

My New Titanium Elbow

“You’ve got your bum out” a nurse said.

“I know” I replied. They’d given me a broken bloody gown and I had a broken bloody elbow.

How was I supposed to tie it? I had run out of clean knickers and I wasn’t about to put dirty ones back on.

“Your bum’s hanging out” a middle-aged patient said, offended.

“I know, they gave me a broken gown!” I replied. A shower would sort it.

A wet wipe clean had never looked so appealing.

Your mission was to heave yourself out of bed with your abdomen and your good arm, without making your elbow spasm, causing a horrific shooting pain.

Then you had to get to the wet room down the hallway to the left, again without moving your bad arm, and early, otherwise it was always occupied. Annoyingly, you had to hobble past a closer shower, which was out of order the whole four days I was on that ward.

“‘Scuse me” the nurse looked flustered.

“Can you tie my hair for me please?” relieved, she obliged.

I had been told that I was definitely having surgery today (day three) and I was determined to be clean for it.

Somehow I washed everything using one arm and a bit of creativity (resting a leg on a grab rail, keeping liquid soap steady on your shoulder…). I wondered how I was allowed to risk another fracture on a daily basis. Later I was not surprised to find that falls were the most commonly reported health and safety incident in England and Wales in hospital, with over 240 000 a year reported.

If I had fallen on my bad arm before the bone was healed, I would have had a “comminuted peri-prosthetic fracture” – a particularly complex fracture made worse by the interaction of internal metalwork on bone.

Nurses only had time for observations, support workers only had time to help with meals and making the beds. And my ward had a “very good” level of staffing according to the Royal College of Nursing.

A support worker came round and fussed about my table being “messy”.

I had most of my belongings there because that was the only way I could access them. But without asking, she chucked everything in a plastic bag saying it was a hazard, and shoved it in a cupboard out of reach.

I had a felt tip arrow drawn on me and three visits from various members of the surgical team.

They were so kind, helpful and understanding. They also explained that the reason I was in so much pain was because when my arm muscles contracted they were pulling my fracture apart.

ORIF surgery was Open Reduction and Internal Fixation.

I was going to have a titanium plate inserted over my elbow and that would be screwed into the bones to hold it together. They would clean out the wound first and remove any smashed bone. I would need months of physiotherapy. I was reassured that I was first on their list after lunch.

I was given the option of an uncomfortable one and a half hour surgery lying on my side conscious, being pushed and pulled about, or general anaesthetic, so I opted for the latter. They said they might have to insert a breathing tube but I didn’t want to be intubated so they said they would use a mask instead.

“You’ve become sensitised to pain” the anaesthetist observed, “that’s understandable given the nature of your injury.”

They looked enthusiastic and alert and and appeared to enjoy their work. I was even allowed to gingerly climb onto the operating table so I didn’t have spasms from being transferred. The mask was placed over my mouth and nose with an air gap but the anaesthetist saw that I was still conscious and sorted it.

***

I came to with a jolt in an unfamiliar white ward, like some kind of afterlife.

There were no curtains, just rows of beds, except I couldn’t see the other patients. Two curious faces loomed above me in green scrubs. Suddenly my body started convulsing.

The figures above me said something about pethidine and I was injected. My body relaxed and I felt much better as they whisked me back to the Trauma Ward.

The Traumatic Trauma Ward

Two cheerful young men in green scrubs came by in the early hours and introduced themselves as orthopaedic doctors.

I said “hi, can I have some morphine please?”

Codeine was not making any difference, there was an intense burning pain in the joint and if I moved my arm it was so strong I would cry out. Then there was the constant ache.

They exchanged glances. “Yes we can sort that. We have had another look at your X-rays and we think you probably don’t have an open fracture after all, so your operation can’t be prioritised. We might send you home for a week or two and bring you back in for the operation.”

I thought about trying to manage the agony with codeine.

“I want to stay in hospital until the operation.”

The medics acknowledged this and left.

I needed the toilet but I was on my own. I wasn’t prepared to pee myself and I couldn’t reach the buzzer.

Fortunately two support workers down the corridor heard me scream from the shooting pain of my muscles pulling my fracture apart, and one had to help me off the toilet.

After that I finally got morphine, but then a high-pitched voice jarred me awake. It was coming down the corridor accompanied by the squeak of wheels.

Lily was an advocate of LGBTQ rights, she said, and she wanted to be a counsellor for the LGBTQ community because one had really helped her.

She had been using a pedestrian crossing because the traffic lights had changed to red. A taxi had sped through and over her, breaking her back and legs. The driver had got witnesses to agree with his side of the story, that the lights were actually on green.

When she was not telling everyone about it, she was moaning in agony.

I was kept nil by mouth the next day, so I missed breakfast and lunch.

In the morning I waved goodbye to the smiley staff who had helped me, as I was wheeled out of the Theatre Recovery Unit and onto the orthopaedic ward. I hoped it would be quieter. It wasn’t.

The orthopaedic ward was larger and open plan, with a blocked dirty toilet and one shower serving 12 patients. The spare toilet and shower were both broken. Unlike the Theatre Recovery ward, it was usually fully occupied and half staffed.

My four day neon hell of noise and pain had begun.

It was Sunday morning and a woman was being gently and firmly reassured by a nun.

Next to her was 88 year old Brenda, who was visited by her son and the two laughed together. She was outspoken and her bright eyes took everything in. She beckoned me over and we had some good chats. She had survived breast cancer and then she had had a fall. She said she would probably die soon. “You seem pretty healthy, I don’t think so” I said. “Oh love” she smiled, “I’m not afraid of death, I know I don’t have long left, that’s just how it is. My husband passed eight years ago so I don’t mind, I’m ready. I’ve already survived breast cancer” she said proudly.

The table was put on the side of my broken elbow, so I could not reach anything and no staff were available. They had even put the call bell out of reach. I lay there looking at the clock, counting the hours until my boyfriend would break the monotony.

Finally, my first meal of the day was served, a flavoursome beef curry. My boyfriend brought home-made banana cake for dessert and it was so comforting to see him.

He brought in my medication which I had not had for two days. A nurse had not arranged it as she promised, when she refused to let him bring it in onto the Theatre ward.

Night fell and so did the staffing levels. Once again I was without morphine for hours and I couldn’t help making a noise about it, it was the only way of processing the mental stress of being in constant agony and helpless.

I apologised to my fellow inmates as I groaned through the hours, waiting for two nurses to be able to sign off the only thing that would let me sleep.

I played a pain management meditation and calmed down as I watched the clouds lighten. Pain was part of life, it was temporary and it wasn’t always a bad thing. I shouldn’t resist it or be worried about it.

A bed pan was brought but I somehow wet myself and an exhausted zombie nurse had to change the bed. She said how she was on her fourth or fifth 12 hour night shift.

The closest patients both had dementia, one lovely lady was unsettled by my moaning and repeatedly asked if I was ok. The woman opposite repeatedly asked for help even though she didn’t need it. Flustered staff checked and eventually she was ignored. This seemed to increase her harassment of them.

When I finally got morphine I was still in too much pain to sleep, so I got the nurse to get the doctor. Finally, a girl in her 20s sympathetically doubled the dose so I could finally drift off. As the dosage increase hit my system I suddenly vomited, and then spilt some on myself putting the bowl on the table. I had to sleep in it as no one was available to change the bed again.

Maybe I would get surgery tomorrow…

A Sharp Brake

Bluebells illuminated the forest floor, birdsong reverberated, bright green leaves curled round us and treecreeper birds hopped up to the heavens as we cycled through the woods. Abdominal cramps slowed my progress up a disused side road leading up to the main road.

Years of temperature changes and heavy rains had carved a ditch up one side. The concrete underbelly had been exposed, jagged rocks protruding like blunted shark’s teeth.

Having made it to the top I admitted defeat. “Go on, have a nice ride” I said, “I can’t manage it”. My boyfriend protested, but accepted it and I rolled back downhill.

I should get off and walk, I thought, the road was so uneven. But my suspension would take it.

Towards the bottom, I was speeding towards the ditch, so I gently squeezed the brakes and skidded. Abruptly, like the wheels, time accelerated. Instinctively I braked too hard as I slid, catapulting myself over the handlebars. I was aware of flying and saw that my arm was held out at 90 degrees, protecting my head. I shut my eyes and braced myself for impact.

I was rolling onto my left elbow.

An overwhelming burning sensation had doubled me over. It was impossible to tell where it was coming from, my brain would not compute.

I wondered when someone would find me. I tried to get up but my body would not allow it. Putting weight on my cut right elbow made me scream, so I let my forehead support my weight so I could see whether anyone was coming down. At least it wasn’t my writing hand.

I decided to keep screaming, it was comforting to think that somehow my boyfriend may hear me. It also helped to slow my breathing down. My fitness tracker watch somehow had not been smashed and my pulse shot from 80 to 130 beats per minute, as my body trembled in shock, my temperature dropping.

After the second bout of screaming, my boyfriend blurred into view, jumping off with the bike still moving, wide-eyed.

Seeing my position and pain, he said “we need to call an ambulance.” My rational brain woke up. “My phone is in my bag” I croaked, struggling to speak loudly.

Our first Good Samaritan stopped, a tall, middle-aged man wearing glasses. My boyfriend did not have his phone and had not processed what I had said. “Does he have What Three Words” I asked. Incredibly, the stranger had the GPS application.

My boyfriend put me on the speakerphone and in between shrieks I answered. I was warned that an ambulance could take up to three hours.

They apologised, that was the non-urgent wait time as my life wasn’t immediately at risk. I wondered whether I would eventually pass out in agony.

My boyfriend jumped back on his bike to get the car.

Then Adam, my second knight in shining armour, rode to the rescue. He whipped out a full first aid kit, keeping me warm with a silver blanket and a thermal coat from his backpack.

“Yep, that looks broken” he said, and helped me to shuffle off the road on my bottom so I could rest against the wall.

With his encouragement I dared to extend my elbow slightly so it was supported on my helmet. The burning, pulsating sensation was increasing and I was glad that this kind man was keeping me company.

Distracting me, he told me how he had been a mountain bike guide for decades. He loved the outdoors. If I had not braked as hard I would have been OK, you have to let yourself skid.

My boyfriend arrived about 15 minutes later and we stashed my bike in a cottage driveway.

Every bump and corner caused strong shooting pains. The full waiting room of patients stared in horror as I staggered into Accident and Emergency like a zombie from Shaun of the Dead, my bruised and swollen elbow dangling out.

Administrators put me to the top of the queue and within minutes I was being checked over by a friendly triage doctor.

As she helped me into a hospital gown, I asked “it’s just a standard break isn’t it?”

“I think that’s optimistic.”

“They can just put a pot on it and send me home can’t they?”

“Again, I think that’s optimistic” she smiled.

“Go on, what do you think it is?”

She winced at my bulbous hinge joint. “I’d say it’s an open fracture, I don’t think you’ll be going home tonight.”

“Oh.”

We waited about an uncomfortable hour for assessment. I could not bend my elbow enough to sit down, so I was glad my boyfriend was there for me to lean on and he put a comforting arm round me. The patients sat in silence, until a man walked in, cheerfully telling someone on his mobile phone how he had sliced the top of his thumb off whilst preparing dinner.

An intact elbow for comparison.

The X-ray was interesting, it still looked like an elbow, until the medic pointed to where the olecranon, the funny bone, had slipped, the internal injury and the air that had infiltrated the joint.

A nurse tried to lift the elbow to put a pillow under it and ran off after I screamed, sending medics running to my aid. “Open fracture” I explained, they nodded and left.

WARNING: GORY WOUND

Then it was time for a temporary cast. I would not lie down as it increased the pain, so they made an exception for me and started it with me standing, then gave me gas and air as they urged me to get on the bed. I experienced a powerful bout of nausea followed by nearly blacking out. “It worked” the nurse said “or that would’ve really hurt.”

There was a panel of medics in scrubs looking at computer screens in front of me like traffic control.

Woozily, I slowly hauled myself up and asked a nurse where the toilet was. “I’ll show you when I’ve finished this”, she replied. Then she conferred with another nurse and I blearily followed that woman past resus until she sat down at another A and E ward.

“Sorry, I thought you were showing me where the toilet was”.

“Er, no” she responded, completely bewildered, “you’re best off going back”. After she pointed me there I got lost again, walking into “resus”, past people gasping for breath, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. This was more intense than my holding area. It was a relief when I bumped into the cast lady.

“What are you doing here?” she asked kindly, and showed me to the toilet.

It took over three hours to get a bed. The Theatre Recovery Unit was a long ward with many rooms. Mine was only half full. The nurse, Joy, was either elsewhere, chatting about her recent holiday with support worker Gloria, or telling demented Doris to go back to bed. Doris would then get up again, preferring to twirl a chair at the nurse station.

I smiled at a bespectacled middle-aged lady opposite and she just stared gloomily back and asked Joy “can I go home tomorrow?”.

After being kept “nil by mouth” pending the “highly unlikely” possibility of surgery, I was finally given a ham sandwich for dinner at 10.30pm, when I begged for it. Maybe I would get my elbow fixed the following day…

Pros of Lockdown

We have basically been in some form of lockdown for about four months this year.

Lockdown Two has now morphed into a new (and arguably improved) Tier 3. We are in month two and this time I was ready for it – I had even bought my jigsaw puzzle to help me enjoy my time.

There are some nice differences this time around – you can enjoy little luxuries like a haircut, beauty treatment or shopping. And to think, we used to take those forgranted and moan about having to go.

After two months of lockdown my hair had become a shiny orange fluff ball, so I was relieved to get that sorted. So were my parents, who were fed up of being dazzled by my brassy tones. It wasn’t cheap to sort out my faded purple hair from the summer either. What was I thinking? Why did no one warn me it would fade to a Prince Harry shade of ginger?

After paying extra on top of an already pricey chop I resolved never to dye my hair any unnatural colour again. Except maybe red…

Anyway, I was thinking of calling this article Pros and Cons of Lockdown, like my Pros and Cons of Being Unemployed, which I wrote to help me manage the negative feelings associated with being unemployed.

But lets look on the bright side shall we?

But how do I get through this? you ask. Where the hell is the silver lining? Prepare to reframe…

• You don’t have to go to that horrendously tedious wedding rehearsal/christening etc

• You don’t have to be subjected to any unpleasant odours from others.

You don’t have to take the bus and spend your morning commute with Eau de Methane or B.O Parfum. Which brings me on to my next point…

• No packed/hot/smelly/noisy/dirty/annoying/long/traffic jam commute

If you’re not an essential worker then gone (at least temporarily) are the days of shouting at the car in front, honking and wiping sweat off your forehead, as time ticks closer to you calling in late. Or alternatively dicing with death on your flimsy bike, squashed against frenzied rush-hour car commuters. You have been told by the government to work from home wherever possible, so you can work with music, with a cat on your lap and enjoy your home comforts, with the added bonus of keeping your germs there as well.

• You can wear anything and you can retire your makeup collection

No one cares what you’re wearing. So why not stay in your onesie? Why not have a duvet day? Even when you go out, no one would notice what you’re wearing. They’d just be walking on the road to avoid your potential viral breath. And who cares if you woke up like this?? No one’s going to know!

• You might save money.

Looking at my bank balance for the first time after lockdown I couldn’t believe how much I had been spending on buses, work lunches, meals out and drinks out. But of course I still try and support my local restaurants by doing takeaways now and again and I look forward to dining out again.

• You can’t miss out on much

That party you weren’t invited to? No longer happening so no need to be jealous and think of all the reasons why you might not have been on the list. Everyone’s missing out now, you’re all in the same boat.

• We appreciate the little things

That chat with your regular guy/girl behind the till? Bet you never even thought about it before, yet over March/April/May when you couldn’t do much at all, somehow that short exchange made your day. Or you had some restrictions relaxed and suddenly, going shopping was a novelty when you had previously loathed every second of it. You noticed things you didn’t have time for when you were busy, like the light on the trees, the local birds. It makes you appreciate what you have instead of grasping for the next thing.

• We can slow down and smell the coffee

We have the time to slow down and are free from the busy schedules, the dashing from activity to activity, the relentless go go go of daily life. We can reflect and work on self development.

• We value essential workers even more

It is funny to think that this time last year, we did not even really use the term. That Thursday clap reminded us how lucky we are to have our NHS, care staff, retailers, bin men – everyone who we (sometimes literally) cannot live without and who work so hard to keep our services running smoothly. Suddenly the unsung heroes of society were getting the attention and credit they deserved.

• We value our family/friends more

When times got hard, it was our family and friends who lifted our spirits and reminded us that this was only temporary. They gave us so much kindness and support and we felt so lucky to have them in our lives.

• We help each other more

The response to the NHS Volunteers scheme was so inspiring – 700 applicants in a few days.

• We learnt more about hygiene and infectious disease

Now the general public have some awareness about how germs spread and how to minimise that, we may perhaps see a reduction in infectious diseases like flu that threaten to overwhelm our NHS some winters.

• We prioritise our health

With the threat of increased risk from Covid from additional weight, we heaved ourselves off the sofa and went for a walk, started jogging, joined the gym and in my case, got into indoor climbing. I bought all the gear and I am ready for any “problem”, armed with my knowledge of various hand and footholds, confident that any “problem” can be “solved” if you just look at bits of hard plastic stuck to a wall for long enough.

The effects of an increase in public health led to sportswear selling out. On one website specialising in leggings the stock completely sold out. Most sports headphones had sold out.

We ate better food – fruit and vegetables sold out for the first time in living memory.

We have also ensured we look after our mental health and self-care days became popular – taking a day of annual leave purely to do things which are beneficial to your mental health. Lavender products sold out. The New Zealand government even gives its citizens a day of annual leave specifically for improving mental health. We know now how important it is to be emotionally resilient and aware of our needs.

• We might make more time for our loved ones

Suddenly I was making more time for my friends at the weekend, rather than mostly just seeing my boyfriend. Because…

• It sped up our love lives

New couples moved in together and had a crash test of their relationship. Some didn’t make it, but many did, including (so far) mine.

• It encourages creativity

We have time for that painting, drawing or sketch and some people do painting competitions.

We got absorbed in new projects and hobbies

For me it was a jigsaw puzzle and climbing, for others it was knitting, house decorating, home improvements, reading, crosswords, painting, drawing, gardening, maybe even origami.

My lockdown project – 1000 pieces! It was perfect as it occupied me for the whole month and was finished in time for Tier 3. Now I need one for Tier 3…

• It encouraged us to be flexible and adaptable

We had to think outside the box. We can’t meet indoors but we can…go walking and get a takeaway drink/bring a thermos as a replacement for going to the cafe. The fact that we could only see friends outdoors got people into walking.

We had to change most things – our routine, lifestyle, hobbies and activities. But we found new ones. We found out what worked for us and we surprised ourselves by thriving. No bread? We’d just bake it. No flour? We’d just have something else for lunch. No toilet roll? ……..there’s not really a replacement for that.

• We have a greater sense of community

It may have been short-lived, but clapping with our neighbours and helping others felt so wholesome.

• We have the British sense of humour

If you go anywhere else in the world it might not be understood, but our quirky poking fun at anything attitude helps. From advocating the exercise benefits of opening a bottle of wine, to wearing a box to keep people at the right distance.

Comedians give us free performances from their living rooms as we laugh about how surreal this is.

Now I can colour in mindfully or mindlessly depending on my mood!

Of course, times are hard for so many now. I won’t even go into that as I’ll pop your happy balloon. But today I read an inspiring article which changed my perspective. It was an interview with Michael J. Fox.

The actor has lived with Parkinsons for more than half his life. Parkinsons is a nasty degenerative disease. Determined to stay positive, he learnt to walk again and was able to convince others that he could live independently. Unsteady on his feet, he fell over one day and broke his leg. He was just recovering from that after coming out of hospital, when he tripped and shattered his arm.

Lying on the floor with a broken arm and unable to reach his phone for help, it was the lowest point in his life. He nearly gave up on his optimism, but he soon realised that he had come to rely on it. Whilst he accepts that looking on the bright side does not solve every issue, accepting his situation and not letting sorrow engulf him had enabled him to make the best of things.

I tested this theory out and challenged myself to only say cheerful things. I lasted about a day but I felt so much better for it. My mind was tuned to recognise happy moments and the small things that enriched life, like my morning cup of tea, rather than things I could not change that I did not like. I still try to keep to this and my friend said I have become more positive as a result.

Buddhist philosophy gets this spot on – if you don’t like something, change it, and if you can’t change it, why worry!

So whatever is happening right now, try to focus on these points:

• what you can do, not what you can’t

• what you have, not what you don’t have

• what lifts you up, not what brings you down,

because my grandmother was right when she told me: “Smile and the world smiles with you.”