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…
literarylydi 
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