So, I spent a few hours in casualty last night.
The Tall Guy and I are refurbing the house, ready to put it up for sale. We want a bigger house with a double garage, and more land. The double garage is The TG’s idea. I couldn’t care less, we have a double drive and a single garage at the moment, and neither of us park our cars in the garage. I’m looking forward to the increased space for my books though.
Anyway, I was helping him carry a heavy box of tiles downstairs, when I experienced a really sharp pain in my back. I tried to shake it off, but found that I had trouble straightening up.
Five minutes later, I was bent over double on the floor. I couldn’t get up, and my breathing was choppy at best.
The Tall Guy started having a panic attack when he realised something was wrong, and he called the ambulance services. Sigh.
It was the single most humiliating moment of my life, due to the fact that I was wearing low slung jeans that just about revealed my crack (bearing in mind that I was on all fours on the ground), plus they were old, and once upon a time when I was younger, I’d thought that cutting holes into them was a cool thing to do.
Well, it wasn’t. I looked like an effing hobo. It didn’t help that my hair was a mess, and I looked like a frickin Biafran. At least my underwear matched (kind of).
Anyway, the paramedics brought in a tank of Entonox (gas and air) to relieve the pain. This was the best bit, I felt drunk as a skunk, and it was a heady feeling.
Once they’d determined where the pain was coming from (the right side of my back) I was rushed to hospital.
I felt a fool all the way there, and I was very conscious of my mode of dress, and the lack of make-up. (vain much?)
Anyway, when I got to the hospital, the nurses and doctors were busy dealing with six trauma victims, that had also just been rushed in.
Paul and I sat in one of the patient cubicles, waiting to be attended. I was fairly happy, as one of the nurses had left a tank of Entonox, which I liberally inhaled. It didn’t do shit for the pain in my back, but it sure made me feel fabulous. Paul, the spoilsport, kept telling me not to overdo it. I told him to eff off, and continued inhaling to my heart’s content. He gave up, and just continued to rub my hands in support. Bless him.
Anyway, I ended up with a hairy Greek doctor. He made me take my top off, and I thanked Oprah there and then, that I hadn’t put one of my see-through bra’s on. That would have been too humiliating.
Apparently, I’d torn a muscle on the right hand side of my back, so he cheerfully told me that I’d be in a lot of pain for the next few days, and that he would get one of the nurses to give me an injection in my arse to help with the pain. I just about nearly fainted when he mentioned the ‘I’ word. I’m not too fond of needles. Twenty years later, and I still recall how painful my Rubella jab was. So no, Needles aren’t my thing.
Anyway, the nurse brought in the needle, and proceeded to stick it into my arse. Yes, it fucking hurt. The Tall Guy helpfully told me that the needle was humongous. Bastard.
Anyway, I’m pumped up with drugs, and Paul and his dad are currently driving me nuts, with the constant drilling, and various other DIY noises. I think I’ll go and have a lie down for a bit.
How was your weekend?
