Thursday, November 1, 2012
Frustration Friday . . .
Okay, so it's only Thursday, but it doesn't go quite as well with 'frustration'.
I am struggling with my mending ankle. I had my first big day in the garden on Monday, clearing weeds that should have been dealt with weeks and weeks ago. In the space of 25 minutes or so, I managed to twist over on my ankle twice. I broke a blood vessel in my finger that is still purple today. So I came back inside and promptly walked into the corner of the dishwasher door. Which I had left open. My ankle looks almost normal first thing in the morning, but as the day progresses, it becomes more and more swollen. I bought an elastic type support which comes a few inches up my shin, and by the evening, I have a veritable balloon of swelling over the top.
Put your foot up as much as you can, they said to me. While I had the cast on, that was basically all I did, sat in my comfy chair with my foot on a leather footstool kindly lent to me by my son and his wife. I knitted and sat, and sat and knitted, and my foot swelled. No! no! they said, you have to have the injury higher than your heart! I challenge anyone to sit with their ankle higher than their heart and remain looking dignified and sane. Let alone manage to do anything at the same time. The mind boggles!
Yesterday, I got sick of the feeling of my leg being so swollen, and I started to research ways and means of reducing same. Compression stockings! Wow, those suckers are expensive! Hang on a minute - they ring a distant bell. A quick search of the right drawer brought to light a pair of somewhat second hand looking compression knee high socks. They belonged to my dear old mum. Look, there's the laundry mark the nursing home wrote around the inside of the top - 'Room 41'. Mum suffered greatly from chronic oedema in the last few years of her life, really much worse than what I'm going through, and as I struggled to roll the sock onto my leg, I apologised to her for not being more sympathetic. They are a size larger than I would have bought, but the relief they have given me is quite something.
So today I went off to my physiotherapy appointment, in my new sock, and came home more sore than when I went. I was quite grumpy and made my frustration at the whole situation quite obvious. Poor guy, he didn't cause the issue and he's only doing his job. I expressed my displeasure at having a cankle which is completely unstable, making it very hard for me to walk on any ground that is uneven as it twists from underneath me so quickly and hurts like mad when it does. I demanded to know how long this situation was going to remain and, indeed, if ever it was going to heal completely! Could be 12 months and short answer, no.
So I shall endeavour to sit more, with my ankle higher than my heart.
There is an old house on the hill across the valley from us. It was built in 1834, I think, so is surrounded by an old garden. It's recently been on the market and was described in the real estate blurb as having a potager, amongst other things. Sigh . . . It's now sold, and as I sit, I'm watching two guys (and two dogs which look like they've just been released from a courtyard by their enthusiastic activity) clearing out the old garden. I can see old fences starting to appear from the undergrowth and new retaining walls going in. Stuff is constantly being delivered and everyone whizzes around busily. I'd be scared to do that so soon after moving in, in case I was pulling out old treasures, but by the same token, I'm so envious of their progress. I wish I had an army of gardeners with all the earthmoving equipment under the sun who would come every day and I'd say 'let's build a retaining wall here, and dig a big pond over there, and create a pergola walk of roses across there . . . . .'
. . . . . all while I sat with my ankle higher than my heart. That should make 'em work hard!