Don’t Get Drunk & Break Your Ankle – It’s Shit!


It’s safe to say I’ve had a pretty eventful time of it these last couple of weeks. I thought I’d write a little blog post/timeline of breaking my ankle and my stay in hospital. Something to do while I can’t walk, I suppose!

Four years ago I spent a few days in hospital recovering from an operation, and at exactly the same time years later, I’m doing the same thing all over again. All was well on Friday the 5th when I headed out to the monthly Peddler Night Market at Kelham Island, one of my absolute favourite things to do in good old Sheff. But silly little me decided to skip lunch and dinner and opt for pints upon pints of cider instead. It wasn’t long before I was drunk, strolling down the street and singing at the top of my lungs on the way to the Riverside pub. A typical Davo night out. Enough was enough by about 1am and I got in a taxi back to mine.


My beautiful broken tib/fib/displaced ankle.


1:15am (ish)

On the way out, I was clearly that eager to leave the taxi that I tripped on the ramp and fell, breaking my ankle in the process. All I can really remember is screaming in pain and knowing instantly that I’d done summat to my foot. I tried to get up and couldn’t walk, so I had to be carried back to my accommodation. Another flashback of the night is laying on the reception floor of where I live, howling in agony, and being carried back up to my room, lol. I knew I needed to go in an ambulance so one was called and I was put to bed.

1:30am (ish)

With a stomach and a head sloshing full of booze, I decided that my badly broken ankle was just a sprain and I’d be alright the next day if I just stuck some frozen peas on it. I was wrong, of course, but I cancelled the ambulance and somehow went off to sleep. Trooper.

10:00am (ish)

10am saw me laid in bed in agony, somehow having a good old natter about Habbo Hotel, Runescape and MSN Messenger. The pain of a broken bone obviously wasn’t enough to override the awesomeness of 2000’s Internet.


Scott insisted on taking me to A&E but I refused, again claiming that a bag of frozen veg would do the trick and I’d be right as rain by the end of the day. He fetched me a bag of frozen onions from my freezer and a glass of milk to cure my hangover. Once he left I really needed the loo, so I hoisted myself onto my desk chair and wheeled myself over to my bathroom. The chair wouldn’t go over the door gap, so I threw my phone onto the floor, dropped to my knees and hoped for the best. It wasn’t long before I was crawling, naked, on the bathroom floor, trying to (unsuccessfully) hoist myself onto the toilet, that I realized it was more than just a sprain. Soz for the deets, like.


Rang ambulance, housemate, and pals.


This was the longest five hours of my life, and pretty unpleasant, so I might as well sum it up briefly. Rosie and Krissie came to my aid and got me dressed and propped my leg up with a pillow. Michaela came after a bit, too, and we had a mini gathering sitting on my hard, uncomfortable bathroom floor. I rang the ambulance another three times at which the woman on the end of the phone said it would be there as soon as it could. We watched Ru Paul’s Drag Race on Netflix, I had a few breakdowns, and we took a couple of funny Snapchat pics (obviously with the foot filter). The ambulance finally arrived armed with plenty of gas and air to hand, and the majority of the pain subsided. I was in stitches, and life was great. The canister of heaven came with me in the ambulance and into A&E until the paramedics had to go and hand me over to the nurses.


My parents arrived and I had a bit of a cry. It was so good to see them. They dropped everything at home to come to Sheffield and I’m so grateful for it. I was given a substantial amount of morphine, and I ended up delving into my life story, much to the bewilderment of my ‘rents and the nurses. Apparently at one point I came out with: “Will I ever walk again?” Trololol.

7:00pm (Ignore the times now, I legit can’t even remember owt it’s all such a blur)

Had an X-ray which determined my tibia and my fibula (or my tibula and my fibia, I can never remember which bone’s got the ‘L’ in it) were both broken in my left foot. Severe sprain in my right foot, and ligament damage in both. I had a plaster put on my broken foot, armed with my stepdad’s hand to squeeze and plenty more gas and air. It kind of resembled giving birth, to be fair. I was screaming and crying, my stepdad was holding onto my hand saying “You can do it!” along with the doctors and nurses, and I was puffing away through the agony. Plaster on and dosed up, I was wheeled into the ward and left there to sleep.


With literally just the clothes they came in my parents took my keys and stayed in my little student bed for two nights, bless them. They stayed by my side during all the visiting times, doing crosswords with me and making me laugh. I bloody love those two. I had a couple more fab visitors, including my Dad. It’s times like this when you get drunk and break your ankle like a dickhead that you realize how much people care and I’m so grateful. On my ward was a 95-year-old lady called Jesi a.k.a. the cutest human being I have ever encountered. She couldn’t hear a thing, but loved to chat. Not the best combination. I think she left the ward on Monday and I miss her. She was just so pleasant and lovely. Then there’s Hannah who had a car crash a month ago, and she’s been here ever since. There’s Linda with the broken hip whose son stole my crutches, and there’s the notorious Sheila in the bed next to me. Sheila has dementia and is very confused a lot of the time. When she’s not telling the nurses to fuck off and/or shut up, she’s actually the sweetest thing. She remembers my name, and lets me comb her hair and sit and chat with her about old times. I’ve left my number in her handbag so that her daughter can give me a ring when she finds a care home for her, and I’m planning on visiting her.


Me & my Mum making the most of the cat/pig/w/e the hell it is Snapchat filter to cure my hospital boredom

Tuesday afternoon

Had my operation which involved some sort of metal plate (and pins – not sure how many!) being put into my leg to hold the bones together. I woke up asking where the fit, young, male doctor had gone. Good one, Davo. David, Krissie and Joe visited me and of course we sat and watched Kay’s Good Cooking and LeeisCool1 videos like the saddos we are. My leg was still numb from the injection so I didn’t feel the pain just yet, and I was definitely unprepared for the hellish night ahead.

Tuesday night

My leg was numb until about 1am, and it got worse as the hours passed. I can’t say I’ve never felt pain like it, because I definitely have done, but God, this was intense. I was awake all night, screaming/crying/keeping everyone on the ward awake and begging the nurses for more pain relief. It got to about 4 o’clock and the nurse on duty had to ring the emergency doctor to come and see me. He was nowhere to be found at first, but eventually he arrived and cut my backslab open because he thought that’s what was causing me so much pain. But nope, the pain got worse and worse and eventually I had an anxiety attack and had to breathe into a paper bag while the lovely nurse tried to calm me down. Eventually, at about 7am, I managed to get an hour’s worth of sleep. It was definitely one of the most horrible nights of my life and I don’t wish pain like that upon anyone.


The nurse’s attempt at covering up my backslab after the doctor cut it off

…And the rest of the time (I’m obviously just lazy when it comes to blogging)

I’m actually writing this part of the blog post on 21/05 so it’s been a few days since I was discharged from hospital. On the Wednesday, the day after the operation, the physiotherapist came to my bed to ask if I wanted to get up and about and have a go at using crutches. After a sleepless night, though, I was completely unprepared, and asked if she could come back the next day. So on Thursday I gave walking with crutches/a frame a go, and it was tough. If my right foot was okay and not severely sprained, walking would be a breeze. But the fact I’ve injured both feet has made getting around a huge struggle. I perservered through the tears, though.

I had a few more lovely visitors and spent the rest of the week in hospital trying to calm Sheila down, attempting to do revision, and taking advantage of a couple of freelance writing jobs that came in. I was discharged from hospital on Saturday and driven by my uncle back to Grimsby with a wheelchair, frame, a huge suitcase full of thrown-in random stuff from my uni accommodation, and a pair of crutches.

That was a week and a day ago now, and my parents have been nothing short of amazing. I’ve had to sleep downstairs because my stairs are just too steep. I’m getting better day by day, though, and considering it’s only just under a fortnight since my op, I’m pleasantly surprised at my progress. It’s been a mental struggle, not being able to go out and be free and do as I please, but it’s something I’m having to get used to. My exams at uni have been deferred until August, and they’ve been so understanding about the situation. I have a check-up appointment in Sheffield on Friday to potentially get my cast replaced, so I have my fingers and toes crossed that everything will have healed properly. I’ve invested in some good old Wilkos-brand Calcium & Vitamin D tablets for my bones, and I’ve been eating eggs on a daily basis cause of the protein.


If I didn’t have my cat I think I’d probably attempt to #HobbleBackToSheff.

All I want to do is get better and get moving again. It’s going to be at least the middle of June that I can walk on two feet again, and I’m counting down the days.

Thanks for reading. x


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