After the break (Part 1)

After the Break  (Part 1)

On 4 November 2011, one week after celebrating her 92nd birthday, Mum broke her ankle. For years, she had refused to use the equipment physiotherapists had recommended for her - Zimmer frames were absolutely not part of Mum's idea of how she could be helped to walk. They were not good for her image as a keen walker - ("I don't need any help!" she would say, "I can walk ten miles a day!") -and she insisted on using a low, four-legged stool for support. She would lean on it, move a step along, then pick up the stool, throw it in front of her a few more inches, before taking another step forward.

On this particular evening, the "accident that was waiting to happen," happened. Her foot got tangled up in one of the legs of the footstool, and she went over, landing on the floor. In one way, it was a relief that it was "only" her  ankle that at that moment was twisted at an impossible angle; we had nightmares about her hip, or shoulder, being fractured.

The ambulance arrived within a few minutes, and the paramedics were terrific. They got Mum loaded into the ambulance and we drove off to hospital with the blue light flashing; they radioed ahead, so there was someone to meet us at A&E.

Strangely, Mum did not seem to be in much pain, but that of course could have been due to the shock of the fall; in fact, we were all in shock at how swiftly what we thought would be a normal evening, had turned into a trip to the hospital, with an unknown outcome to be faced.

Waiting is the worst part, they say; your mind starts racing, turning over every possibility, and your stomach is churning when you think of operations and anaesthetics and the attendant risks for elderly patients. Whenever someone comes near the door of the relatives' waiting room, you are in a constant state of expectation that a doctor might be on his way to talk to you.

Nurses popped in and out to say they were checking on Mum, and taking her to X-ray, etc., so they did their best to reassure us; after about 3 hours, one of the doctors came out to explain what they had done so far.  He said they had not anaesthetised Mum, but she had been very heavily sedated, so that they could manipulate her ankle and get it well supported.

"We are going to admit her on the ward now," he told us, "and your Mum is awake, and quite cheerful. Don't worry; she didn't feel anything, and she won't remember anything we did, either."

When we saw Mum, she was indeed very happy, and chatty! It was such a relief. The doctor went on to say they would keep her in for a few days to monitor how things were going, but there was still a possibility she would have to undergo surgery to have a plate inserted; it was a case of wait and see.

Mum, in spite of what she had just been through, was listening to all of this. Suddenly, very loudly, and very clearly, she said, "I'm NOT having an operation!" and got quite upset - she obviously understood what the doctor meant, and so we all rallied round to soothe her, and explain nothing like that had been decided upon.

Thus mollified, Mum calmed down; we followed her up to the ward and saw her settled in bed. I promised her I would be back, first thing in the morning.

Reassuring Mum like that brought back another, almost forgotten, memory for me.

When I was a little girl, aged 5, I spent a week in hospital in Liverpool, undergoing investigations for persistent tummy trouble - probably a bug I had picked up when we were in East Africa, that had worsened into chronic gastro enteritis.  I remember how frightened I was, being left alone, and Mum had sat by my bed, promising, "I will be back, first thing tomorrow."  These were the years when hospital visiting hours, even for children, were very limited, and strictly adhered to.  Nevertheless, early the next morning, whilst I was feeling especially small and scared, and wondering what tests I was in for, I heard my Mum's voice at the far end of the ward, telling the Sister on duty she had come to see me.

My mother would brook no argument; she made sure she saw me twice a day.  That gave me such confidence, to know that she would be back later on as well, that I was able to bear the long hours  in between.  At 5, I could read, but I think the staff didn't believe I would have liked a book, or something to do! and so fear of the unknown was coupled with boredom.

Being able to tell Mum, at her age of 92, that I would also be back first thing in the morning, made me realise, yet again, that everything we learn in life is never wasted.