- It doesn’t hurt as much as you think. Or maybe that’s just me. I’ve always believed I have a pretty high pain threshold, seems to be true. Six hours of labour and no pain relief, one broken wrist and it was a bit sore, but actually not much more than that.
- The NHS is truly rubbish. ‘Is my wrist broken?‘ I ask. ‘No,‘ they say. ‘Does it need an X-Ray,‘ I ask. ‘No,‘ they say. Until five weeks later, ‘oh look, it’s broken…’ I was brought up on a solid diet of wonderment at the NHS – my mother used it frequently, faithfully and to the full. I have not. In part this is because I honestly believe my mother’s devotion to all things medical resulted in her untimely death at the age of 56. She was over-medicated whilst at the same time under diagnosed, despite her regular pilgrimages to our local hospital and eventually, the thing that killed her had never once been spotted. As a result I have a pathological aversion to medics and hospitals.
- I am right handed and I broke my left wrist. Turns out I use my left hand a whole lot. Who knew?
- You can ask total strangers for help – by and large people are genuinely pleased to offer a helping hand. Particularly with opening water bottles, on trains.
- Everyone has a broken bone story. Everyone. Even if it didn’t happen to them. And now I have my own.
Love and peace, Sweet