Life with Arfur

An irreverent look at living with arthritis

The Ankle: Three Weeks On

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Wanna know where all the rain is coming from? It’s my fault. I’ve been spending money.

Yesterday, wandering round the shops in town, I’d had enough of the pain and soreness in my right ankle, so I dug into my thruppenny bit jar and forked out £16.50 for an ankle support. The pain of parting with that amount was almost as bad as the pain from the ankle itself, but the need to minimise this maddening, won’t-go-away ache outweighed the need to keep the Oxo tin full.

Does it work? Hell, yes. You can see the soreness under the ankle, and the joint itself grumbles a bit when I put it on, but I’m okay with that. The wife grumbles no matter what I do, so I’ve developed an immunity to constant griping. It’s pain I can’t deal with.

And when I put my crap, dog-walking shoes on, it looks as if it’s still badly swollen, but it isn’t. The support takes up more room than my socks in the same way that the missus takes up more room than me.

It’s hard to believe that three weeks have passed since I fell in the garden and did the ankle in. To me it seems like yesterday. I can clearly remember the universe spinning above me; an effect I usually get only when I’m drunk. But blasted out of your brains on Newcastle Brown Ale doesn’t cause any obvious injuries.

You don’t believe me? I’ll prove it. I was at a wedding do back in the late nineties. Top room of Nimble Nook Club. Tanked up on Boddington’s bitter, I needed the smallest room, which was downstairs. I slipped on the top step and came tumbling down like the walls of Jericho. Not a mark on me. One slip in the back garden and I’m hobbling along like a 19th century prisoner without the manacles.

The support virtually immobilises the ankle and true to its description, provides support when I’m walking as well as resting. I had one on my wrist about 15 years ago, when I broke it, and it was great, although that one did make holding a knife and fork difficult, and the missus complained that after eight weeks in place, it began to stink… or was it me that began to stink after eight weeks in place? I can’t remember.

So I’m getting around a little better and the ankle will, hopefully, heal a bit quicker.

Arfur has taken this opportunity to get his jollies. My right knee, which is bearing the brunt of hassle from the ligaments, is now humming in tune to the ankle, but his music is a sort of descant. The ankle hurts and Arfur is part of the choir, I rest, and Arfur gets the opportunity for a solo.

Her Indoors reckons I deserve it for being such a bad bugger all my life. Now that’s adding insult to injury.

What the support has helped me do is work. Wearing this strap on my foot, I’m able to get at the word processor and get on with those projects I need to move forward. If nothing else, a couple of new books are making progress.

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