The next few days if not weeks turn into a blur of drug induced weirdness barely masking pain like no other.
The pandemic is in full swing and the few visitors I have, Scotty, Sia, Harry, Jasmie & Mallory all have to wear full hazmat suits covering their bodies entirely as well as N95 hospital masks. I can only have two visitors at a time. The cheeseburger habit has been washed down with Red Bull as the only semi-normal thing I get brought into the ward on a daily basis.
The daily news reporting is depressing as shit and it feels like the whole country is in a state of panic.
It's been like this for months and Victoria is the worst hit with our Premier Dan Andrews taking the hardest of stances.
Being in hospital sucks. I'm starting to develop a sense of increased burden on everyone that has anything to do with me.
I've taken to Twitter where I usually talk about motorcycles non stop. Over the years my handle has gained over 10,000 Followers and I've posted the original surgeons photo to my feed and the notifications have gone ballistic.
I use it to get a sense of perception other than my own. People are asking me questions I can't answer and a few that I speak with privately reach out and offer heartfelt sympathies for my situation.
A few with amputations hit my DMs and trigger a whole new sense of concern for my future. I mean, my foot was torn off and I was lucky they stuck it back on and in fact, it's not until a few weeks have passed that Scotty tells me they rung him that night of the accident and requested permission to amputate there and then.
Scotty is Scottish and lots of people take his gruff nature the wrong way but I understand now more than ever it is just his way. When he barks it sounds like he's yelling but unless you have known Glaswegians in your time it is easy to understand why that is, they talk fast and often loud and with a patter than is entirely different from our own.
He told the surgeon that if he was any good at his job and valued his reputation that he better save that foot and under no circumstances was there to be an amputation.
So here I am. Stuck in hospital with broken bones that are trying to knit, huge wounds that are getting worse and steel frames holding my foot together. I'm realising just how serious this is.
I struggle to move, I barely had a shower the other day, foot wrapped in plastic bags, up on a chair. Trying vainly to hold onto a sense of dignity I managed somehow to do it myself although nurses were really keen to help me into and out of the shower. Dirty birds!
I'm sleeping through most days and praying for sleep at night which rarely comes.
The motherly nurse swift kicks in and at 2am she kindly offers to make me a hot milk Milo. I felt like crying but I never cry unless I lose a dog or person close to me. The last time I cried it was for three days straight during the pandemic when my little girl dog Bella had to go for the big sleep, it completely broke my heart. I haven't shed a tear since the accident yet - it seems pointless. Cry? I'm more likely to scream at myself for being a wanker.
At 4am a new nurse comes into my room just as I was drifting off...
"Hi sweety, would you like any cream on your bum? I could rub some on for you?" she asks rather like the old witch in the Hansel and Gretel stories.
"Huh? What? Cream? Why would I want cream rubbed on my bum? Do you know what time it is?" I semi bark at here.
"Oh sweety it's to stop bed sores as you're here for awhile" she retorts.
"Oh, yeah right, sorry, no thanks, no bum cream, I'll be out of here soon."
"Of course dear, have a good sleep." and she slips out of my room switching the light off without so much a raised blush in cheek.
That was fucking hella weird I think to myself, who wants cream rubbed in the arse by a nurse I wonder? Am I dreaming? Did that really just happen. Weird doesn't cover it.
Of course at this early point in my journey only a few weeks post accident I can't fully comprehend just how nice a bum rub with some cream could be.
The surgeons are really concerned with infection due to the site being quite angry but I haven't seen it yet for myself, so there is more preventative surgery planned for tomorrow, another wound wash out and redressing the wounds and an assessment of where we are at.
Maybe bum cream? Who knows. I'm playing Olafur again and sleep enters my brain accompanied by worry. For myself and all those around me. I'm a gigantic burden on society and it's nobody's fault but mine.
I vaguely scribble some notes about the day in my trauma diary and try to drift off to sleep with a tummy full of hot milk and Milo.
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