A Day Down The Drain

Yesterday was probably the most fruitless day since Little Jack Horner buggered off with all the plums. In the morning, a nurse came in to change the dressing on my leg, and noticed that one of the Ilizarov pin-sites looked as if it was infected. Also, my leg was really badly swollen, even worse than usual. It's been swollen ever since the frame went on, but the heat recently has made it even worse. And the fact that I had been up until 5am yakking online (instead of going to bed and keeping the leg elevated like a sensible person would have done) didn't help matters.

So she decided that I should go to the local hospital and get it checked out, and arranged for transport* to get me there. I pointed out that I'm due to see the consultant who fitted the Ilizarov next week anyway, so I might as well wait until then, but to no avail. In the meantime, a doctor came in and put me on a course of antibiotics. Fine. Six hours later, there's still no sign of the transport. So I call them to ask what's happening - it turns out that they have a load of emergencies to deal with, and are running way behind schedule. By this point it's early evening, so I figure I'd be quicker to cancel the ambulance and try and cadge a lift to hospital from one of my neighbours, who by this point has arrived home and who very kindly agrees to drive me there. After waiting a while - not too long, to be fair - I get seen by a nurse who tells me that, gosh, that leg's awfully swollen. Yes, I knew that, thanks. I've known that for ten months, but thanks for pointing it out again.

Then a doctor comes along, gives me the once-over, and tells me exactly what I expected to hear, namely...

1. None of the consultants at this hospital work with Ilizarovs, so they probably wouldn't do much about it.
2. I should take the prescribed course of antiobiotics.
3. I should attend my appointment with the consultant next week.
   
4. I should f*ck off home (although considerably more politely, but that was what it boiled down to).

So, I duly f*ck off home, in a taxi, at the cost of around £17. A day down the drain.

* I can't drive at the moment (a) because of the state of my leg, and (b) because I'm not allowed to, for a few more years. And there was no-one available to give me a lift into hospital at the time.