When it’s just a Weekend Break!

“Have you ever heard a bone crack? Or worse, have you ever heard your own bone crack and witnessed your leg bend in the wrong direction?”

Gran Alacant in the south of Spain is like a second home to me as I travel there with family at least once, if not twice a year. So in September 2016 when someone suggested “will we go to Spain for a weekend” I said “sure”, I mean, why not! So a date was set and I went online to book my flights. Yeah yeah the usual rigmarole - car hire: skip, accommodation: skip, are you sure you don’t want to buy insurance: skip. I mean, we were going for 3 nights, what’s the worst that could happen? And besides, I was out of work at the time so I was all about saving the money!

In all fairness we did have a lovely relaxed weekend, eating out, going to the beach, a bit of shopping, and enjoying the fab weather. On our final day for some reason I was wide awake ridiculously early that morning, and there wasn’t a peep from anyone else in the house. “What should i do? I know, I’ll take a walk down to the cliff and catch the sunrise, what a great idea!” So I pulled on my best flowy trousers, a top and some flip flops. No pockets? No problem! I wasn’t going to need my phone now was I? I just hung my camera strap around my neck and off I went. Didn’t wake anyone to let them know where I was going, sure I would be back before they even notice I was gone.

I knew the exact area I was heading for, a quiet little spot at the edge of a new residential area that was looking right out over the sea, a perfect quiet spot to welcome the day’s sunrise. It was almost 7am, and I knew to expect the sun to come up at 7:20 so my 15 minute walk would get me there just in time, and that it did. Now to find the perfect position to catch it all on camera, so I shimmied around rocks and prickly bushes, and headed slightly downhill for a better view minus electrical poles and wires. Now, anyone with any sort of a brain would know that dry weather, plus gravelly ground, on a hill, in flip flops means that you’re probably going to have a very bad day. And bad day, was an understatement.

Have you ever heard a bone crack? Or worse, have you ever heard your own bone crack and witnessed your leg bend in the wrong direction? Well it’s not something you’d want to experience, trust me. As I think back now it’s like it all happened in slow motion - down I went flat on my ass, one leg in the the air while the other leg skidded on the little stones like marbles under my foot, and somehow about halfway between my knee and ankle gave way and cracked like an old dry stick. F**k you gravity! I swore from the pit of my stomach, I spoke in tongues, there were swear words I never knew I knew! I sat there for a few minutes, mind was blank, what the hell was I going to do? I had no phone, there was no one around as it was 7am on a Sunday, and the only houses nearby were newly built and still empty. Ok, mind over matter. I got to my feet, well, one foot, and literally hopped back to the road. Still no other humans within shouting distance. (You might be thinking that there should have been some holiday makers around stumbling back to their hotels after a night of drinking, no, this was Gran Alacant, no tourists, no bars, proper Spanish Spain). So I made it back to the road and propped myself up on a kerb against a pole, sat back and enjoyed the sunrise. Yes, I think it was a touch of delirium setting in as I quietly snapped some shots of the sun making it’s way up over the Mediterranean, which actually turned out to be awful photos. Definitely delirium, or maybe adrenaline because what I did next defies logic - I frickin walked back to the house! The usual 15 minute walk took me around 45 minutes while hopping on one good leg and using the inner side of my heel of my screwed up leg/foot to balance myself every few hops!

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The best of a bad lot from the sunrise photos. I was actually disgusted with myself that I didn’t get a good enough photo as it was a beautiful sight to behold. But hey, I had a fractured leg, which I think is an acceptable excuse!

Actually, the more I look at it, it’s not too bad, and besides, I think it has a decent enough story to go with it!

Finally I made it back. My sister met me at the door and said “where have you been, we’re going to the market are you coming”? I glared at her almost on the verge of tears and said “I think I sprained my ankle”. And so seconds later she promptly reappeared from the kitchen with an ice pack. Now god bless my poor sister, she meant well, but I was sitting there in the front yard with my leg propped up on a chair with a bulge on the outside of my leg that looked like an extra giant misplaced calf muscle, but she accidentally dropped the ice pack on me. Sweet mother of divine Christ almighty, at that point I knew that this was not your average sprain. Luckily we had a rental car, so off to the pharmacy we went. The Pharmacist took one look at my leg and instead of giving me a miraculous cure, she gave us directions to the nearest clinic. Now I think it was at this point that I remembered that I skipped out on the travel insurance, should’ve listened to my mother - HA! It shouldn’t be that expensive, what are they going to do? Strap me up in a bandage and send me on my merry way? HA! I sat there in the waiting room in a wheelchair thinking, my flight home is in about 6 hours, they better be quick - oh bless my naivety!

After my x-ray, my sweet sweet doctor, Dr Sylvia who was an absolute angel wheeled me into her office and said to me “why are you not screaming in pain, you have 3 fractures”, I shrugged. Delirium or adrenaline? She popped my x-ray up on the screen for me to see what looked exactly like an old cracked stick. I had a long fracture going halfway up my fibula that was barely hanging on by a little sliver of bone, and two smaller fractures closer to my ankle. Then she asked about my travel insurance. Shit.

Fast forward to a long conversation about what to do next, cost, where was the money going to come from, that there was no way I could travel home, and the fact that I needed surgery. What were my options? A. Pop me in a cast and let it heal, and I end up with a gammy limp and crooked leg for the rest of my life - not an option, but cheap. Or B. Have the leg saving surgery in Spain and be limp-less. Needless to say I chose option B which was going to cost me an arm and a leg. Well, a leg anyway. Either way, I was going to have to stay in Spain for a few weeks for my recovery. Poor me, stuck in Spain. Now I literally mean ‘poor me’ because that surgery and private hospital stay obliterated my savings. Did I mention that I was out of work at the time? Ouch. A manic whip around of various credit cards covered it, and a visit to the Credit Union a few weeks later to pay everyone back left my account looking rather sad and miserable. Savings gone. At least I had a leg though…

And so, I was whisked off to a fancy hospital in Alicante with a handful of paperwork all in Spanish. I have to say, the staff there were wonderful. I got a little upset as I couldn’t speak the language or understand what was going on, so they found me an English speaking nurse to explain the whole process. It just goes to show the importance of learning languages, I mean my knowledge of Spanish goes no further than asking for directions to the nearest baño, or ordering a cerveza! I was poked and prodded and x-rayed, and had a cast put on my leg to keep things in check before my surgery the following morning. The weirdest thing about my stay at the hospital was the fact that there were so many staff - doctors, nurses, and porters, and I didn’t see one other patient, not one! I had a room all to myself, and it felt like I had a whole hospital to myself. It was lovely, like a little hotel with painkillers.

Bright and early the next morning a couple of porters came along to collect me for my surgery, and I vaguely remember that later on that day I was so doped up on happy pills that I had officially christened one of the porters “Bruno Mars”, at least he got to laugh at the crazy Irish woman! When we got to the room, (the room where they take you before surgery usually to get the anesthetic, is there a name for it?). What a surprise I got when I heard the word “epidural” being thrown around! “Hold on one second, I’m here to have my leg fixed, not to give birth”!!! My ears weren’t deceiving me, I was going to be awake for the whole thing! AAAGH! Seriously, is that even legal? But I was reassured that I’d be given a little something to help me relax and drift off for a little snooze. Did I snooze? Nope. But whatever they gave me, made me not have a care in the world, they could have done anything to me, not a single F was given. So much so, that during the surgery I even had a little peek around the drape that was hanging over me to block my vision. Fascinating, I could see the inside of my leg and how my skin was pinned back, I was reasonably lucid, and numb from the waist down, and not a damn did I give. I heard every clink and clank, and all the drilling. I was even shown the titanium plate and screws before they were put in to hold the bone together, I guess it was nice to be acquainted with them seeing they were going to be part of me for life. I’m sure not everyone would agree with me here, but it wasn’t a horrific experience. Next, they popped in 17 staples to keep it all together, and I was packed back into a cast and brought back to my hotel room, I mean hospital room. More painkillers? Sí, por favor.

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Believe it or not, this giant pink leg, and small white leg both belong to the same person!

Three nights in the hospital and I was allowed to leave. By this time, my mum, nephew, and sister had all flown back to Ireland on our scheduled flight but my brother-in-law had kindly volunteered to stay on as someone would have to be there to deliver me buckets of tea and sandwiches during my recovery, and his Mrs Doyle duties didn’t disappoint. Luckily we had family accommodation because if I had to have paid for 3 weeks in a hotel or apartment, that would’ve been the bill that broke the camel’s back. So my 3 days in Spain turned into 3 and a half weeks in Spain. I won’t lie, boredom set in pretty quickly, and frustration from the sporadic sleep cycle due to the pain in my leg and being eaten alive by mosquitoes. I was living in one room as I couldn’t make it up the stairs, (blessed that there was a bathroom on the same floor). Slept on the same couch that I sat on all day, sometimes for a change of scenery I sat in the chair by the front door. I had no TV so I watched Netflix on my phone (God bless WiFi). Didn’t have the patience to read a book. Did a bit of crochet. Sent my bro-in-law on various shopping missions to find things like carrot cake, and the good biscuits with the thick chocolate on them. Drew some pictures. Stared out the window. Learned how not to fall while using crutches… That was pretty much my 3 weeks, it was quite depressing. I think the highlight of my stay was the day that the neighbour drove me back to the clinic for my cast to be removed, and we stopped at a café on the way back for toasties, exciting times…

Yes, the cast came off after only 4 days which I didn’t expect. Very different to the process in Ireland. My instructions were to wiggle my toes, and move my ankle for circulation and also so my muscles wouldn’t go all weak and floppy, and to speed up the healing. It worked! When I went to the hospital in Ireland on my return to have the staples removed, the doc was surprised at the rate of healing and progress in such a short time. Here’s to not having a plaster cast! A few weeks later and I got a mad looking space boot, and a lot of physio, and by Christmas I was back walking on my two feet again. Success! Four years on, and I haven’t had a single issue with my leg, screws an’ all. Now the bank account, that’s a different story, still in recovery…

Since then, I have always made a point of buying annual worldwide travel insurance, which actually works out cheaper overall if you take multiple trips. There are numerous insurance companies that you can look into but personally I like to go with the Credit Union which works out around 60 Euro or so a year. Fingers crossed that you will never need to make a claim but doesn’t 60 quid sound a whole lot better than the guts of your life savings! Now I’m starting to sound like my mother!

And the moral of the story is - ALWAYS GET TRAVEL INSURANCE!

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