Listen to this story being read by Claire Murphy, here.
I recently broke my ankle.
It was one of those things where I should have known better than to try to walk up to the toilet block on our camping trip, up a dirt road in the dark after a couple of wines.
I had the dog with me and when I was coming back down the slope; I slipped on some loose gravel, my foot went into a ditch created by the recent heavy rains and I twisted my ankle so badly. As I lay there on the ground with no phone signal and a dog licking my face, I thought to myself, "I guess this is where my story ends. Here is where I die."
I didn’t. I managed to get to my feet (quite a feat for someone whose other leg is hindered by a knee injury from my teenage years) and I hobbled back to camp and put on a brave face for my campmates whose trip I did not want to spoil.
Luckily for me as someone who carries a joint injury, I also travel with quite an extensive range of taping in the first aid kit so I taped it up and sucked it up for the next couple of days.
When I got back home, I showed a photo of my ankle to my nurse sister who got very cranky with me and ordered me to go and see a GP immediately so they can see whether I’d actually broken anything.
Now I live in regional NSW where getting a GP appointment often means a week or so wait time or even more. It’s especially difficult when you’re dealing with something quite urgent. But it just happened that a brand new GP clinic opened next door to my husband's workplace on the day I went in to tell him I needed a doctor. So I walked in and was one of their very first patients - lucky me!
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