The Cutting Edge: Journey to Recovery

Ice Skates

I feel bad that I haven’t written anything on this blog since last year. But nothing interesting or life-altering has happened until just recently. Let’s catch you up.

About a few months ago I started ice skating again; a hobby I’ve always loved and wanted to get better at. When my school took me to my local rink once a week for six weeks I got as far as level 3. The ice rink was then refurbished and built to become one of the biggest rinks in London – it even included a swimming pool and a large gym!

So naturally I decided to check it out and next thing I knew I found myself becoming a regular member. I went from two to four days a week. I loved the feel of wind as I gained speed, that accomplishment when you progress to a new trick and the overall sense of freedom when you’re on the ice.

But that all came crashing down – literally – yesterday. I came at a corner and tried to gently curve, but I lost my footing. I fell on my foot as it bent beneath me, I immediately used my arms to cover my fall as the rest of me landed. Unfortunately that didn’t stop my head from bouncing on the ice. But luckily my quick thinking of using my arms to brace my fall prevented a possible concussion. I closed my eyes tightly as I scraped across the ice, which caused abrasions on my lower arm, to a full stop. I was thankful that two other people were on the ice, one of which watched the fall happen, who came to my aid. I felt pain immediately and knew I had to take my skates off. The lovely gentlemen then lifted me as I hopped to a seat.

I told them that I would be fine and would probably limp back home so they left me to my devices. But then I felt this intense nausea and fatigue, everything around me started blurring and the noise around me muffled to the point where I almost became deaf. I was on the edge of passing out. I grabbed the attention of one of my rescuers and asked him to get medical help. Turns out, that awful nausea and near passing out was the shock of breaking my ankle. I was wheeled to the first-aid room and the medic then phoned for an ambulance. Now if you live in London like me you’ll instantly understand the frustration of this service in this country. Unless you’re profusely bleeding and basically halfway dying, you have to instead phone 111. After being bombarded with questions and being directed to other lines  you’d have to wait 1-3 hours for the paramedics to come.

When I finally made it to the hospital (shout-out to the paramedics that got me there, thank you for being so friendly and keeping me calm), I had to wait houurrss for a fucking x-ray. I used that time to overcome my reluctance to call my parents about the incident, and if your parents are anything like mine you’d understand the hesitation. You see, my parents tend to be overprotective, overbearing, smothering and rather controlling. They’ll try to turn this around and blame the incident on me and then try to force me to quit the thing that caused it. In fact, my dad tried to put his foot down and actually tell me “you’re not going ice skating anymore. I won’t let you.”

Anyway, I got a temporary cast (they had to tear my trousers and I almost cried because they were the most comfortable pair I had) and they sent me home in crutches. FYI, they’re so much harder to use than TV appears to make them. All your energy goes to balancing your weight on one foot and your thigh on the leg you’re hovering starts to ache. Not to mention your hands begin to hurt from holding the handles for not even a minute. The worst part of all this is the loss of independence. I usually do everything myself. I like taking care every aspect of my life – from finding jobs to cleaning my own dishes. Now even the seemingly easiest task is difficult to accomplish and requires forethought. Now I have to overcome my trust issues and rely on other people to take care of me. I still don’t even know how I’m going to shower; (I asked one of the doctors about this and he responded, “You don’t. You’re going to be one stinky lady!”, which I know was supposed to be in good humour but deep down I felt like shit).

I lost my balance for one second and now I’m paying for it for six weeks. This didn’t hit me until the next morning but I held in my depression long enough for me to get to the hospital for a proper cast and back home, and by then it all bubbled up and I ended up breaking down in tears during an episode of The Listener (s02e07 if anyone’s curious). I felt utterly ridiculous and stupid for getting upset. I didn’t actually lose my foot, just temporarily damaged it. But all the same it felt that way. There is nothing in this world I hate more than feeling vulnerable, and now I have this huge, white (well pink because screw you I love that colour) plaster for the world to see.

I looked online for some tips to keep my spirits up and I found that the main thing I gotta do is keep myself distracted and talk to other people.

It’s going to be a long recovery.

Until then,

Sahar is in progress.

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