Getting re-cast

Tuesday - time to hand myself over to the care of the local hospital, so I thought I'd better wash my hair. I can report that putting the power-shower over the sink is not a fantastic idea, as the water re-bounds off your head and the enamel and you basically wash half the bathroom. At least a towel over my leg kept it dry.

Having dressed with a little assistance from J, I managed to get downstairs in slightly better order than before. Getting out of the house needed some thought though. We worked out that the best way to cope with all the high door sills was for me to sit on a stool, put my legs onto the floor of the porch, stand, hop forward, sit on the stool that had now been moved into the porch, and then put my feet outside and stand again. We used the wheelchair from medical loans, but the small wheels were difficult to get past the plants at the side of the path, so some gardening is clearly needed (probably not by me this time).

I managed to get into the car, risking leaving my foot on the floor. By the time we got to the hospital, it looked like an aubergine, but improved once I put my foot on a stool. It was still quite swollen by the time I got seen though. With the backslab removed, my foot and ankle looked puffy and bruised, with a neat set of stitches by each side of my ankle. Despite all the complex negotiations between hospitals, my X-rays still hadn't arrived, so they did another set, confirmed everything looked fine, and sent me to get the leg re-plastered.

I hadn't realised how the previous cast allowed my foot to sit in a slightly pointed position, until the crew in the plastering room tried to put it back at 90 degrees to my leg. It took them about 10 minutes of bouncing my toes and working the joint until it was even close to that, and every second felt like the worst agony I'd had until that point. 

"Maybe take some painkillers before your next session", they said as they discharged me.

Back home, towards the end of the day, it was obvious to me that my cast had tightened too much at the outside of my foot, and was pressing on the 2 outside toes. I tried various tools to ease the pressure, but ended up going to bed with a full dose of painkillers for the first time since the accident, hoping my foot would ease by the morning.

Lessons learned

1. Your damaged foot may change colour at the drop of a hat. Best to keep it elevated as much as possible to begin with to control the swelling.

2. Back-slabs are much heavier than the second plaster they use, so you may feel more mobile on your crutches once you get re-cast, without that huge pendulum hanging off your leg.

3. If you are getting your leg-cast replaced, take some painkillers first, especially if the foot isn't completely at right angles to the leg at the start - they will work hard to make sure it is when they've finished.

Blue Monday

Waking at home in Nottinghamshire was a relief, even more once I'd taken some of the good painkillers they'd sent home with me. First order of the day was a bathroom stop, which I achieved quite well with J hovering nervously behind me as I hopped in.

The back-slab made my bad leg weigh a tonne, and I was really keen to avoid moving it, so I went back to bed, rather than attempting to go down stairs. Then I remembered it was J's birthday! Fortunately, I'd already got him a present, so I dispatched one of the boys to extract it from the garage, (The croquet set looked like a great present when I saw it in the charity shop in pristine condition, but I guess it will be a while before I'm on the team). The boys had had a bit of a lapse themselves, with all the excitement, but quickly organised their presents and Rowan went to look up a suitable cake recipe.

Next on the list was to phone the Dr's to arrange my continuing care. Unfortunately the receptionist seemed a bit confused and suggested I just go to A&E, "We don't do that kind of thing, sorry!" Hmm.

I decided to call the Fracture Clinic, as the hospital in Scotland had thought that would be where I got sent by my Dr. They were a bit surprised not to have the Dr. contact them on my behalf, but happy to see me anyway,
"Well, we don't want you to suffer, so we'll make an exception and see you tomorrow to check it's all still ok. Can you get the hospital in Scotland to send your X-rays?"

I phoned the hospital in Scotland - "Can I get my X-rays sent to my local hospital please?"

"We need your hospital to send us an official request through our system."

I phoned the Fracture Clinic again, "They say you have to request it from them."

"We can't do that. They need to send it to us."

I phoned them again, "No, I'm afraid we can't release them without a request - here's what they need to do..."

One last call to the locals, "Ok, we realise this is not what you want to be doing, what with your broken leg, so we'll make an exception just this once and call them." (Well thank @@@ for that!)

I sent up a silent prayer that there was someone willing to make exceptions on my behalf, and thought I'd try my luck with the Dr's again, now I new I was in the right, but immediately, I could tell I had the same receptionist...

"Ok, I think there might have been a misunderstanding last time, but I really need some stuff to help me get around the house and I've been told you are supposed to help me sort out that and my continuing care, and I'm close to being housebound at the moment."

"I can make you an appointment to come in to the surgery to be assessed."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to get someone here to assess what I need at home?"

"You have a cast on, so you're not housebound. You should come here." (Aaagh!)

My parents appeared and began a complicated mime and exaggerated mouth movement routine that suggested they had another solution, so I politely declined and rang off.

"You can get the stuff you need from the Red Cross Medical Loans place," explained Mum, "and if we can call them as soon as they open, we should be able to get it today!"

I'd forgotten that, since quite a bit of my Mum is bionic these days, she's had lots of practice at this. She reeled off a list, "Commode, so you can cope downstairs without a loo, wheel-chair, raised loo seat with handles. Do you need any extra seats, leg-rests?"

Almost before I'd realised it, my Dad had dashed off and was sorting it all out for me. I was very thankful, because I'd have been in trouble otherwise. Long-distance crutching was still very much a dream (did I mention I'm not exactly stick-thin?), and I had had visions of trying to get all the way down the corridor at the Dr's with my wobbly crutch technique and sore wrists.

"Time to stab yourself" - my darling husband proffered me a wipe and the syringe for my daily anticoagulant injection. I had a go - it hurt, but it settled down quite quickly.

J organised a bit of special leave so he could look after me for a few days to help me get to hospital and until I got "crutch competent", and suddenly Dad was back, bearing gifts.

The chair was serviceable but with quite small wheels and the commode was old but clean (phew). We had realised that there wasn't enough room for the toilet seat gadget in our bathroom layout, but that also meant that the windowsill was handy to push up on, so I could manage.

Thrilled with the possibility of spending a bit of family time downstairs, I put on some loose pyjamas,  and managed to get downstairs on my bum (holding onto a stool and lowering myself on to the top step before a slow slide down). Crutch-walk to the sofa, loads of cushions under leg, Masterchef on the telly - not too bad, though it had taken ages to get downstairs.

The commode proved serviceable and stable, and announcing I hoped to use it was a great way to make the kids leave the room quickly! After a few hours, we had the going back up issue. I could do it, but not well, because my left knee was a wee bit shocked by the extra work it was needing to do. At the top, hauling myself onto the stool was ok, but it was really difficult not to put some weight on the right foot when I tried to stand - more practice needed. And with the back-slab cast, it already felt like I was getting blisters, even with the small amount of movement I'd been doing.

Getting upstairs, I remembered that just before I'd left, I had ordered some melatonin to see if it could improve the quality of my sleep and reduce my reflux problems. I had a quick google to see if it was a problem for those with broken bones - no, in fact it would be good because it should help bone formation - excellent!

I took a capsule, and after a little bit of reading, fell into a wonderfully deep sleep.


Lessons learned:

1. Hospitals don't always communicate with each other in the same way. Apparently distance isn't necessarily the problem as my hospital reported having problems getting X-rays from the next county!

2. Your medical practice should actually be able to arrange for kit to be brought to you, if you don't have ninja Grannies and Grandads to get it for you.

3. If you have problems with getting your Drs to help, then Red Cross Medical Loans should be able to help you. This page should have the details to link you to your area 

4. Remember that you are going to take a while to get up crutching strength, especially if you aren't light as a feather.

Homeward Bound

I woke properly in the morning, after a night of rather on-off sleep to a nurse keen to get me up and organised,

"We think we can let you go home today. You just have to see the physiotherapists and they'll make the decision."

The surgeon came to have a look at me too.

"You seem fine. I think you should be able to go."

My fibula still seemed to be moving a lot when I moved my leg at all, but he wasn't worried,

"It will all start to stick itself together soon, don't worry. The tibia is the important bone - if you only break your fibula, you can still walk because the tibia is so strong. Fixing the tibia should stabilise everything well enough."

Jeremy and Ash arrived, having put Rowan on a train home to make space for me in the car. We all hung around for a while, then my food arrived, so they went off to seek their own sustenance.

When they returned, J helped me to get dressed in my own clothes. Fortunately I'd packed some loose   trousers to do yoga in, which fitted over the plaster a treat. I suddenly remembered - my best trousers had been cut off me by the mountain rescue! But I didn't have time to brood as the physios turned up, popped me into a wheelchair and whisked me off to a stairwell.

"We need to know that you have the hang of these crutches before you go. Have a try"

They set the underarm crutches up for my height and gave me the chance to move a little on them.

"Now for the stairs. Not as hard as it looks" - they showed me a one-crutch method for stair climbing - put your hand on the bannister, crutch under other arm. Keeping crutch at current foot-level, hop good foot onto step, reach further up bannister, lift crutch to current foot-level, repeat. Despite my nerves, I quickly got the hang of it, hoping up 4 stairs and down again, no problem! (Down is the same in reverse, pretty much).

They put me back in the chair, "Don't do more than you have to. Humans weren't designed to use crutches. They make you sore and you'll get tired very quickly.

So - nearly ready to leave, though we needed to get some pain killers and some blood thinners. I was shown how to inject myself with the heparin - apparently an important thing to do for anyone likely not to be moving much for a while.

J and Ash went to get the car, whilst a porter wheeled me down in a hospital chair. We chatted and it turned out the he'd been the cook on one of the ships my dad had served on in the merchant navy!

Musing on what a small world it is stopped me worrying how travelling in a car would work. I had to have my leg raised, so the only way we could make it work was for me to along the back seat with cushioning under my leg. We hoped a pillow at my back would stop me getting bashed by the door handle. It was actually fairly comfortable for a while and the seat belt worked ok if I put both parts under my arm and into the buckle near my leg.

The journey went fairly well to begin with, though after an hour or so, my backside was getting numb and I was keen to get a little relief. Fortunately, we found a roadside Costa with the toilet just inside the main door. It was my longest crutch walk to date and went fairly well, especially considering that the floor in the place had just been washed. We topped up on drinks and set out again.

Another stop at a motorway services allowed me some wriggle room to relieve the numb bits, but the loos were too far away to get to easily and with lots of folk milling about, we didn't attempt it. Fortunately, I was tired enough to doze the rest of the journey away.

At home we had our first big disappointment. I could use the crutches fine on the flat, but the 1960's entrances to our home had quite high steps, and I couldn't hop high enough to get in. After a bit of man-handling, I was finally home, and in need of a loo. I fairly raced down the hall on the crutches, and met the second come-down - our stairs were nothing like the wide, shallow ones in the hospital, and again, I just couldn't hop high enough to get up them.

We quickly worked out a method - sitting down and using arms and good leg to lift bum, which did get me up the stairs. A stool at the top allowed me to push myself up onto the seat so I had enough height to stand. Fortunately it was not too hard to get down the hall, and the bathroom was small enough that I could use the walls and the window sill to lower and raise myself from the loo.

Knackered, but thankful to be home, I crawled into bed and went out like a light.


Lessons learned:

Crutches take time to master and are very tiring to use (to begin with, at least)

Not all stairs are equal, so don't expect you'll manage to crutch up home stairs like you can in hospital. Remember that door-sills on older houses can be quite high too.

If taking a car journey home, you might do better to take A roads and use smaller road-side cafes which have toilets only a short distance away, unlike large service stations, where the loos might be far off and with lots of obstacles and people in your way.

Getting Put Back Together

The morning bustle of the hospital woke me from a strange dream where a helicopter circled over my head but never landed...

It all worked like a well-oiled machine. Various people came to see me to set up my operation. I was assured that my tendency to vomit after general anaesthetic could be dealt with and the doc who was going to do the operation promised me that he would put the bones back in exactly the right place, "Because if they are even a few mm out, you'll know".

A nurse helped me to wash and produced a toothbrush for me (bliss!), and suddenly it was time for my op. I was wheeled in to the anaesthetists who gently diss'ed their colleague's difficulties in getting my "baby" cannula in. "Don't worry, once you're asleep, we'll sort you out a good one."

The next thing I knew, I was in recovery, with a brand new cannula, and not even a hint of queasiness. I had 2 lots of metal work holding my tibia together, though the fibula would sort itself out, apparently. I also had that instrument of torture known as a backslab attached to my leg. It's very heavy, lies behind and at the sides of the leg. It's tightened with bandages and is designed to keep the leg supported whilst it's still swollen.

In almost no time at all, I'd been returned to the ward and the loving embrace of my family, who had come down from Crianlarich and were in to say hello before leaving to sort out a room in a nearby cheap hotel. They also needed to explore train ticket options as we needed the whole back seat of the car for me to go home with my leg up.

The afternoon rolled by in a haze of the fun painkillers you get in hospital, though the fix on the tibia didn't even twinge, which made me hope they were good at jigsaws and had put everything back in the right place. Though there was a somewhat unnerving clunking sensation in the area of the fibula when I moved my leg. The hospital still seemed to be an oasis of calm, as all kinds of weather hit the windows, but I was told that they'd got busy so they needed to move me to the Day Case ward to make room for someone needing more care.

I crossed my fingers that this wouldn't be a multi-bed crazy ward, and was rewarded with - a room of my own! As my bed had an amazingly comfy mattress, it was all quite deluxe. If the tv screen arm had reached far enough over my bed to see it, it would have been perfect! J turned up and we had a nice companionable evening - as much as you can when one of you hasn't slept for a few nights and the other is wrapped in a happy cocoon of pain killers.

Lessons learned today:

No1. It's great if the surgeon who puts your leg back together is a perfectionist - even a small difference can mean more pain and arthritis for you.

No2. A comfy mattress really helps when you can't move about much.

Taking A Break to Hospital

It seems as if one of the main qualifications to be a paramedic in the UK is to also do a great comedy routine. The two guys who picked me up, kept me laughing until the entonox kicked in. I'd had a bit of the gas from the Mountain Rescue but once we started moving along one of Scotland's more pothole-rich roads, I really started to appreciate the stuff. For me, the main benefit was that it acts as a muscle relaxant, and most of my broken leg muscles were set like stone, so it really helped.

My personal entertainer / paramedic riding in the back checked my vital signs. My heart rate was up a bit, but the blood pressure was quite excitingly high. It may have gone up further when he said,
"If you'd been on our side of the hills, with that rain coming in, they'd have taken you out in a chopper." (Damn!)

In between me getting as high as a kite on the entonox, we chatted about life, the universe and everything. My ride-along companion was of the opinion that walking, or doing anything else exciting in the hills, was a daft idea because of what he had to scrape up when folk fell off them.

Whilst I was getting my suspension-free ride, Jeremy and the boys were being given a lift back to our hotel by the police - a major help as we were on the wrong side of the Loch. It was over and hour away, but I couldn't get a good phone signal, so that was all I knew. There was a potential that if the leg had an uncomplicated break, I'd just be plastered and discharged, so the lack of communication was a worry.

The roads smoothed out as we neared the hospital, then got really bad again as the driver took a short cut to avoid the Friday traffic, and I got to enjoy a rutted country lane flanked by huge new posh houses (apparently the farmer made a mint). And then we were there.

Forth Valley Royal may be the newest hospital I've been in. It also seemed remarkably calm for a Friday evening - maybe we were too early for the drunks. The first bloke to assess me seemed to spend a long time prodding my foot before I realised that he'd mistaken the remains of my last-year's sandal-tan for areas of good and poor blood flow! Once he was reassured by seeing the other foot, he said the phrase I was dreading - "Ok, now I just need to get a cannula into you." My family all have veins that look like maps of the Mississippi, but mine are more like streams under a glacier. Let's just say he had a stab at it. After about 5 goes, he managed to put a mini cannula into my left arm, then I
was sorted out quickly and X-rayed.

The results were sobering. My tibia (big lower leg bone) was fractured in at least 2 places, and the fibula (thin lower leg bone) was broken into 3 bits. Just to add to the fun, my foot was now displaced sideways by about half an inch (12mm in new money), which explained why it looked wrong. This also got me a ticket to the fun activity of having my bone re-aligned by being hauled back into place.

They set me up in a room ready to plaster me, and then gave me some morphine. A young female doc had a bit of a pull on my foot, then called for support "It's not moving..."

A wonderfully calm older woman came in, "You're just used to doing this to old ladies, not someone who has the muscles to get them up a hill. It will work, but we'll need to pull a lot harder."

She took the lead - "More morphine I think - lots more."

"Should I use the entonox too?"

"If this was happening to me, I certainly would!"

So I started sucking on the gas and air and closed my eyes as calm female voices around me chatted as they were preparing for the "big pull". It felt as if everything was spiralling away from me as they encouraged me to keep taking the stuff in, and then someone said, "You can probably ease back on that now", and I opened my eyes to see I had a fully plastered leg. I hadn't felt a thing.

I laughed, "I see what you did there. Clever!"
So obvious really - don't let the patient have a reason to tense up, just get on with it.

"Well done. We've almost got it in the right place now, but you'll need an operation tomorrow to screw things together and they'll finish it off then."

I was wheeled off to a 4 bed ward, where fortunately I could get a mobile signal. I first called the hotel to explain I'd be in overnight, then managed to get a call through to Jeremy and the boys, who had actually started driving to the hospital in case they needed to pick me up. The entonox clears after a few breaths, but the morphine doesn't, so I ended up having the slowest conversation ever with him, as I had to form the words up in my head and force them out. Even then I was hard to understand (what I'd said to the hotel, I'm not sure!). So they turned round and drove back to the hotel, and I got settled down for the night. My ward had 3 quiet older women, but down the corridor, I could here a commotion every so often. A nurse came to give me a check up so I asked what was going on.
"It's old ladies who have broken their hips, but they have dementia, so they keep trying to get up and go home, and they don't like it when we stop them."

That put things in perspective. All I had to worry about was that whenever I began to drop off to sleep, I re-lived the foot slide that had started my problems.

Lessons I learned:

Entonox definitely works as a muscle relaxant, so it's worth taking in quite a bit.

Snap, and it's gone...

We'd had a lovely day.

We'd taken an early train from Crianlarich where we were staying, and then caught the ferry from Tarbet to cross Loch Lomond to the "wild side". The first wedge of rain mostly hit whilst we were on the boat, so we had really enjoyed walking up through the woods from the loch-side. There was a hint of magic with small waterfalls, trees dripping with moss and lichen in the clean air and the fun of meeting wonderfully docile feral goats on the way. When we discovered the bunkhouse by our route had a bistro which served real coffee, we thought that would just put the icing on the cake, especially if we could fit in a little time to have some of theirs on the way back.

The surprise dry spell meant a leisurely lunch by the RSPB hut (closed but offering good shelter and a picnic table), and we decided to have a look at their newly planted woodland area. The track was often boggy and not ideal, but definitely walkable. We had sticks, so I was pretty confident. We walked for about an hour, climbing gradually with some ups and downs, and the track got rougher and wetter. We decided it would be best to turn round so we'd have plenty of time to catch the ferry, and that cake was still a potential if we made good time.

Husband Jeremy (J - lovely bloke, tall and lean but stronger than you'd think, from years of cycling) remarked, "Ok, I want you all to be careful because this would be the worst place to turn an ankle", and I borrowed my son Ash's stick to add to my own because I had a bit of steep boggy ground to get down, and Ash is part mountain goat, so he really just uses his for fun.

So - I choose where to tread carefully - bits with well-rooted grass seemed to offer good traction - placed left foot and..... the whole of the grass, roots and all, parted company with the ground, sending me in a 5 foot skid on my left leg. My best efforts with poles kept me upright, but then my right food got folded underneath me and I went down. There was a definite crunching sound.

My younger son Rowan (takes after his Dad), tells me that I screamed really loudly, and high, but I remember it more as me falling to the ground swearing.

When I lifted my leg, the foot felt floppy and un-supported, and there were various grinding and crunching sounds. I wasn't going to be able to walk on this, and trying could create further injury, so I  stayed put as J reached me. Once he'd worked out that my top half was ok, he looked down at his crumpled wife, "You're the one with the outdoor first aid certificate. What should we do now?"

I was pretty sure that the ankle was broken at this point, so it was easy to answer. "I'm not going to be able to walk out. We need to call 999, get Mountain Rescue, give them co-ordinates. I probably need to stay here and keep warm." The ground was treacherous, and I didn't want my lovely boys trying to carry me on their own - I'm what charitable folk call, "a big girl".

I have to admit, at this point, I thought I might be in for a chopper ride to Glasgow, which I could muster quite a lot of enthusiasm for, especially as the forecast heavy rain was due in about an hour. We decided that my sons would go for help with the best phone and J would stay with me. Everyone gave me any spare clothing and I got wrapped up like a parcel, propped up against rucksacks with my leg up on another. J was instructed to take off the boot keeping the ankle in line to check I had blood flow (yes, but the foot was clearly moved sideways from where it should be - yikes!). J had his iPad, so he took a screen shot of where we were and gave it to Rowan, as the speed-merchant of the group.

Just as the boys were about to go out of sight, another family of walkers appeared around the corner. Out of talking range, I willed them to have a quick word and keep going, but there was then some milling about as phones were tried out (I wasn't hopeful, thinking, 'come on, the signal is crap, keep going!!'). Mountain goat boy reappeared to tell us the guy was going to get involved, then everyone disappeared and it all went quiet for a bit. J found this very hard - did a bit of fiddling with my wrappings, checked my foot, ran out of things to do and went for a wander to see if he could see anyone - straight across the leg breaking landscape of recently planted trees and holes. I couldn't watch, so I began to daydream about my chopper ride. J reappeared, legs intact (relief) and we sat and made small talk for a little while. Then the kids appeared with an old khaki sleeping bag they'd been given.
"We called 999, and someone's coming to get you." (Chopper - yay!)

A tall thin figure in an old jumper appeared, with a distance-eating walk that still made it look like he was on a weekend ramble. He was very calm, introduced himself as if we were meeting in a cafe "Hi - I live at the end of the road and I think we need to get you as near there as we can." And he set about making sure he agreed with my assessment of my condition before bandaging my leg and ankle.

(What about my chopper ride?) "Don't you think we'll get an air-lift or mountain rescue?"

"You need a more interesting injury to get the chopper out, and mountain rescue will be coming, but from the main road, so if we can get you closer, you're closer to being sorted out properly. You don't want to be here when the rain starts. I'm a scout leader and I've learned from experience." Aha - that explained it!

At this point tourist man (Charlie) reappeared to help as well and there was some discussion, because it sounded easy, but I hadn't just fallen because I'm a klutz, it was pretty treacherous. Anyone trying to carry me had to negotiate a nice steep bit of slippery track with a sprinkling of leg-breaking hummocks, whilst unable to see at least one of their feet, all the while trying not to drop their load of one-footed "full-figured female".

The first idea was for me to wear a ruck-sack like a leg harness, and them to try to carry me by the straps. It worked just about as well as you'd imagine - so I was a hanging on to Charlie and local guy at each side, trying to keep a ruck-sack nappy from falling off my legs, whilst hopping down a hillside. Actually it soon turned into sitting on one man's knee, hopping down onto the knee of another person - like a really bad 1970's party game. Fortunately the steepest slope was a short section, and after 10 minutes, we could move onto mark 2 person carrier - which was to lie me in the opened out sleeping bag and then drag-carry me. If you ever fancy a novel and slightly odd experience I can recommend it. The sensation was part buttock massage, part sudden cold butt soaking as the bag dragged through a puddle. It was especially handy that the way my legs lay in the bag meant that the broken one was well supported.

The going underfoot was still very difficult for the team and my ample assets made the job more difficult for my carriers, who were just hanging onto the rolled up sides of the bag, so they had to swap round and rest every 20 yards or so. They were soon all pretty ragged so we had another discussion. Charlie had managed to drive half-way along the track, and suddenly remembered that he might have some useful straps or ropes, so he ran back to his car whilst the rest of the group looked around for anything that might help us to McGuiver my means of transport. By the time Charlie reappeared, we had a selection of thick fence posts and some other bits and bobs.

He began,"I couldn't find the straps, but we do a lot of kayaking so I have this emergency stretcher!" There was initial rejoicing, but it soon became obvious that it would be sore on the hands so the fence-posts were laced through the stretcher handles. Then we needed to add a rope, so I ended up running a quick class on how to do knots that don't suddenly come undone... I can tell you that I was very keen to help them get their round turn and 2 half hitches right!

Now placed in the stretcher, my legs weren't so well supported, so we improvised by tying a cardigan around my lower legs and sliding a buff over my feet so the good leg could help the bad one. I had started to shiver uncontrollably with shock though, so the effort of steering my duff leg with the good one was considerable.

We rounded a bend and I heard my bearers cheer as they saw a policeman join us and someone from the mountain rescue. They "just" had to get me over a gappy wooden footbridge and up the steep but dry slope on the other side and there was a police car to take me the rest of the way. The gang fairly romped up the hill and gently set me down. At this point, my local rescuer disappeared, and I didn't really get chance to thank him properly, especially as a spit of rain announced the storm he'd predicted was nearly on us.

From then on, everyone followed strict protocol, asked me how I was and told me their name, like a slightly strange formal party. I'm sad to say, I don't remember any of them, but I didn't have my dance-card with me, so I hope they understand. To add to the fun, I realised the my body's high adrenaline had presented me with another problem - "Any chance of using a loo very soon?"
"Oh aye, don't worry, we'll organise something."

I was slid along the back seat of the police car and we drove very carefully back as the rest of the party followed on. My driver bemoaned not having his normal 4X4 on the very rough track, but he did well enough that my leg was feeling more comfortable as we finally reached the car park and the waiting mountain rescue folk. They didn't seem at all upset at missing out on the chance to tramp off in the pouring rain to pick up a fat wifey. Their medics still got to do their stuff though, and I was assured they had "made arrangements" to help me with my other problem...  A very nice young lady ("I'm a junior Doctor, I do this for fun on my days off") assessed my leg, applied a field splint gadget and then helped me to their "facilities" - which turned out to just be a bit of tarpaulin between 2 vehicles... I can tell you that it was quite an experience and involved one person holding my leg in the air, another my clothing and another offering wet wipes as I leaned against the vehicle. Fortunately the rain really got going after that.

The ambulance arrived soon after and I was wisked off. I didn't get chance to thank my rescuers properly, but hoped the family managed to. Without them, I'd have been on the hill much longer, and soaked through.

So - lessons learned -

No1 - best not to break the leg!
No2 - it may be useful to start your own party's rescue to save time (though severe injuries and incoming bad weather might earn you a helicopter ride).
No3 - the wonderful Mountain Rescue really do give up their spare time.
No4 - my family and passers by did a fine job

And No5 - which I'd like to have learned about 10 minutes earlier than I did - UK ambulances carry kit to help folk with broken bits to relieve themselves in relative comfort.