My hand is holding my left knee and I’m trying to stop.
Trying to stop screaming so I stop scaring Zack.
I need him to tell D my knee’s come out.
He is Terrified.
Max is having a nap.
Zack is terrified.
He thinks his mummy must be dying or something.
He runs up the stairs where D’s already half dressed.
“It’s my knee, my knee’s popped out.”
D stays calm.
He asks me if he should call 999.
I tell him no, I just need to get it straight for it to go back into place.
Only one problem – I’m sitting on the chair at my desk.
Zack is as white as a ghost and I’m trying so hard to keep myself from scaring him more.
I tell D to call for an ambulance.
They take details and say I’m not high priority, but someone will be there as soon as they can.
That was at 12.35.
My knee stops spasming, with the kneecap stuck outside it’s socket.
I can breathe, for a little while at least.
I tell D to check on Zack. He must be petrified.
D gives him his headphones, plugs them into Zack’s DS and gets him cosied up in his bed, telling him not to worry, it’s happened before and Mummy will be fine once she’s been to the doctor’s.
The muscles start spasming again, I start screaming again.
I don’t want this.
The snow is so thick.
Ten inches fallen in one night.
How is anyone going to get out to me?
I call back at 13.15 – no one has come to help me yet.
My breathing is becoming laboured and I feel hot, clammy, sweaty.
I tell them I have asthma and can’t breathe.
I ask D for a draw of his fag.
I need something to take my mind off the pain.
Finally, at 13.40 the paramedics show up. Apparently they didn’t get called till 13.15.
I get gas and air.
I am minced.
Still, every time my knee spasms or they try to move me I’m screaming in pain.
They give me a shot of morphine.
(D tells me they missed first time and blood spurted out everywhere – I was in lala land by that point and don’t remember (apparently I told him my bag was in the oven – of course I meant kitchen!)).
They rearrange the entire living room to get me out from behind my desk and into a wheelchair.
D and one of the paramedics get out shovels and clear a path from my door to the back of the ambulance. Apparently some neighbours asked if they needed help.
I’m still inside, talking shite to the paramedic inside with me. His name is Powell. It’s his first name.
I’ve almost used up the first canister of gas and air.
He rushes out to the ambulance to get me more.
Pull me onto the wheelchair.
I scream. Lots.
It hurts the whole way over to the ambulance, even though it’s only about 15 metres in distance from my living room to it.
D helps them by holding my leg while they get me into the ambulance.
As soon as my leg is laid out on the stretcher it pops back in.
Relief floods its way up my body. Thank GOD. I can just go back inside.
Not after all that morphine I’m told.
They need to take me in and keep an eye on me.
Stupid wonderful morphine.
The drive in is calm, beautiful wintery scenes the whole way.
I get into A&E and am able to get onto a bed.
I realise I’m still in my jammies and dressing gown. No bra, no make up, hair is manky.
I feel like I’m wasting their time and bed space, but then again, they don’t seem to be that busy.
I check twitter and facebook while I wait.
Finally I get to see a doctor, tell him what happened, and what I usually do to get it back in myself.
He’s happy for me to go home once they’ve got a support bandage on my knee.
I wait again.
Finally a lovely nurse comes in and helps sort out bandaging up my knee.
I ask to get up to walk around.
Gingerly I put my weight on it.
I ask if it’s ok for me to walk up and down the hallway for a bit, she says that’s fine, but be careful.
An hour and a £40 taxi ride later I’m home.
D looks surprised to see me walking into the kitchen. I tell him I need to keep it moving.
I go in to see Zack and show him the '”bandage” on my knee, and that we need to be careful with it.
“Can I ask you something Mummy?” he says.
“Can you not let your knee pop out again please? I don’t like it.”
I don’t like it either lil man, I’ll try.
All I’d done was sit down and knocked it ever so slightly at my desk.
That was the day after Boxing Day.
I’m trying not to think about it, but some times it just creeps into my head.
I shudder at the thought of it.
What if I’d been holding Max at the time?
What if D hadn’t been there?
I don’t like what if’s…
Next week I’m going to ask my doctor if they can do something more permanent.
I want a pin in there or something. Something to stop it ever happening again.
It’s interfering in my life. I’m paranoid about it to the point there are lots of things I won’t do just in case it happens.
I can’t live my life like that.
Physiotherapy doesn’t work.
It just makes it hurt even more when it does pop out.
Next week will be the first step towards me seeing about getting surgery to finally have it fixed for good.
Wish me luck, I think I'm going to need it.