Finally, 174 days in and I had my first physiotherapy appointment. Today was going to be another exciting day and I was really looking forward to making progress. I mean, its only been 6 weeks since the screws came out of my foot. Surely, being able to walk is not asking too much?
The first part of the appointment involved me filling in more forms with questions such as: What is your worst symptom and what do want to gain out of physiotherapy? Erm.... well, my worse symptom is that I have a foot and ankle with scars and dints all over it, a foot that is the size of a house and, oh did I mention, it won't work? What do I want to gain? Well, I would like to be able to walk like I did before and be able to actually wear a pair of shoes. These sort of ridiculous questions are the sort of thing that I would be expecting to do if I was signing up for some sort of on-line course where I would not actually see a living, breathing person, not when I would be seeing a physiotherapist in about 5 minutes time who would have all my details already.
After finally meeting the physiotherapist, what really surprised me was the amount of talking I had to do. Believe me, the amount that I can talk, I would normally be very happy at this and probably asked to do my own therapy classes of how to talk for extended periods of time about absolutely nothing. However, after having a cold for a week, not only do I have a constant trail of snot coming out of my nose, my throat hurts and my voice has developed it's own distinct tone. Talking this much seemed to be a real strain especially when I sound like a cross-breed of 80's pop star Bonnie Tyler and a character from Alvin and the Chipmunks. Wondering if maybe the hospital had lost my records, once again I had to tell the story of how I broke my foot, how long I had not walked for and how I was managing now, all whilst trying to sneakily stop my nose from dribbling without a tissue.
Sitting on a hospital bed, I sat wondering when my exercises were going to start. Maybe I was expecting too much but I had visions of me holding onto gym bars whilst trying to walk or somehow bouncing on a trampoline. Having seen this sort of thing on T.V, I realised that I have perhaps watched too many tragic programmes resulting in someone who had to learn to walk again. Am thinking now that they might be a tad unrealistic! Instead, the physiotherapist made me stay sat on the bed whilst she pushed and pulled my swollen foot in every direction possible. It ached a lot and some of the movements just were not happening. I then had to stand up and attempt to walk. Wobbling and toppling from side to side, I looked like a right idiot. This lasted all of about 10 seconds before I could not do any more. She then asked me what I find difficult to do. How about walking?! Obviously!
Finally, I was asked to stand on one foot and my automatic reaction was to lift up my left leg (the good one). When I realised that she actually meant to try and stand on my poor left foot, I looked at her as if she had asked me to put my knickers on my head. Did she really mean it? Apparently she did. Holding onto a pole, a carefully lifted up my right leg. Perhaps when I was made, I was wired up wrong because as I did this, other parts of my body did strange things. My right hand began to shake and I began crying like a baby and oh yes, gallons of snot poured out of my nose! Shocked that I had actually managed to stand on this foot, I put it foot down and very nearly collapsed onto the bed. She told me it was a perfectly normal reaction if I had not stood on that foot for so long. (I think she had not noticed my streaming nose!)
The physiotherapist told me that it could take anything up to a year until my foot feels like my own. Well, that made me feel positive! At least she was honest but it looks like I may have an alien foot for a while longer. I am no longer broken but not quite right, sort of in between. Physio felt very weird, and the running machine and swing bars that I was expecting were nowhere to be seen! Maybe this was a good job judging by the amount of gunk that was pouring out of my nose at the slightest bit of movement. Hopefully next week, my hospital notes may have turned up.
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