Earlier this month I told the world (well, you and the other two strangers who read this rubbish) that I'd fractured my arm. Back in July. The brains of people more clever than me would have detected the pain much earlier than I did, but I am what I'm left with.
I wrote that I was due back with my doctor in a couple of weeks to learn my fate. But I didn't have to wait that long for news.
I was in bed, as it turned out, just a few hours after I'd written the post. I'd decided to go for a nap before getting up to see Donald Trump get his arse kicked in the US Presidential Election. (That went well).
And then around 9pm the phone rang - she's a very hard-working doctor. Scottish. Let's hope we keep her if they leave.
She'd seen my x-rays and confirmed the fracture. She said she'd already contacted the break man (aka the consultant surgeon in the Orthopaedic Department at the Leeds General Infirmary) to ask him to sort me out.
I saw him on Tuesday. I said "hello." He said "hello" back. Nice man. He's English so definitely staying put.
He put my x-ray on the display thingy. It clearly showed two cracks in the bone at the top of my arm.
"You did this in September?" he said, raising his voice at the end of the sentence like posh people do.
"July," I replied proudly, like hard people from Northern Ireland do.
"Wow," he said, visibly impressed.
However, he then proceeded to explain that he wasn't going to operate on me just yet.
"There's not much we can do about the fractures as they will heal," he said. (Plus I'm hard as nails).
"But I will send you for physio as the area around the break is badly inflamed and there may be ligament damage. " (I'm even harder than I thought).
"If there's still pain in two months, we can consider keyhole surgery."
Sounds fair enough to me, but there is a problem.
Given how hard I clearly am, how will I know if there is any pain or not?
Maybe I'll worry about that when the two months are nearly up.
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