Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Two weeks and two days later, an MRI scan has confirmed it: my anterior cruciate ligament is ruptured. It's not until something happens to one of them that you realise how much you use your legs. For a fortnight now there's been no more cycling into the city, no more running for a bus and nothing so easy as just nipping to the local for a swift pint. Pints I can still do but 'nipping' is definitely out. Exiting the front door of the building (once I've reached it) brings Groundhog Day. Along with my first intake of the best air of the day, there is inevitably a smug looking cyclist with the sun on his or her face, enjoying the peaceful streets of Notting Hill as salt is slowly rubbed into my wound. The GP thinks it will mean surgery but is sending me off to the knee doc just to make sure. Meantime I'm trying not to think about what is ahead of me. Some say six months before I'm back to how I was but one friend wrote to say that he's just at the point of being signed off by the doctor 11 months later. In the meantime there is no choice: the patient must learn patience.
As a footnote to this, I'm glad I booked insurance. In Euros, the rescue cost 360, the doc 150, the leg brace and drugs 90. The insurance company also booked out three seats for me on the plane to put my leg up on and a car the other end that delivered me to my door. I've previously had a rant about insurance companies not being fit for purpose so respect where its due: thank you Flexicover.