Little did I know that a simple fall coming out of the shower one fine morning, would turn into such a traumatic saga in my life.

It all happened so quickly. As I tripped, I reached out to save myself and took the whole brunt of my weight on to my right arm. The pain was excruciating. Almost immediately my hand swelled up like a balloon, and I could barely move it.

I managed to make my way to A&E in St James’s Hospital. The waiting area was full to capacity for a Saturday afternoon, and after a long, tedious, painful wait, I was eventually seen by the nurse on duty.

An x-ray was taken, and it was a shock to my system to hear the bad news. I had sustained a nasty fracture to the wrist, and was admitted to hospital on the spot.

I lay on a trolley for a few hours, until a bed became available just after midnight. It was a relief to escape the chaos of A&E and settle down for the night in the peaceful ward.

Surgery took place the following afternoon. A wire was inserted in my wrist to hold it together. Two days later, I left hospital with my arm in plaster and a sling for comfort.

It’s amazing how we take our limbs for granted. I felt so vulnerable and frustrated. I could hardly move my right arm, and being right-handed didn’t help matters. Simple things like having a wash, and getting dressed proved to be so difficult.

I was only home a week or two when, although on medication for pain and inflammation, I started to feel a lot of discomfort in my arm, especially at night time. On my return visit for a check-up with the consultant and his team, they were not too happy with the healing process.

Again, without warning, I was re-admitted to hospital and a further operation was to take place. This time inserting a plate and screws. A lot of tests were carried out, including swabs taken in relation to any infections, especially MRSA.

Lying in bed all day in hospital, having lots of time to think can make one feel depressed. I was anxious about how my arm was going to heal properly, and the consequences of not being able to use it, played on my mind.

I was relieved surgery went well and after leaving hospital, was happy in the knowledge this saga was over. Sitting on a bus, a week later, I noticed my bandage was leaking. There was also a nasty odour coming from it. Once again I wasted no time, and headed for A&E to get it seen to.

I nearly passed out when I saw my arm after the bandage was removed. The wound had opened up, and it was obvious by the condition of my wrist, that it was badly infected. Again, I was admitted to St James’s and put on an antibiotic drip.

When the doctor examined me, he was none too pleased. I was put in isolation for ten days with twice-daily antibiotics given intravenously to combat the infection I had contracted. When I heard I had contracted MRSA, I immediately panicked and feared the worst.

Another operation was scheduled to clean up the wound, and to remove part of my tendon. I honestly thought my arm would never be the same again. It looked crooked and I couldn’t even look at it when the nurses were doing the daily dressings.

I’m happy to say I’m on the mend now, and still getting dressings twice a week and will be on an medication for some time yet.

A simple fall turned into a traumatic, long drawn out event in my life this year, and I’m glad to say I was one of the lucky ones. My physical health being good, and my age was a relative factor in getting over this setback.
My jagged scar begs the question, are hospitals really as safe a place as we would like to think they are these days?