Nat Locke: I’m on crutches again. We can add ‘Nat injuring herself’ to death and taxes as life’s certainties

They say that there are only two certainties in life: death and taxes. But I would like to throw another one into the mix. The absolute certainty that I will find a new and innovative way to hurt myself.

Yes, I’m on crutches again.

I have quite the history. You may recall the time I busted an ankle at the work Christmas party while dressed as Dennis Lillee. That was a particular highlight. Also, I got an honourable mention for my costume, because the hairy chest was remarkably authentic.

Or the time I hurt my knee getting out of bed a week before I was supposed to go hiking in New Zealand.

Or the time I broke a tiny bone in my foot when I missed a step that was the height of a house brick and had to have surgery.

Or the time I developed a stress fracture in my fibula because I attempted that Couch to 5K program, but the concrete path around Lake Monger was too torrid for me.

This time, I fell off my bike. Good effort Nat. There was a rock or something (it was dark) on the road and I hit it, overcorrected and hit the curb before tumbling off. As far as bike crashes go, I’ve had worse (because of course I have), and I managed to get back in the saddle and ride home, feed the dog and put myself to bed. The seriousness of my predicament was not evident until I woke at about 5.30am the following day to discover that I couldn’t walk.

This is particularly problematic because I have a very long hallway and my bedroom is quite a way from the bathroom. I normally don’t mind because I’m happy to get my steps up, but when one leg isn’t capable of bearing weight, it’s a torturous exercise to cover the required distance. Clinging to the wall, I hobbled melodramatically and very, very slowly.

And here’s what not to do in this situation.

Don’t start rifling through your bathroom cupboards for medications that might be appropriate for this scenario. Because that’s how I stumbled upon some painkillers that I was prescribed following my gastric sleeve surgery, which are for, and I quote, “fast relief of acute pain”. That seemed to fit the bill, so I popped one. Unfortunately, it didn’t relieve my acute pain, but it did make me throw up several times. The empty stomach didn’t help much, as it turned out.

Happily, I have people I can call on when these sort of predicaments befall me. After lying on the couch for a bit, I called a friend to drive me to hospital to get some professional advice and x-rays. She even found it funny when I threw up in her car. It turns out dog poo bags have a myriad of uses.

This friend then deposited me in a wheelchair and rolled me into the triage area before returning to my house to walk my dog and clean my kitchen. If you don’t have anyone in your life who would do that for you, you need to rethink your friendships.

Several hours and x-rays later, I was discharged with more appropriate medication, after consuming a quarter of a dried out sandwich and two cups of apple juice. They also kitted me out with a gigantic leg brace that covered almost all of my leg, and one crutch. They wanted to give me two crutches, as is standard, but one of my arms was too sore to operate a crutch. Incidentally, it costs the same amount to hire one crutch as it does to hire two. What a way to find out.

My friend then returned to pick me up and by this stage had almost stopped laughing at the ridiculousness of my situation. Almost.

The reactions from my broader circle have been predictable. Mainly people are saying “What, again?” which is completely justified. At this point I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m just doing it for attention. Sure, gravity seemed to be mostly at fault this time, but deep down, do I have some sort of psychological disorder that does this to myself? Do I secretly crave being on crutches?

Well, no. They’re awful. You can’t carry anything, they’re cumbersome and people look at you pityingly.

It turns out I’m just pathologically clumsy.