There is an accidental fortuitous silver lining to me scaring the pants off myself with the impressive trip-up-over-thin-air-and-nothingness and upbuggering of my "good" ankle a couple of weeks back. The lovely nurse practitioner in A&E who let me know that there was no apparent fracture on the x-rays (although, because I was wheeled to cubicles and x-ray by one shift but out of x-ray and back to cubicles by the next due to the precise time that my 4 hour wait in chairs ended, she did go back to take a second look and get a second opinion when she saw the ankle itself in person, so to speak, for the first time!) said she thought she should make a physio referral. Lo and behold, a letter arrived, and an appointment for barely 2 weeks post injury was today. At said appointment I confessed to the very pleasant Karl that I felt like a bit of a fraud because after 4 or 5 days of RICE the injured ankle was back to not far off the normal day-to-day level of mild creaky decrepitude. Although the 'bad' one has been dreadful, as has the knee and the hip on that side.
So now I'm getting a 6 week attendance at their gym-clinic-for-hopalongs for the injured 'good' ankle with a message writ large in the notes that the not-injured 'bad' one is significantly more movement-restricted and miles weaker and less stable, so work on that one too. Last time I sought medical advice for said 'bad' ankle (best part of 8 years ago, I reckon) I was basically told to see if it improved when I stopped breastfeeding and to lose many stones.
That's two medical practitioners in a row who haven't just said "it's cos you're fat, piss off and lose weight". That's a record breaking run!
