I don't advise breaking your leg

I have a confession to make…

I broke my leg.

Breaking your leg in Israel, 18 months after making Aliyah, when your only form of communication is hand signals, is totally inadvisable.

I wasn’t even doing anything exciting. No sky diving daredevil style for me. No. I was actually getting out the car. It’s not difficult. Honest. I’ve done it loads of times before. But this time, I lost my balance, sort of wobbled, and frantically tried to grab something to hold onto. But there was only air, and I discovered that air doesn’t really hold you up. I heard a snap and fell on the floor.

My husband’s head appeared from behind the car. He didn’t find it strange to see me lying in the road. (I’m often to be found lying down - it’s a favourite position of mine - especially on a sofa). But he could see that my leg was a funny shape. And the fact that I was shouting ‘leg, hurting, could be broken’, might also have given the game away.

He cleverly deduced I wasn’t happy, so shot off to get help.

Whilst he was gone, a large truck appeared on the horizon (well, maybe not the ACTUAL horizon, but it was very sunny and my head was spinning a bit from the pain). It was headed my way. They saw I was in their path and rather than questioning why a large middle aged, sweaty lady would have chosen to position herself in the middle of a ROAD, they assumed I had chosen that particular spot to sunbathe.

They didn’t seem to appreciate the ‘weird twisted leg’ thing and decided to honk and shout. Very loudly. Lots of times. They assumed I wanted to be in the path of a 7 tonne vehicle.

I got a bit scared and tried to recall my judo rolls from when I was 11, but thankfully husband appeared shouting ‘Stop for Gawd’s sake, she’s decapitated!’ (Well I think that’s what he said, but the sun, the pain...I can’t be sure).

Once they realized I was not enjoying a picnic, they were a lot more helpful. By helpful, I mean, they stared unflinchingly whilst I offered my sincere apologies - I’m a Brit -politeness runs through my veins. They kindly turned a deaf ear to my screaming profanities of ‘gosh that hurts’ and ‘golly gee it’s painful’ - well, not quite that - but I don’t seem to be able to swear in print. (Although I am superb at it in person).  

Upon arrival at the hospital it appeared that I really couldn’t walk. My body is not as sculpted and toned as it once was (I think due to a fondness for Ben & Jerry’s ice cream), and I didn’t have the required muscular ability to hop, even whilst clinging on to Husband. A wheelchair was needed. Husband succeeded in finding one that had seen better days (it only had 3 wheels) and off we went to the emergency room where it transpired I had broken my leg ‘very well indeed’ and ‘in quite a unique way’.

I felt I should get a prize.  

My prize, it transpired, was a major operation. I would be out of action for 6 months. Euphoric thoughts sped through my mind - exactly how many episodes of Game of Thrones could I watch in 6 months? If I ate one tub of Ben & Jerry’s every day, how many flavours could I get through? How many packets of Cadburys Giant Buttons could I bribe friends to bring back from the UK?

But then reality set in.

On the first day, they told me I was having my operation later that afternoon and to fast in preparation. I’d done Yom Kippur. (Does a cup of tea really count?). I could do this. But by 2pm my sugar levels were dangerously low.

By 8pm, through a mixture of Russian, Arabic and Ivrit - none of which I am strong in - I discovered the doctor had left for the day.

Not good news. But I was cool. It would be tomorrow.

But it wasn’t tomorrow. Or the day after tomorrow.  In the meantime I got myself into a little routine...

Lights went on at 5am. No clue why - none of the patients had a plane to catch. Wheel self down corridor to delightful communal shower. Dress self in attractive green pyjamas whilst balancing on one leg, (very useful skill), wheel self to nurses station, learn some Russian and Arabic swearing, get told I was definitely ‘next’ on the surgery list and therefore 'nil by mouth'..

Starve for 14 hours, get told I’m not next on the list but I'm still not allowed to eat, (this was very upsetting, I like to eat), get told I was definitely ‘next’ on list, learn that being wheeled down a ramp is fun, but being wheeled up a ramp is not, (well not for Husband doing the pushing), get told I wasn’t ‘next’ on the list, become an expert in stalking doctors to ask them about having my operation.

This carried on for ten days, until I somehow found myself parked in the Chief of Hospital’s Office, holding his very nice secretary as my hostage.

I didn’t have a weapon or anything (I’m not totally crazy), but my wheelchair became a useful tool for blocking any movement that she wished to make between her desk and the exit (I had become very nimble in my wheelchair). After 10 days of starvation, dehydration and a crash course in swearing in foreign languages, I was ready to rumble.

Husband and I explained the problem. I had been in hospital for a while now, and although we were very grateful for all the weirdly coloured jelly they had provided, it was apparent that when they told us I was ‘next’ on the list, they were lying, as I was still here and my leg was not fixed.

I was ready to be cut open and to go home please.

Hostage looked slightly ashen-faced as though she might be sick, but managed to call her boss and speak some rapid, garbled Hebrew.

She was breathing quite heavily by that point, so I couldn’t catch everything she said, but I think it involved words such as ‘meshugana’, ‘excellent at wheelchair manoeuvres’ and ‘I’m not paid enough for this’.

Chief of Hospital agreed with her recommendation that I should be permanently removed from the hospital, and I was promised my operation that very day.

Having binged on several episodes of Greys Anatomy, I was cheered up to realize that soon I would meet my dashing doctor who would spend hours with me discussing all the intricacies of my proposed surgery. Instead I was faced with a rather frazzled looking gentleman who spoke no English. My Russian was limited to swearing at angry nurses, so our communication stalled. But he was wearing green scrubs and carrying a clipboard, so I was certain he was good at his job.

My operation was finally booked.

Take my advice. If you ever find yourself in an Israeli hospital, just cut to the chase and take a hostage.