Tag Archives: walthamstow

Slow progress…..

The human body is an incredible thing. It’s made up mostly of water, but it’s constructed around a brittle skeleton of calcium-based bone. When it breaks, it’s a gruesome sight and feeling, and it’s an amazing feat that it can blend itself back together, even if it’s with a little help from the NHS.

My jaw was broken 12 days ago, by two cowardly, thieving little fucks, and put together expertly a mere 18 hours later by the undervalued, and underpaid members of the NHS that work at Whipps Cross Hospital. So, here I am, down the line, trying to rationalise the slow, ponderous process by which the human body mends itself. My jaw is struggling to fit together as it once did, stitches holding it together, covering plates underneath. I try to bite and can’t get my front teeth together, and worry is seeping in. I reassure myself that things will be ok, that I’ll speak to the hospital, and that everything is taking its natural course, but it’s only human nature to think the unthinkable.

I walked down the dimly lit road it happened on for the first time today. Unlike the night it occurred, this was bathed in sunlight. It was daytime, and it’s going to be a long time before I go down that route after dark. It’s not a matter of kicking myself that it was somehow my fault, but there’s no point in prodding fate once more. I’ve been fairly placid about the whole affair until now, but I was in minor turmoil as I headed under the bridge and along the long, straight path again. I’d be daft to think it wouldn’t affect me, of course not, but I don’t want to let it do anything more than that. I need to convince myself I’m strong, and that it’s not beaten me, and I’m fine with that at the moment.

Maybe it’ll hit me, it’ll all come tumbling down like a pack of cards. I hope not, and I believe not. I like where I live, and I feel an affinity to it, even though I’d never been there before I moved. And I don’t want to be forced out. I live in the best city in the world, and I’d no intention of changing, even if I’ve suffered as I have. Instinct tells me to confront the feelings, and not push them to the back of my mind, to resolve them and not hide them. I remind myself on a daily basis that it could’ve been worse, and maybe should have been. No possession is worth dying for, and even if I’ve confronted my own mortality in the last few weeks, I’m a comfortable distance from it still, and I intend to be for a long time yet.

Through the wire….

So, added to the list of things I’ve experienced that I can’t say I’d wish to repeat (along with appendicitis, a broken leg, glandular fever, flying American Airlines and watching Channel 5) is having a broken jaw. Not something I planned, or contributed to, but something that was generously presented to me to two of E17’s less charitable inhabitants last Thursday.

Walking home from the bus (so I can blame TFL for this in part, as had there BEEN a tube, then I’d have been coming home another way) I was passed by a guy on a bike, who then proceeded to block my way, then smack me one. I wasn’t lucky enough to see his ‘friend’, but they were nice enough to kick me in the head twice once they’d got my bag, my iphone and the rest. While staggering around spitting blood out trying to get someone to call the cops (they ignored me, or even switched the lights off….) I thought I was just busted and bruised, but after stumbling home, enlisting my neighbour’s help, and riding an ambulance for the first time since I was 6, I since discovered the cunts had left me with a double fracture.

So, here I am, after surgery (and treatment from some of the best medical staff I’ve ever come across, restoring my faith in the NHS in one swoop) I’m now at home trying to resolve getting by without my two favourite pastimes: talking incessantly and eating. I’m now restricted to occasional slurred mumbling, like I’ve been out on the piss all day, and even then, with painkillers, it aches and throbs. The plates in my jaw and clips and rubber bands holding my head together, while aiding my recovery, aer not condusive to pain-free movement.

And as for food…. well, I’m reduced to porridge in the mornings, then anything I like, as long as it’s either soup, or a normal meal passed through a blender till it resembles that. No bread, no crunchy veg, no steaks (lamb, fish or otherwise), no pie, no rice, no pasta….. in fact anything I can’t eat with a straw or a small spoon without chewing, it’s off the menu. So, I will learn to love soup like it’s my favourite food. It is, now, after all, my ONLY food.

So, while the bonus of being off work is there, it’s outwieghed, outweighed by a long list of shit. In fact, I’ve not been this rested in years. It’s a shame that I’m also in pain, and hoping I can recover without the need for more surgery. Am i scared to go back? Not at the moment. Will I be walking that road again? Not at night. Do I want the little fuckers caught? I’m not too fussed. I didn’t see them, and I’m sure they’re not going to suddenly be so full of remorse to give up a life of crime. I just want to get my life back. The list of things that have been royally ruined by these events is too depressing to comprehend. Whatever’s gone on up to now, it’s the next 6 weeks that are fucked, so time to buckle down, be sensible and heal. I don’t want to be eating turkey through a straw.