Sarah: Changing the Narrative

10/06/2026

Ward 206 update

Today has been a quieter day with no major news, which isn’t a bad thing.

I had visits from my daughter-in-law and hubby, then a lovely surprise visit from Mandy, a former colleague, and her sister Michelle. They are thoughtful, kind, fun people, and even their mum sent me a bunch of grapes to aid my recovery. Clearly they inherited their kindness from her.

The good news is that my pain levels have eased today after a particularly difficult high-pain day yesterday.

My ward friend has now gone home. I’m delighted for her and her lovely family, although I’ll miss our chats. It also makes me look forward even more to the day I can head home too.

I had hoped to see the OT and PT today. It’s possible I missed them during my very long morning nap, although nobody mentioned that they’d been. I did manage to sit out this afternoon, and Paul brought me a lovely meal and some treats.

One day at a time, and today has been a good one.

09/06/2026

It’s been all fun and games here last night. Long story made short.

Yesterday I went down expecting to have a full cast fitted, but my foot is still too swollen, so I came back with a new backslab instead.

After my visitors left, another patient returned from theatre. She seemed quiet initially but then very distressed, confused and paranoid. She became convinced that a nursing assistant was telling me her private information, which had not happened. I’m very glad she is also non weight bearing because hopefully it means she will remain in bed and safe. She kept trying to get out of bed.

It was not a good night. I struggled to relax physically because my pain was severe and my restless legs were awful. Normally I would walk to ease them, but that simply isn’t possible at the moment.

The patient became increasingly agitated and threw whatever was to hand, including water, which ended up over parts of the ward, staff and another patient. She spent much of the night talking to an imaginary friend or lawyer about what she believed had happened to her. At one point she phoned the police because she wanted to leave the ward. Staff later took her phone away.

Today her family have been visiting and it looks as though they may want to make a complaint. They were given the forms this afternoon. Last night she said she was determined to get staff sacked.

When DIL visited today and returned a hairbrush that had been left on the chair beside me, the patient told her that she had been throwing things during the night. That made me wonder how much she remembers of what happened. I genuinely don’t know how much was confusion, how much was distress, and how much she now recalls. What I do know is that the staff remained remarkably calm throughout and spent hours trying to keep both her and everyone else safe.

The staff tell me that episodes like this are not unusual. Even if the behaviour was entirely driven by confusion, distress or a temporary change in mental state, it was still awful to witness what they were subjected to. Being shouted at, having objects thrown at them, being soaked with water and repeatedly accused of wrongdoing would be difficult for anyone. Throughout it all, they remained calm, professional and focused on keeping everyone safe.

I feel desperately tired today. The lack of sleep has increased both my pain levels and my restless legs. It has reminded me how important a calm environment, rest and sleep are for recovery. Recovery is not just about medication and treatment. Sleep matters too.

The new backslab feels less comfortable than the previous one, although that may simply be because everything feels harder after such a difficult night.

I’m also still hoping to get transferred sooner rather than later. I’m now facing six weeks completely non weight bearing after surgery. At the moment I have no idea when I might be transferred or, after that, when I might be able to go home. Unfortunately our house and its many stairs are not exactly helping the situation.

Hopefully tonight will be quieter.

Apologies for the rant!



Image Description:
Black and white CTN-style illustration with orange accents. Trexy, a pale grey cartoon T-Rex with long orange hair and freckles, sits awake in a hospital bed looking tired and worried. Around the bed are symbols of noise and disruption, including speech bubbles, a spilled jug, a hairbrush, a call bell and question marks. A calm nurse stands nearby saying, “You are safe here. Please get back on the bed.” Large text reads: “Recovery needs more than treatment. Sleep matters too.” The image highlights how rest and a calm environment are important parts of recovery.

08/06/2026

Ward 206 update

A few people have asked about a transfer to Wythenshawe.

Although the referral has been accepted by the relevant team, the reality is that because I am currently safe in a hospital bed, I am not considered a priority. The care coordinator has no idea when a transfer might happen, so for now I’m staying put.

There has also been a change to the recovery plan. I was originally told I would be non weight bearing for 2 weeks, but I have now been told it will be 6 weeks.

Today my back slab was removed in the hope that I could move into a full coloured cast. Unfortunately the ankle is still too swollen, so the back slab had to be replaced.

One of the hardest parts has been making sure Paul doesn’t visit when he has the children. I really miss him, but I don’t want the grandchildren spending all their time travelling backwards and forwards to hospital.

The bright spot has been visitors. DIL and GD have visited most days and I am incredibly grateful they live close enough to do that. Hospital days can be very long (very early starts) and very repetitive. The food is a real struggle for me too. It would be awfully boring without visitors and the lovely salads 🥗 they’ve bringing.

Thank you for all the messages, good wishes and support. They really do help. 🧡💙

Any suggestions for the colour of my cast when I get one. I really liked the multi coloured tie dye swirls but apparently they are specifically for those who have diabetes.

06/06/2026

Ward 206 update.

One of the unexpected things about breaking my ankle has been discovering just how much pain I was already living with.

Yesterday was incredibly busy on the ward. New admissions were arriving, some people were very poorly, others understandably frightened, frustrated or angry about their situation. Medication rounds were running late.

At home I have a degree of control. I self manage my medication and sometimes choose to delay or even skip a dose if I think I can get through using other strategies. In hospital, all my medication is locked away and only the nurse responsible for the medication trolley can access it.

While waiting, I had a realisation.

The broken ankle is painful. Very painful at times. But it is also surprisingly manageable compared with some of the chronic pain I have lived with for years.

That has been a huge eye opener.

For years I have quietly adapted. I’ve spent days in bed feeling guilty. I’ve declined invitations. I’ve cancelled plans. I’ve said “maybe another time” more often than I wanted to. Like many disabled people, I gradually adjusted my life around pain and started treating that adaptation as normal.

The accident happened about a month after a steroid injection into my hip. For the first time in a long while I could travel an hour and a half, spend time with my family and still feel able to play with my grandchildren. I had almost forgotten what that felt like.

Now, after weeks of lying on a hard hospital bed, sitting on hard chairs and being unable to move around normally, my hip pain has returned with a vengeance. I’m very much hoping another injection might be an option in future.

Not everything about yesterday was difficult though.

A lovely healthcare assistant found me a recliner chair, which meant I could sit out comfortably for several hours. Later, another healthcare assistant helped me back into bed and arranged the pillows so carefully that I felt cocooned, like a bird tucked safely into a nest.

I had a wonderful afternoon siesta before my visitors arrived.

Sometimes disability isn’t just about medication, operations or diagnoses.

Sometimes it’s about the person who notices you’re uncomfortable.

The person who finds a chair.

The person who arranges a pillow.

The person who understands that comfort isn’t a luxury. It’s a basic human need.

And sometimes it takes a broken ankle to reveal just how much you’ve been enduring all along.

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Image description:
Trexy sits thoughtfully in a blue hospital recliner with an orange cast on one leg. A small table beside the chair holds a mug. The text reads: “I thought the broken ankle would be the biggest source of pain.” The image highlights the hidden impact of long term chronic pain compared with a visible injury.

06/06/2026

I got over 100 reactions on one of my posts last week! Thanks everyone for your support! 🎉. Raising awareness of disability issues is an absolute privilege thank you all for joining me on this amazing project.

05/06/2026

100%

Language matters it took years for the DSM and the ICD to finally change the terminology of the medical diagnosis and medical terminology.

💜SDASN 💜

05/06/2026

Ramp up the pressure by sharing.

04/06/2026

Ward 206 update

I finally made it to theatre today.

I went down for surgery at 10.16am and arrived back on the ward at 3.15pm, now sporting a metal plate and screws to stabilise my ankle. I feel a bit like Metal Mickey.

I’m doing well, thanks to the excellent care I received, but I’m still full of nerve block so I can’t feel my foot or wiggle my toes yet. It’s a very strange sensation. I’m also waiting for my oxygen levels to settle back to normal. I’m currently on oxygen on the ward, which is new to me. I’ve only ever had it in recovery before.

One thing I’m particularly looking forward to is being able to sleep on my side again. Anyone who knows me will know that lying on my back is not my natural habitat.

The next stage is rehabilitation, and I am determined to throw myself into it. I know exactly what my goal is. Now I just have to achieve it.

Before that, I need to be transferred to Wythenshawe Hospital for rehab. Professor Peach has accepted the referral, which is good news. The challenge now is waiting for a bed and for the various trauma coordinators, ambulance services and hospitals to successfully coordinate with each other. Anyone who has worked in or around the NHS will appreciate that this could mean anything from tomorrow to some point in the distant future.

For now, I’m relieved, grateful and more than a little tired.

Thank you for following this journey so far. I hope you’ll stick around for the rehabilitation and recovery chapter too.

And when I finally get back to being able to pick something up, open a drawer and put it away independently, don’t worry, there will probably be a celebratory video. Some victories are worth sharing.

Sarah 💙🧡

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Image Description
Cartoon illustration of Trexy, a pale grey T-Rex with freckles and long ginger hair, sitting up in a hospital bed with a bandaged leg resting on blue pillows. A water jug and cup sit on the bedside cabinet. Trexy looks relieved and determined. A speech bubble says “Operation done.” Large text reads “One step closer.” The image marks the end of surgery and the beginning of rehabilitation and recovery.

04/06/2026

Ward 206 update.

I’m back on the ward and all done.🎉🥳🎈👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

I’m okay, just very numb thanks to the nerve block. At the moment I can’t feel my foot or wiggle my toes yet.

My toes are currently looking rather different too. They’re usually skinny little finger toes. Not pretty, but very functional. Right now they’re looking surprisingly plump and pudgy!

I’ll add more to the update later this evening once I’m feeling a bit more with it.

I will still have a lot of work to do to regain my function. But I’m determined to work as hard as possible to not just regain my functionality. But perhaps improve. Sarah 2.0. -super Gran, here I come.

Thank you all for the messages, support and good wishes. They’ve meant a lot.

03/06/2026

I was on the list for today, as I have been every day so far, but today felt different.

My slot was last this afternoon.

I saw the anaesthetist and for the first time I had real hopes that today was actually going to be the day.

Then, an hour and a half later, I was cancelled. 😭😭😭

I had what I thought was a mini distress meltdown. So much so that the trauma coordinator went to speak with my consultant and apparently told him he had to come and see me. 😬 Perhaps not so mini after all.

The trauma coordinator was incredibly kind. She sat with me and held my hand while I blubbered, listened without judgement and somehow even managed to source Earl Grey tea bags so she could make me a proper (for me) brew. Afterwards one of the nurses stayed and asked gentle questions, saying she wanted to learn more, which felt surprisingly comforting at a moment when I was struggling to hold myself together. Even one of the healthcare assistants, who had initially popped her head around the curtain and quietly left when I asked for a moment alone, later came back to check on me. She asked if there was anything she could do to make me more physically comfortable and then efficiently changed my bed. Those small acts of kindness meant a great deal today.

My consultant has now told me personally that he will operate tomorrow morning, straight after operating on a five year old with complex injuries. His specialist area is orthopaedic trauma in children, so his fine motor skills should be pretty good.

I was able to demonstrate how I use my feet as hands using my non dominant foot, and he reassured me that he has the competencies to do my surgery and that this is far from the first ankle he has repaired.

Sometimes I wonder whether things would have been different if I were a very difficult and demanding patient. From experience sometimes those who shout loudest and make formal complaints get not just listened to but can even bring about a change in procedure or process. But I’m not going to be able to change my people pleasing ways overnight, if ever; it just isn’t me. I generally think most people are doing their best, especially within an NHS that has been so deliberately underfunded for spurious political reasons.

He was also honest that stiffness is a general risk, alongside some rather more terrifying risks, and that I will need to work hard at rehabilitation afterwards.

I’m still feeling very emotional. Tearful, but calmer than before. Those who know me well will know that no matter how hard I try not to cry, it is usually impossible. I once spent so much time crying after watching Love Story on Boxing Day that my mum eventually sent me to my room to calm down. 😆

I’m back on track now, but it’s a little precarious, so I’d better be careful what I choose to watch tonight.

People often say it’s better out than in, but for whatever reason I’ve always felt ashamed when I cry, especially in situations involving conflict or loss of control. I doubt that’s going to change now.

What I am most frightened of is not the operation itself. It’s the possibility that stiffness afterwards could affect how I use my foot. When your feet have spent a lifetime doing some of the jobs other people do with their hands, that feels like a very big thing.

But I also know I’m resilient. I’ve spent my whole life adapting, problem solving and finding another way when the obvious route wasn’t available. I’ll do everything I can in rehab to get myself back to a place where I can function as independently as possible.

And if tomorrow really is the day, perhaps we can finally retire this week’s most popular hospital game:

“Will Sarah Make It To Theatre?”

At this point it’s had more episodes than some Netflix series.



Image description.

Trexy, my alta ego, a pale grey dinosaur with freckles and long ginger hair, sits upright in a hospital bed with one leg in a white backslab cast resting on a blue pillow. Trexy looks tired but determined, with a small wry smile and slightly weary eyes. A speech bubble reads, “Tomorrow. APPARENTLY.” The image has a white background with simple black outlines, blue accents and a CTN logo in the bottom right corner. The overall feeling is one of exhaustion, humour and cautious hope after repeated surgery cancellations.