I'm writing this at lunchtime at work, with my leg elevated on a chair and an icepack seeping cold through my jeans onto my wound. I'm a bit trembly and shaky, in the way you get when the adrenalin and shock wears off.
But first things first. The swell this week has been beautiful - huge and magnificent, in the way swells are supposed to be at this time of the year. I surfed my small, sheltered break at first light, but it was super windy so I only lasted an hour. Still, it washed the too-high cortisol away - it's a bit of a pattern these days to wake in panic, and have to move to settle my nervous system down. I'm seeing a naturopath about it and doing my best, but salt water seems to do the trick - thing is, I can't always surf. This morning I was just lucky as I didn't have to start til 11 am.
Anyway, back to the swell. Glorious, big, powerful swell at the famous Bells Beach and Winki Pop. The car park was full - there was a lot of people in the line up but also a lot just watching, as we tend to do when the big swells come in. There's something magical about it, mesmerising, even for people who don't want to half kill themselves in big waves because it's about their level, like me. I've been watching big swells at this beach since I was a kid. I grew up a kilometre away from it and I could hear the big waves booming some nights, with the window open.
I also ran into my uncle down there and we stood and chatted. We don't see him much as the family are semi estranged, but he's always been warm and kind when I run into him and I do love him. He doesn't surf anymore as he's getting old but he was good back when he could. His wife, my Aunty, was in at hospital getting physio as someone had run her over in the Bunnings carpark last week and broke her foot pretty badly.
Which is a reasonable segue into my own injury, as I realised what the time was and ran round the back of my van tojump in the driver's side, scraping my lower shin on the bike rack as I did so. I didn't pay much mind except for an internal 'fuck', and was more worried I'd ripped a little hole in my black skinny jeans. It was a half hour drive to work via the naturopaths where I had to pick up some adrenal support tablets, and whilst they were getting them for me I jumped in the loo to gingerly roll up my jeans and find the little bump was actually a decent triangle of flesh and a whole lot of blood running down my shin and into my boots.
Still, I wasn't that bothered, and the naturopath receptionists gave me a couple of bandaids and an eyepatch pad to patch me up. I went past Joe's Continental Deli to grab a couple of spinach and cheese boreks for lunch for me and the hubs, and when I got to work I started feeling a bit shaky. By this time it was recess and I had twenty minutes before starting class. I told Jamie what had happened and he went into freak mode, looking for someone to cover at least the start of my period 3 so I could go to the nurse.
The nurses were lovely and patched me up well. However, they said I'd need a stitch perhaps, and a proper flush out - under that flap looked deep. I still wanted to work the day otherwise I wouldn't get paid, so booked the doctors for the arvo and asked the daily organiser to take me off after school duty. Phew. What a drama.
The doctor took one look at me and said: 'oh, I remember you - I fixed you up last time when you stood on a screw'. He didn't recall the time before that when I'd crushed my hand between my paddle and the board getting over a wave. Sigh. I didn't need stitches but he cleaned it up and patched me with three steristrips.
Oh, and sorry about the clickbait. It looks totally like I hurt myself surfing huge waves like the hardcore woman that I am, but nothing so exciting - just a bikerack that I did ask the husband to remove, because I KNEW that would happen.
Luckily it's going to be super windy for the rest of the week so I won't be surfing anyway!
With Love,
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