The night started innocently enough.
As innocently as it could when a boss says “lets have some drinks after work, my shout”.
I’m well known for how much I hate wine, and when it’s free… ugh, almost unbearable.
Despite actually wanting to go home and put my slippers on to watch Coro Street, I sucked it up. I’d only been working for this company for a week so I wasn’t sure I was ready for them to see my true colours just yet.
There was plenty of time for that. I mean, it’s not like some catastrophic life event was going to happen in the near future causing me leave Australia in any great hurry.
4.30pm arrived and I stood up, grabbed my bag, made sure my computer was off, and headed for the door. As I noticed Deb still sitting at her desk, I turned back to look at everyone.
“What….?”
“Uh… we don’t finish until 5.00pm..”
“Yeah but… the boss is shouting drinks… aren’t we…?” I trail off.
Noticing that everyone was still seated, I shuffled my feet and look at the floor.
“Okaaaaaay. So, um, I’ll just go to the bathroom, like I was planning all along, and I’ll be back in just a sec. To do more work. Loads of it. Until 5.00pm.”
5.00pm arrived and I stood up, grabbed by bag, made sure my computer was still off, and headed for the door.
Pressing the elevator button 63 times, I waited impatiently for the boss to come out. I had no idea where we were going so I couldn’t charge ahead and order my first Pinot.
Eventually he hung up from the last annoying customer, locked the door, patted his wallet, and joined us in the foyer.
“Ooooh remember last time, when we had cocktails?” asked Deb.
I’m beyond disappointed now. Cocktails AND wine? Could this night get any worse?
I remembered to send a quick text to He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named just to let him know that I’d be missing that night’s Coro episode and wouldn’t be able to fill him in later. Getting no response I figured he was already making his cup of tea and tuna crackers. Either that or planning his extraction from his terrible relationship.
It seemed to take forever to get to the bar. It was directly across the road from work and there was SO much traffic, I swear we had to wait for about four cars.
Upon arrival we secured a seat outside beside two ladies who were already halfway through a wine each. I glanced at them disapprovingly as it had only just gone 5.00pm.
I looked around for a drinks menu. No drinks menu appeared but a waiter did.
“What would you like this evening, ladies? What can I get for you?”
What am I, a fucking mind reader?
“Uh, what do you have?”
My workmates looked at me like I’d just stepped off an Alien craft so I’m thinking that my sophistication level is a little below “How To Drink In Melbourne CDB Like a Snob”.
“Uh, um…. I’ll have a red wine please.”
My workmates looked at me like I’d just stepped off an Alien craft so I’m thinking that my sophistication level is a little below “How To Order A Drink In Melbourne CDB Like a Snob”.
The waiter looked at me patiently, I was too petrified to order anything in case I looked like a fool, and everyone else was waiting somewhat impatiently to order their own drinks.
“Um.. *cough* I”ll have a Pinot thanks.”
He turned to my boss, so I could only assume that a) Pinot exists, and b) they stocked it. Everyone else ordered beer, and I’m still pondering of the mention of cocktails. Before I’d finished deciding what I was going to have if and when the boss decided to buy them, I realised I’d finished my first wine.
That’s ok, everyone else had finished their drinks as well. Time to go home, phew.
“Yeah, we’ll have another round over here thanks.”
Dammit. This night just keeps getting worse.
Ten minutes later, we’d discussed how the business was going from strength to strength, and how I’m going to fit into this big picture seeing as I’m around for the long term and definitely not moving back to New Zealand anytime soon.
“Yeah, we’ll have another round over here thanks.”
The ladies at the table next to us threw us a glance, but I decided not to get into a moral debate with them. Three drinks in 15 minutes is nothing compared to playing Buzz Boing Bounce at a 21st birthday party but then wasn’t the time to educate them on Kiwi Culture.
Around the time that the third drink appeared, so did a wrinkly old man, headed in our direction.
“Oh gosh…” says Debs.
“Whaaaa… what’s going on?”
“He’s a lawyer from upstairs. He’s old, and he’s really boring, and he’s a really tight bugger.”
Old Tight Boring Guy joined us at the table and the first thing I noticed was that he’s one of those people that so preciously collects spit in the corner of his mouth.
My three wines on board insisted that I be fascinated by this and when we were introduced I quite possibly said “hi, corner spit, nice to meet you.”
The next round that the boss ordered included a drink for Old Tight Boring Guy, and I made a mental note to count how many free drinks he would end up scabbing.
Which was less than me, but I was awesome and my boss had offered so that doesn’t count.
Old Tight Boring Guy asked me where I had worked previously, and I enlightened him with stories of bullying and sexism. Much to my great surprise, he mentioned that he’d played a small part in suing my previous employers for bullying and sexism; and to my greater surprise he mentioned that the payout was in the millions.
Suddenly, Old Tight Boring Guy seemed a little less boring, and I calculated how many bottles of Pinot I could get for a million dollars at Melbourne CBD prices. When he mentioned his going rate, the ratio of wine/payout profits dwindled somewhat and I got back to the task of being fascinated with his corner spit.
After a couple more rounds, Debs had to leave to meet her boyfriend, despite my insistence that he could just wait and be patient and she owed it to the company to stay and get to know me. I’d already delayed her by an hour, so it turns out, so it’s just as well he’s the kinda guy that doesn’t mind sitting parked at a train station with nothing better to do.
With parting words along the lines of “of course I’ll take it easy, thanks love, I had a great time, see you first thing Monday morning!” we hugged and off she went.
Next to leave was the marketing manager, whom I didn’t try and convince to stay, leaving me with just the boss and Old Tight Boring Guy.
The waiter seemed to be coming back to our table with alarming regularity, and the next time Old Boring Tight Guy ordered a drink, I threw my order in as well and said “this one’s on his account.” My boss grinned, Old Boring Tight Guy choked on his spit collection, and I winked at the waiter.
A few more wines later, after it was well cemented that Old Boring Tight Guy was, in fact, very VERY boring and very VERY tight, he was away in the bathroom and I said to my boss “make sure you DO NOT leave me alone with him” just as he chose that moment to appear around the corner.
Deciding that he was so old he couldn’t possibly have heard me, I raised my glass, winked at him and said “was SO lovely to meet you, but I really must be going soon!”
“Uh, yep… me too, me too, got stuff to do, gotta get home and sort stuff” says my boss. “Karo, I’ll drop you at the tram station.”
As we walked to his underground car park, I realised that the tram station had actually been closer. I was about to say something to this effect when we stopped at his car. A very flash sporty looking white thing. I decided my sentence could wait til later.
As we navigated our way out of the car park from what felt like about six stories down, the boss asked if I’d like go back to his place for a drink.
“Where do you live?” I ask, calculating my eventual tram trip and whether it would be worth the extra ten minutes.
“St Kilda, in an apartment block.”
“Drinks it is.”
Five minutes into the ride, a thought occurred to me, which I of course voiced immediately.
“Drinks will be lovely, but I’m not going to sleep with you.”
After about 30 seconds of awkward silence, while I innocently checked out all the cool buttons in his uber-cool car, he said “uh… yeah… I just thought you might like a wine….”
Of course you did. I’ve seen me.
Ten minutes later, we pulled up to one of the flashest apartment buildings I had ever seen in my entire life. I realise that growing up in Napier and being domiciled in West Auckland probably doesn’t give me that huge of an array to compare this with, but none the less I felt like I was in Beverly Hills. Or Dubai. Or downtown Palmerston North.
We drove into the basement car park where we nestled in between an Audi and a BMW. Getting out of the car, I noticed how spick and span the floor was, thinking that I really must mop my kitchen when I got home.
Getting in the elevator and pressing Floor 1,000,000, I was getting bit excited. Stepping out of the elevator I nearly peed my pants. This place was flash. Like, mother fucking flash.
“Uh, which is your apartment?” I ask, noticing a lack of doors.
“You’re in it.”
Looking around for a bathroom, I was too afraid to a) walk on the carpet in my shoes and b) take my shoes off and walk on the carpet in my bare feet.
After giving up a hunt that would do the Mazerunner captives proud, I asked him to show me. Turns out there was about 43 I could choose from. I would later that year stay in a 5 Star Hotel with my girls that looked like a Dunedin student flat compared to this.
Not wanting to dry my hands on the 4,000 count Egyptian towels (how high does that go? Cos these were whatever that is…) I wiped my hands on my dress and spent ten minutes trying to find the lounge.
When I finally navigated my way to it, I was met with the most stunning view from a balcony that was so breathtaking I nearly forgot to breathe.
Stepping out onto it I decided then and there that I was going to buy an apartment in St Kilda.
“Oh my god this is BEAUTIFUL! How much does something like this set someone back?”
The answer had too many figures in front of the word “million” for my liking so I resigned myself to just enjoying my little wooden deck that stood 18 inches high out the back of my 2 bedroom granny flat.
“What would you like to drink Karo?”
Oh here we go again.
“Just something red if you have it please!”
Again, the answer had too many variables for my liking. I’m sure Vanessa would know each and every label he mentioned, but as I was completely in the dark about them all, the most appropriate response I could muster was “um, just a nice one please”.
Turns out when you pay $60 a bottle, they’re all considered “pretty nice”.
Deciding that this view was too good to be kept to myself, I rang Maz to invite her over. After all, she was only about five minutes away in her own wee St Kilda apartment.
The first thing she asked was “are you drunk??” followed by “WHO’S apartment??”
After negotiating a deal whereby I’d provide alcohol – via my boss – to my underage daughter and her Shitbag Boyfriend, she said she needed to wait until said shitbag got home from work before coming over. No amount of cajoling or blackmailing would budge her, so I hung up and noted the time. Around 7pm.
Around 10pm, after several more okayish wines and a very enlightening conversation about exactly WHY my boss didn’t want to sleep with me, I rang her again. Shitbag Boyfriend was still not home, there was no ETA for him, and no immediate plans to abandon the welcome of his pending arrival and join me.
Suddenly I thought it might be wise to head home. After all, I DO start to look pretty acceptable after three bottles of wine and I didn’t want to run the risk of having to fight off unwanted advances.
Articulating this after three bottles of wine was less well-mannered and more character-slurring, but my boss understood and offered to walk me to the tram stop, which was right outside. I have no doubts that it’s because he was worried about my well-being and not at all because he was concerned that I’d steal the towels on the way out. And the leather couch, if I’d had room in my handbag.
Walking across the promenade - I don’t know if that’s the right word but “entrance way” just doesn’t seem fitting - I was mid-conversation about how fantastic I was at my job and that he really wouldn’t regret giving me a pay rise to subsidise my apartment-saving fund. Next minute, I was sprawled across the white-marbled ground with my mini-dress up around my neck and several people staring at me.
Given that this is not really an unusual situation to find myself in, I wasn’t immediately alarmed. I considered passing around a hat for donations to my apartment-saving fund, but I wasn’t wearing one.
Upon standing, however, I became just slightly alarmed. It appeared that my foot was not entirely happy about having weight borne on it. I say only slightly alarmed, because it took about four minutes for the pain to register, and by this stage I had taken several more steps in the direction of the tram stop whilst simultaneously straightening my dress and checking that I’d remembered to pull my undies up properly after the last bathroom stop.
Not convinced that I could be in this much pain from having just fallen over nothing, I turned back around to look where I’d come from. And there, hiding in the shadows of the multi-million dollar outdoor mood lighting, was a step.
Not a large step, I don’t want anyone to cast aspersions that I was so drunk I missed seeing a proper step. This was a little step only about four inches high. Like, nothing at all like a normal step. And because of the lighting and shadows, it craftily disguised itself as one seamless solid flat piece of marble.
So essentially, I had just walked over a step, instead of down it.
Easy mistake. Anyone could have done it, although probably not Cirrus, Jacqui or Michelle because they don’t have a clumsy bone between them.
And, because I was wearing the same little strappy sandals that had played a significant part in my Nose-Breaking-Episode, my foot had twisted sideways, which is not really a convenient way for a foot to be.
Feeling that I needed to justify myself, I looked around to see how large my audience was that I needed to justify myself too.
Noting several Asian tourists, I grasped that this was not going to be an easy task. I concocted my speech while waiting for them to put their cameras away.
My boss, however, was more concerned about getting rid of me.
“Are you ok? Yep, good good… look, the tram is here.”
Trying to walk hastily for the tram was less elegant than a baby giraffe taking its first steps, and again I’m confident this had nothing to do with the wine.
“How about I put you in a taxi home aye?”
“No, no, it’s OK, I’m all good…” I protested, thinking about what I’d need to do to cover the balance of the $80 bill after parting with the $7.80 I had in my bank account.
“OK, if you’re sure then, let’s get to the tram, come on, I’ll help you.”
Two steps later, realising this was a futile effort, the boss insisted on a taxi again.
Again, I refused, until he said “Karo, I’m more than happy to pay for it. I want to make sure you get home OK”.
It would have been rude to turn down an offer like that, so I hobbled-shuffled-got dragged a few more feet to a taxi, where the boss parted with cash and I parted with any remaining sense of dignity.
“I would have slept with you if I was single.”
An hour later, we arrived at my house, and I was delighted that I’d managed to impart most of my life story to the taxi driver. I insisted that he come inside and meet Murmie, but unfortunately he had another pick-up and asked for a rain-cheque.
Once I’d navigated the 100 metres up my long driveway, and the 3 steps up into my house, and the 14 steps into the kitchen, I realised I was starving. It seemed like a perfectly acceptable time to drink and fry, so enjoy fried eggs on toast I did.
Getting to bed around midnight, I amazingly fell straight to sleep. Some might use the phrase “passed out” but let’s not get caught up on semantics.
Around 2am I woke up. Not slowly and gently like the heroines of movies do. I was harshly yanked from my sleep by the most searing pain I’d felt since passing a human through my vagina.
And this time there were no drugs.
Not yet, anyway. Staggering to the bathroom, I ingested the first drug I could find, which happened to be Tramadol. Waiting for the much-anticipated high which usually accompanied a lessening in pain, I soon became very disappointed.
Around 4am I decided to turn the light on to see what was causing all this drama. And immediately wished I hadn’t. Partly fascinating, but more gag-inducing, my foot was swollen to the size of a Vienna loaf. Not the real ones you get in posh bakeries, but the smaller ones like you get in Countdown. And bruised, holy shit. Ike Turner would have been mightily impressed.
Deciding I shouldn’t really overdose on opiates, I staggered to the bathroom and took Panadol and Nurofen.
Around 5.00am, after I’d cried for about 40 minutes and sworn for another 20 minutes that I was going to give up walking on marble, I figured a trip to the Dr might be in order. I realised, surprisingly, that I knew of no Dr clinics that are open at 5.00am, so I had to instigate Plan B which was a trip to the hospital.
Fortunately, Shitbag Boyfriend had broken his ankle the day they moved to Aussie, so there was a pair of crutches in the house. All I had to do was make my way to the car, then I’d be OK. I had an automatic, and it was my left foot that was damaged.
Unfortunately, once I got down my 100 metre long driveway, I realised that my car was down at the tram station, patiently waiting for me since parking it there at 7.30am the previous morning.
I called a taxi, hoping that $7.80 was going to be enough because I was in no position to be doing favours. Literally.
Luckily it was and I arrived at the hospital at around 6.10am, where I joined a line of snotty babies and those resource-wasters who’d been out the night before and hurt themselves.
I let a lady jump-queue who’d appeared with a young baby that was in quite a bit of distress. Not because I was being altruistic; because the crying was giving me a headache.
When I finally got to the front of the line, the lady asked me what I’d done and I burst into tears again. All I could manage was “I’m in a SUBSTANTIAL amount of pain” while pointing at my foot. Which she couldn’t see. Assuring me that someone would be with me shortly, I hobbled over to a seat and glared at the other babies with fevers and kids having asthma attacks. My charity only goes so far… my foot was REALLY sore.
During my three hour wait, I texted He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, hoping for a little sympathy. I wasn’t disappointed. I got very little sympathy. Something along the lines of “well that’s going to hurt walking to work, but I guess that’s what you get for drinking”. I was immediately overwhelmed with the compassion, and burst into tears again.
I think it was around that time that I may or may not have texted Shaz, hoping for a little sympathy. She had just finished chemotherapy after a double mastectomy and was undergoing radiation, so I thought she’d have a slight idea of the pain I was going through.
Not only was Shaz sympathetic to my plight, she offered to come and pick me up from the hospital, and I have a feeling she even offered to stroke my forehead and brush my hair as well before tucking me into bed.
When the nurse came to get me, she looked somewhat irritated as I took seven minutes to walk the 15 metres to her cubicle. I hadn’t recalled telling her I’d been drinking so maybe she just had her period.
“I’m just going to do your obs OK, and then a Dr will see you.”
I burst into tears again and nodded, pitifully asking if I could have some kind of pain relief whilst reiterating that I was in a SUBSTANTIAL amount of pain. I tried to remember the correct face from the pain-smiley-face chart just to reassure her I wasn’t a lying druggie. I made a mental note to enrol in acting lessons when she returned with one paracetamol.
After taking my blood pressure, she commented that it was slightly on the high side.
“What was it?”
“135 over 110. Slightly high but nothing to be alarmed about at this stage.”
“Um. My blood pressure is normally 95 over 60”.
She looked alarmed.
“Are you sure? 95 over 60?”
“Yep, I’m pretty definitely sure. I’ve always had low blood pressure, all my life, for like 42 years now. When it’s high it goes to 100 over 65”.
She then looked like she was alarmed and trying to hide it. So then I got alarmed, which was probably not good while still hooked up to the blood pressure machine.
“Could it be because of the substantial pain that I’m in…?” I asked while glancing disparagingly at the empty cup my one paracetamol had been in.
“I’m sure it’s fine” she says, as she rushes off out of the cubicle never to be seen again.
A few minutes later while I was waiting for the Doctor to appear, a blonde chick appeared.
“Hi, um, do you know how long the Doctor is going to be? And if it’s OK, could I have some more pain relief while I wait? I’m in a substantial amount of pain.”
“Hi Karolyn. I AM the Doctor, and we’ll just have a look at what’s going on here first and see what we need to do.”
Maybe it was Take-Your-Kid-To-Work-Day because as well as being blonde and a girl, she looked about 11. And with all my mishaps, and all my surgeries, and all my childbirths, I’d not ever seen a blonde 11 year old female Doctor.
“Oh, lovely lovely, how nice for you!! I used to be a pilot, isn’t it cute what they let young girls do these days? GO Girl Power, I say, hahaha! Can I have some pain relief please?”
The bitch didn’t budge on her pain-relief stance, but rather seemed to want to make me work for it.
“Does it hurt when I do this?”
“Well, yes. It was hurting BEFORE you did this, now it just hurts more.”
“OK, what about when I do this?”
“Well, yes, again, it was already hurting. Now I feel like Paul Sheldon in “Misery”.”
She didn’t appreciate my humour, which was ironic because there was nothing humorous about the situation at all.
I was on the verge of tears again as she herded me through to x-ray to see what was going on; which, according to the fascist x-ray dude ten minutes later, was nothing. Terribly surprisingly considering the sadomasochistic ways in which he also had manipulated my Vienna loaf.
Girl-Doctor outlined my options which ranged from “go home and do nothing about this” to a very patronising “we could put this in a cast to immobilise it for a couple of days if you REALLY think that’s necessary” accompanied by lots of eye-rolling and several well-placed tuts.
I opted for the Alleged-Hypochondriac choice and suffered through another 30 minutes of man-handling. Which, coincidentally, is something that could have avoided all this heartache.
After giving me strict instructions to take paracetamol four-hourly, diclofenac twice daily, and to start walking on my foot as soon as I could – because that would heal the sprain quicker – the Girl-Doctor sent me packing.
I managed to get myself, my handbag, and the old Shitbag-Boyfriend’s crutches out to the car while limping dangerously on the new crutches that they sold me in the hospital because they’re way better than the ones I had and I couldn’t possibly get through the next few days without them; and I headed for home.
Normally one to greet Murms and Bozzie with barely contained ecstasy, I pushed them out of the way with my new purchase and headed straight for the medicine box. Thankful for all the surgeries and damaged body parts I’d suffered in the past, I downed codeine and another couple of Nurofen, then cried again.
The next 48 hours passed in a blur of drug-induced self-pity along with several texts from Sharon making sure I was OK; no texts from He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named; a few texts from Deb who must have heard from the boss what had happened; and two phone calls from the boss because he didn’t believe me the first time that my leg was actually in a cast.
Monday morning, after I’d gotten quite deft at pushing dinner plates and cups of coffee across my kitchen floor with my walking aid, I thought I’d be fine heading to work. After all, Girl-Doctor didn’t give me a sick-chit so clearly I was more than capable of getting on and off trams and weaving my way through peak-hour CBD crowds.
An hour later I was cursing the Girl-Doctor for making me show my undies to peak-hour CBD crowds when my dress blew up and I had no hands left to hold it down.
That night, I made an appointment with my GP out of sheer desperation. I didn’t need to say much after he unwrapped the outer bandage and took the cast off.
“Yeah, um, I don’t know if I’m a bit of a pussy, but I feel like the pain is getting worse and not better..” and burst into tears.
When he asked me what I’d been taking, for one brief moment I contemplated omitting all reference to codeine and Tramadol, just in case he made a sneaky phone call to immigration; but realised almost immediately that that was penning my Pain Sentence. I’d say Death Sentence but it wasn’t quite at its worst just yet.
“Um, I’ve taken some, just like, you know, one or two codeine, and maybe just a couple of Tramadol, on top of non-stop paracetamol and ibuprofen since Friday night….” I trail off as his pen hovers over his prescription pad and his mouth twitches slightly.
“But you know… not that many…. but even those… well they’re not even touching the sides” as I tried not to burst into tears again.
Thankfully, the Older-Boy-Doctor could see that I meant business, as well as seeing the huge angry purple and green bruising that covered 90% of my entire foot. Writing a prescription for some more Tramadol, he gave strict instructions on dosage as I zoned out and looked forward to being relatively pain-free again.
Later that night, as my pain was all-but-gone and the Unicorns danced around my lounge with Murmie, I thought I’d best keep a track somehow of all the pills and potions so as to not overdose. As I was contemplating this in a heated discussion with the tiniest Unicorn, I noticed the mg on the prescription packet. Thinking I’d imagined the zero on the end, I blinked and looked again. Faint and distant memories of the pharmacist saying things like “large dose” and “extremely effective” and “do not risk walking anywhere or texting any exes” came floating back, then I passed out in the Unicorn’s lap.
A couple of days and several embarrassing CBD underwear exposure-tram falling-chair tripping-coffee spilling incidents later I went back to the Old-Boy-Doctor, this time feeling like an addict as I explained to him that a) the Tramadol was lovely, thank you and b) the pain felt like it was getting worse, not better, and I felt I needed something stronger, if there was such a thing, please and thank you very much.
The Old-Boy-Doctor look perplexed, and after examining the Vienna Loaf which was now the colour of a nice Merlot, made what turned out to be two very solid and excellent decisions.
He decided to send me for a CT scan, and prescribed me morphine.
Within the next few days, I may or may not have done some of the following:
Fallen asleep in the lounge
Fallen asleep in the kitchen
Fallen asleep on the tram
Ordered takeaway pizza about six times
Worked out how to carry pizza from the car to my house (you can’t so you eat it on the driveway)
Worked out how to carry wine from the kitchen to the lounge (you can’t so you drink it on the floor)
Worked out how to shower in a bath when the wall is on the wrong side and the glass door is up the wrong end
Worked out how ineffective sponge baths are
Worked out that Kiwis aren’t entitled to private nurses in Australia
Worked out that cat-food sachets spilled on the floor are quite slippery
Worked out how to operate Mobility Scooters
Worked out how many bottles of wine will fit in the front basket of a Mobility Scooter
Fallen asleep in a mobility scooter
Worked out how sturdy K-Mart shelving is when hit by a Mobility Scooter
Discovered that some people in this world are cold, unsympathetic, unfeeling pricks
To be fair, I would have discovered that last one soon enough, with or without my trust Vienna Loaf.
When the Old-Boy-Doctor rang me to say that he needed to see me straight away, I initially freaked out; then remembered that I had neither been out drinking at dodgy pubs with Shaz, or been anywhere near a rugby team after a provincial win, so it should be good news.
When his opening sentence to me was “I can certainly understand now why you’ve been in a lot of pain” I rethought my original diagnosis.
When his second sentence was “taking diclofenac and walking on it for four days was the worst advice the hospital could have ever given you” I rethought my stance on violent crimes and planned my route to Girl-Doctor’s cubicle.
When his final sentence was “we saw at least four breaks, one of them being the pretty much the hardest bone in the body to break, and then we stopped counting!” I vowed, for not the first time in my life, that I was NEVER ever walking on marble again.
