The kindness of friends, new and old

Yesterday I brought you a rather heart-warming tale of my selfless mother, but today I wanted to dedicate some space to a few other people who helped me out since the accident.

To give you some back story, it happened in Mendoza, about 14 hours away from Argentina’s main city, Buenos Aires. On this particular day I was doing what many tourists do in Mendoza: going on a “wine and bike” tour, with a bunch of friends I’d made at my hostel.

Sounds like a dangerous combination right? The thing is, we hadn’t even bicycled to the first winery – so I hadn’t had a drop to drink – before I ploughed straight into the truck. What can I say … I’m just really, really bad at riding. As I lay down on the road, screaming at the sight of my muscle peering back at me through the giant rip in my foot, my friends came to my rescue and comforted me as we waited for an ambulance.

Three of those friends, just days into our acquaintance, accompanied me through the 7 hours I spent at the hospital getting x-rayed and stitched up. They helped me buy medicine and crutches, and shared their hostel-cooked dinner later that evening. The kindness of (virtual) strangers is amazing.

But the next day I faced a daunting day alone. I dreaded the idea of having to hobble on my crutches down to the busy main street, somehow hail down a taxi, go to the police station to file a medical report, head to the hospital again for a bandage change, get back to the hostel (and tackle the many stairs there) and even more dubiously find some food. All in a country where I spoke barely any Spanish.

I couldn’t sleep that night from the stress (and the pain). I kept imagining falling down onto my foot, which was already seeping blood into the bandage. Never had I felt so very alone.

Thankfully the next day one of my friends from the day before, Jenna, offered to sacrifice yet another day from her holiday to accompany me (my phrasing, not hers). With some guilt, and a lot of relief I accepted her help, even though the day before I had insisted that I would be fine by myself.

But I couldn’t endlessly rely on these backpackers. Clearly I had to get back to Buenos Aires where one of my oldest and best friends lived. There was just a 14 hour bus ride standing in my way.

Up to this point I hadn’t cried once. But halfway into the bus journey, with my foot dripping into a plastic bag that I had stuffed with tissue paper to absorb all the blood, it all became too much. I managed to get it together a couple of hours before Buenos Aires, but as soon as I got off the bus, and saw Kylie standing right there, waiting to pick me up, I began bawling, bawling, bawling again.

I had this immense sense of relief seeing her, and I think in anticipation on the bus. I didn’t have to keep it together anymore, I could just cry and without guilt, let this dear old friend help me.

And what an absolute angel she was. For the next two weeks I settled into my little nest, that was her couch with all my belongings in arms-reach. She would cook delicious meals for me, put on the bath for me (with loving smelling bath salts), pick-up my medicine from the pharmacy, and when she could she accompany me to the hospital. And juggling this with work and university.

But when it became clear to the doctors that the recovery time would be months, not weeks, I knew I had to go home. Even though Kylie insisted I wasn’t a burden, she loved having me stay, the fact of the matter was it simply wasn’t fair on her, when the person at home who could look after me (mum) neither worked nor studied.

And let’s face it, if I felt less guilt as I transferred from hostel friends to Kylie (a very good, long-time friend), there’s even less guilt when you transfer to your family.

But should it be like that?