A Broken Ankle

We had a great holiday, a week off in the north of Spain - a small farm on the coast near Guernica followed by a couple of days staying with friends across the estuary from Santander. The long trip north meant a break in Aranda del Duero, famous for its mutton; and on the way south, we made it as far as La Carolina where there's a good hotel too.
Disaster struck within an hour of arriving back at my companion's stables. I was watering the horses and got in a tangle with the hose and a kind of DC current bearing wire which is meant to stop the critters scratching but in this case was used to give me a powerful, and watery, shock - punching me into the soft ground of horsepoop with such a push, that my ankle broke in several places.
We went to the local hospital El Toyo for X-Rays, and then on the main provincial hospital, Torrecárdenas, which in turn decided that since I live in Mojácar, I should be in Huercal Overa. So I went there in an ambulance. The next morning, I had my first ever operation (I have spent probably six months in various hospitals with Barbara over the first decade of the century, but always as the person who sleeps on the iron chair next to the bed).
Nine screws in my bones and a plate. The operation was carried out with a spinal injection and I was in a bed with a little windshield made of a sheet so I couldn't see the show.
After 24 hours in hospital, I was released to my companion's tender care and have been lying on her couch ever since.
This is fine, and no complaints from me. It's true that to get about, I need a wheelchair (no crutches for a month), and the chair in question is rather one of those used for old folk with four small wheels which, while taking me to the lavatory easily enough (I use my other foot for propulsion), it won't make the step up into the kitchen and its magical fridge.
So I read, and try and write (this is done, very slowly, on an Android). Bad Luck...? or Good Luck to have made it thus far...