Are we there yet?

Shopping for (more) education

2012-01-20T21:16:00.003Z

So. All that hospital stuff finished. I took a year off (health institutions - not work). Gadded around Latin America a couple of times. Did a few weeks of Spanish school. Went to work. And home again. Went to Spain. And to work. And home again. Watched people leave work (and not return). They went with early severance and dreams of change. Decided I needed a new institution to wrangle with. Preferably at arm's length. Without endless circuitous bus trips. With some learning. Time limited. Decided to study. At the Open University. Diploma in Spanish.

Its quite something studying a language with the OU. What level to enter at? Why don't they support Macs? Why did I have to invest in a second (reconditioned) laptop? Why was I told to buy the books, when a second set turned up free a month or so later? How much practice to put in before starting? Should I hang on to my existing teacher? Why do the 'introductory workshops' have the wrong dates and no course content? Why why why...

Because the OU is cool. And relatively cheap (in Scotland at least). Because the course content is pretty good. Because the tutor might even be a native Spanish speaker. Because you get a student card (handy for this year's trek to Australia). Because people at work look at you askance. (And think you are clever. Or mad). And you don't really realise what you have committed to until its far far too late. Because there's a pipe dream to live in Mexico. And pipe dreams need action. And En Rumbo L140 has a whole lot of action. Eight hours a week. Four assessments a term. One exam a year. And 6 key strokes for every sodding accented letter (this doesn't of course happen with a Mac....)

Más tarde amigos....

There....

2011-03-26T15:52:00.003Z

Well the physio is finished. The PTSD group sessions are over. Only four more months of medication to go and then a two week wean off period. Discharged from St Johns and the Royal Infirmary. An out of court settlement two days before the court case. All funded by my union (pay your dues...). Admission of liability from the truck driver. But no charges. Whether this has anything to do with the 'accident' happening during a police traffic operation is anyone's guess. But I know what I think.

I am back on the road. Not only these roads. But Mexican roads. And Guatemalan roads. And even a road or two in El Salvador. OK, I stick to the pavement on Seafield Road. There's no such thing as miracles in this game. And I am back in the hills. Not mere heathery Scottish hills, but sodding great mountains in the Mexican Sierra Norte. Feeling the pain. But doing it anyway.

I finally got my Bio-mechanics assessment (I guess nine months isn't long to wait in the greater scheme of things). My 'new' leg is an inch and a half longer than my titanium free one. Weird that. So every day I thrust my orthotics into my shoes and crack on. Sometimes I can run. And sometimes I cant. Weirdly this depends entirely on the shoe. I can dance too. Although not every step - sideways moves are not my forte.

I've developed a bit of a thing for Rapha. This is not a cheap thing. But it is classy. And stylish. And wildly middle class. I persuade myself that I deserve it. Oh, and I'm building a touring bike. With my special advisor Rab. A Bob Jackson frame. Enamel orange. World Tourer. Eight Speed. Which should do my just fine in Central America. And South America. And Spain. You get the picture.

I still have to stretch. Do my exercises. Buy shoes because they fit - not because I like them. Pause a little before committing to some mad three day hike through the mountains. Search out lorry free routes. But heh, minor details. We got there in the end.

An End in Sight

2010-11-20T20:33:00.008Z

Was a weird thing, the final physio session. Some written instructions. Some warnings about not overdoing it. Commitment to do 50 miles of pedaling a week. Lots of smiles and good lucks. A wee bit of sadness. And some fear. Who's going to tell me what to do now? And more importantly, does this mean I won't get any better?

A two month SOS pass (until finally signed off the books). And a silent calculation of what 21 months of physio (2 to 3 times a week) cost the tax payer.... Apparently insurance companies fork out £10k to the NHS for every road traffic accident. I'm guessing that didn't really cover it....

That was two months ago. I cracked on with the cycling. I was, after all, the world's most compliant physio patient. Did the Pedal for Scotland with 9000 others (55 miles on a Birdy is a bloody long day). Got the pink road bike out. Rode to Stirling via the Forth Road Bridge. What a blast. Another 50 miles. Cruising up the hills like a cruising thing. Leaving my companion for dust (although to be fair his tyres were somewhat fatter than mine...).

Cranking up the ambition. Two women in their finest Rapha. Black and red (with those cutsie ever so stylish matching arm warmers) on a three day ride from Balloch to Pitlochry on the NCN. Over the Glenogle Viaduct and bouncing down through the forest into Killin. Autumn leaves and a fading Scottish sun. Fine bed and breakfasts and the best Cullin Skink this side of the black stump. Sheeting rain and happiness personified.

Another 60 miles through Fife. Covered in cowshit and scone crumbs. A puncture 20 metres from the only bike shop on the route. And by the time it had been repaired, the rain had stopped. Cyclists supporting local businesses (and not risking oil on their precious Rapha gear...)

This is not the end of the story. There are several more chapters to go. But it is the end of Physio. And Orthopaedics. Because the clever Gary K discharged me from OPD 6 on Tuesday afternoon. A quick feel of my ankle. A warning to stay off icy roads with the bike. And an end to the endless waiting in the green waiting room beside the yellow corridor. Not all waiting rooms mind, just that green one. For now, my friends, we move to the next chapter - the dreaded Trauma Clinc.

240 Jumps

2010-08-23T21:10:00.005+01:00

21 months in and I'm still compliant. Physio has moved to a new, higher (more dreadful) phase. The deep squats have stopped (thank you god) as have the wall slides with weights. I can now push my own weight with my right leg (apparently this is the goal) and I walk without a limp.

But.... I need to be able to run. Not a marathon. Or even the hundred metres. But enough to skip out of the way of danger. To catch a departing bus. And, dare I say it, just for sheer bloody joy. But...

My ankle joint is very stiff. Blocked actually. And its not going to get much better. We remind ourselves that there was a truck.... But we reckon (well, my Physio does) that we can force it a couple more millimetres. Scare the shit out of it basically. And teach my shin (which has long since forgotten) how to absorb impact.

Thus if you see a strange figure out on Porty beach at night, despite the driving rain, hopping round in a hoodie, you wont be surprised. You might stop to count the hopscotch jumps (30), the zigzag jumps (30), the forward lunge hops (3) and the forward two legged bounds (30). Repeat. You probably wont see the grimace of pain (my ankle is absolutely not used to this), and you definitely wont see the day after consequences (those first few steps in the morning are fairly unpleasant). But needs must and there's still a little bit left to achieve. And achieve it I will, dammit!

High Viz

2010-07-25T21:00:00.004+01:00

Yep. It was only a matter of time. Die hard anti paraphernalia dons high viz vest, and, some weeks later, walks into Bike Trax and purchases the first helmet that fits. Is this based on evidence? No. Is this based on peer pressure? Absolutely not. An age thing? Naw. The nudge factor? Possibly. Read the transcript of a coroner's inquest into a cycle death. Cyclist was wearing all the kit. Tragically it didn't help her. But the vest gives me a bit of confidence. Especially on country roads.

Country roads. Far worse than the city. The drivers. Not the roads. Not all the drivers of course. But enough of them. Is there nowt to do but hurtle up and down frightening the living daylights out of the innocents on two self propelled wheels?

A gentle run out to the Big Tent in Falkland should have been charming. And some of it was. But a lot of it wasn't. Women screaming abuse out of back windows. Overtaking manoeuvres at exactly the wrong moment leaving me with inches to spare and aching palms from the ridiculously tight grip. OK. I'm more anxious than most people. I confess to a little terror. But country roads don't usually have pavements to hop onto. There's nothing to do but hang on and curse. And shed an angry tear when composure is regained a few moments later.

Is it getting easier? Sometimes. But then again, not really. Stronger legs mean further distances. More independence. Can even cycle to the hospital now (yes, the physio continues) although there is no safe off road route that doesn't involve getting off and wheeling the bike down a series of steps. This exacerbates my fury. Which in turn jabs at my fear. The trip to work remains a sequence of minor horrors - interspersed with mad moments of victory (oh my god I'm still alive!). Despite this I have discovered there are people even more afraid than me. Which is why I now find myself in the absurd position of buddying novice cyclists into work (on the pavement of course). It doesn't get much more ironic than that.

Cuter than a cute thing

2010-07-06T20:11:00.005+01:00

It's yellow. With full suspension. And a 14 speed rohloff hub. And a SON dynamo. Front and back carriers. Smooth leather seat. A stand. (A stand! must be an age thing...). And it folds. In 15 seconds. Without trapping the folder's fingers. Or toes. Or blackening their finger nails. Or traumatising their ego.

In its short life it has already charmed its way onto trains. And buses. And down to Cambridge. On night routes with cats eyes. Up and down curbs. On pavements. Lots of pavements (sorry officer). To the Scottish Parliament. To Scottish Enterprise in Stirling. To a wedding even. Into student quarters. And back out again. And into the Standard Life building. To Green Monday. With a lot of smart people watching. And out a couple of hours later through the aforesaid's revolving doors (on the third attempt).

It stops grown men in the street. Some of them give it a whirl. Marvel at the techie stuff. And old ladies. Och, look at that hen.... And young lads "nice bike Mrs!" And sniffing dogs. And clambering toddlers. And half dressed laddettes swaying slightly in the evening breeze.

When you've been run over by a truck you need a bit of a treat. Something comfy. That will treat your knee and foot with respect. That will potter up The Mound without causing a sweat. That will jump a curb at the first sound of a distant rumble. That will beg forgiveness from pedestrians on the pavement.

Yeah yeah. Whatever. There's a load of excuses for buying a high spec Birdy. But in the end we pay a fortune simply because its cuter than a cute thing - and nothing, absolutely nothing else is more important.

On knees

2010-06-06T16:15:00.003+01:00

Rehab is not straight forward. It isn't linear. Nor predictable. Nor consistent. Which is obviously why noone warned me that a knee problem would bring me to the brink for 8 weeks. Would take me back off my bike. Stop the running (in the hospital corridor) that had only just started. Stop the blog writing (too weary). Keep me out of the pool. And not to put too fine a point on it - stop the hope.

My knee was not damaged by the truck. It is, however, connected to bits and pieces that were. And there lies the problem, which although now temporarily fixed, will apparently be an ongoing issue.

This is dull, tiresome and creates a whole new set of mental requirements to overcome. A sore ankle and foot can be managed. Because that was the truck - right? But the knee - that's punishment from a higher being.

Imagine that you have to consider every step. Particularly up and down hills. Holding your knee out every so slightly. You see the bus coming. Going to miss it if you don't increase your pace. But you know that that simple activity could knock you back for a week. You slightly overdo your physio exercises. And the pain stays for the whole day. Then you get on a bike. Hold your knee out - for every single pedal rotation. You get the picture. This is not insurmountable. It will improve. But, according to my Physiotherapist, I am now a person who 'looks like a knee injury, not an an ankle injury'. I can only hope this is a good thing.

Cycle commuter

2010-06-04T23:30:00.003+01:00

Today I cycled to work. OK - I did take to the pavement more than once. And slewed to a halt at every distant rumble. But I made it. There and back. Saving £2.40. And an hour more in bed.

Go-fast Shin

2010-03-30T16:18:00.007+01:00

The Golden Jubilee. Funny name for a hospital. Especially one in the backend of Clydebank. A walk, a bus, a train, a low level train and another walk from the East side of Edinburgh. In the worst weather for months. Me in full waterproofs. Running into a colleague on the train, a relative at the station, and more colleagues on the low level platform. There's something to be said for this public transport lark.

Dalmuir station is not pretty. But it does have lifts. And signs. Which makes the ten minute walk to the hospital/hotel/conference complex somewhat easier.

There's a vague sense of the Middle East in the hotel. Something to do with the wooden paneling and the tiled floors. Although there, sadly, the similarities end. No wafting spices or honied baklavas. No thrumming drums. No call of the muezzin... This is somewhat of a disappointment, given the original purpose of the complex. I guess it is Clydebank after all.

I am entitled to a free room, and that is all. My complimentary paper will have to be paid for, as will all my meals. I guess this is fair enough, given its the NHS budget, and tax payers have to be protected. But it does feel a bit weird. The 15m pool, though, is part of the deal. With its view of the Clyde (if you stand on tiptoes), its thick white towels and its compact sauna and steam room.

At 3pm I present myself to the pre-op clinic and answer the same questions three times in different order. Provide samples. Get swabbed, jabbed and ECGd. Commiserate with the nurse who ended up in a bed in his own ward after being knocked down on his bike by a car driver.

Later I eat in the cavernous staff canteen that has two options on the menu. Jamie Oliver has obviously yet to reach the west coast of Scotland; the food is vaguely nutritious and entirely colourless.

By 6.30pm I'm bored. I have 17 hours to kill. Too wet and cold to go out. I busy myself with Susie Orbach. Play with the iMac. Examine the toiletries. Pace round the hotel. Swim in the pool. Melt in the sauna. Investigate the rest of the hospital. Which is part of the hotel. Or the other way round. Very hard to tell.

At 11 the next morning I present myself to the ward. Shown to a twin room. Given the statutory gown, paper pants and fancy white stockings. Sign the consent form. Answer the same questions five times. Don a wristband. Meet the surgeon and his assistant. Discuss the likelihood of two return visits. Meet the anaesthetist. Discuss spinal versus general anaesthetic. 'Choose' general because spinals not recommended for afternoon lists (what??). Meet some random other doctor. Meet several more nurses. Get offered lunch by mistake.

Finally walk, with my nurse, to the theatre. In my gown. Foam slippers. And unseen paper pants. The walk of shame. Why am I not wheeled? To test my mobility apparently. Good idea. And saves portering time too. Efficiency gains live at a hospital near you (I hope the Tories are watching...).

The admission room is bustling, noisy and upbeat. I meet more nurses. Answer the same questions seven times. Climb on a bed. And horrors, am wheeled into the theatre awake. Despite being a seasoned professional patient, this is new to me. Where is the little anaesthetic room? Did they forget to build it? Efficiency savings?

I see the nurse open the instrument tray. I bleat a bit. And, embarrassingly, although I am a seasoned professional patient, weep. Clutch at the hand of the nurse from Sierra Leone. And then its over.

In the recovery room an hour later the surgeon tells me he 'got the lot'. Well, most of it at least. Which means that all going well, there will not be two return visits. Hopefully not even one. I am the proud owner of a new streamlined go-fast shin. I have been improved. And it hurts like hell. I hope Susie Orbach doesn't mind.

The Grey Prince

2010-03-23T22:57:00.012Z

Of course he wasn't really a prince. Nor was he grey. Not in the literal sense at least. And I doubt he had read Machiavelli (or Watkins-Pitchford for that matter), although you never know... He shares a name with a prince though. Actually, not one name but two names. Two names with two princes. How cool is that?

So to protect his identity we will call him the prince for now. Well, The Prince. Capital letters are good. Provide some gravitas. For this is an important, if very short, story.

I first set eyes on The Prince on the 10th of January. And last set eyes on him on the 21st of March. Neither of these dates are important historically. Which is a shame. Because they could have added a certain chutzpah, a cheeky reference for the clever reader to sigh "ah yes... the irony..."

There was still snow on the 10th of January. I remember this because I had to get my stick back out. Walking was harder then. There was no snow on the 21st of March. There were blackbirds though. And starlings on the skylight. And people eating ice creams on Cramond beach. The Prince and I ate ice creams too. With flakes. Even though there was no sun.

The Prince was around, although not always present, for some major milestones. He did witness the first frock outing in 15 months. Frocks, you may remember, are out when you have a thigh on your shin. This is both aesthetic (looks horrid) and functional (can't get orthotics into the boots that on a good day will fit over the thigh on a shin). So successfully wearing a frock involves a painful foot (because no orthotics) - both for the outing (in this instance a burlesque night) and the following day.

The Prince was not present for the visit to the defence's orthopedic consultant. This visit was, in a word, grim. Its one thing spending time with medical professionals when they are there to treat you. Its quite another when its for the defence to use in the forthcoming court case.

The Prince was present for the viewing of the trashed Moulton. This was kind of him. Maybe. Its not exactly a fun day out to look at scrap metal with a basket case in the passenger seat of your car. Although taking a picture of it with his iPhone was mildly odd...

The Prince was also present for 'the dancin'. This took place in the local community centre. Shooglenifty on stage giving it laldy while an ankle/foot that once had to be coaxed to move a few millimetres found itself bouncing around with its healthier partner in (almost) perfect rhythm. The Prince won the raffle that night (a very dodgy bottle of whisky which remains to be drunk).

The Prince saw the thigh on a shin, but never commented on it. Some people are quiet about these things (the quietness, it turned out, was verging on horror). The Prince was big on body aesthetics. As many princes are.....

The Prince wasn't present for the first trip up Seafield Road on the pavement to that junction. He was on a train to Glasgow to look at a new bike. Nor did The Prince witness the first ride up Seafield Road itself. He was present though, for the ride to Cramond. A patient companion. And this was important. Because it was long. It was (mostly) fun. And it came a few minutes after the Seafield Road trip.

The Prince did witness the immediacy of the post Cramond ride. And this was very important. The speechless exhaustion, the buggered knee, the savaged foot, and the turmoil of joy and fear and victory and resolution and frustration and happiness and sadness and weariness and a whole load of other things that happen inside your head that you can't articulate when you've been run over by a truck and you've finally sort of got back on the road and then you sit down and you just want to lay your head down and weep or laugh but you don't even know any more and there is nothing left to say....

This was too much for The Prince. Or not enough. Or something else. Or nothing. Or everything. The Prince leaves the narrative. With both his princely names. And that is the end of the story. At least for The Prince. It is not a sad story. People come and go. And so do princes. So do thighs on shins. And this thigh on a shin has eight days left before it goes under the knife. And a new chapter begins.

Back on the road

2010-03-21T20:56:00.007Z

Its a weird thing, fear. Impossible to describe to someone else. Difficult even to articulate to myself. What causes my legs to shake sometimes, and my hands at other times? Why does my heart start pounding just thinking about it? Why does simply talking about it bring it on?

Of course, all these things have a physiological reason. Its pretty straight forward, the flight or fight response. And I'm learning the control mechanisms too. Go to the site. Face the fear. Stand there with the bike until my heart stops pounding. According to my psychologist this should be easier every time. Mmm. Even writing it down is unpleasant.

And so to the progress report.

In early March I wake up one morning and decide to face the fear, head on and alone. iPod on (yes, not recommended for cycling, but safer in this instance for its calming effect). Pedal out west along the Promenade, up onto Seafield Road, weave cautiously along the pavement, and stop 30 metres from the site of the incident (I can't use the term accident - so bear with me on this).

Heart racing, palms sweating, and legs threatening to go beneath me, I stand for a few minutes and look at the junction. Note that the world keeps turning. The traffic keeps moving. Just a junction. An ordinary junction. Turn up the music a little. Then pick up the bike and pedal for home. Surprisingly the journey home is worse. Far worse. Still on the pavement but this time with the traffic coming from behind. Hands not firm on the handlebars. Every unexpected noise a terror. And at the same time an enormous sense of achievement. Faced the fear. Over the first hurdle.

Over the next week I grow braver. Visit the site again. Stay longer. Look harder. Get a wee bit closer. Watch a truck come through the junction. Sick with fear. Daren't cross the junction. But hold the line. Breathe deeply.

And then, even bolder, a few days later, I pedal east for a few kilometres, now and again off the pavement and onto the road where it is nice and wide. Still not cycling through junctions but cranking up the possibilities every time. And with these possibilities, new frustrations.

Want to go further. And faster. And up hills. But I heed the advice of the professionals. No hills (because of my knee). And no junctions (because my adrenalin will apparently get in the way of my judgment). And no lorries - definitely no lorries - because when my legs shake I lose power - and when my hands shake I lose control - and neither of these things is a good idea when 32 tonnes storms past within a metre of a small person on a little pink bike...

And on Saturday the 20th March, around 16 months after I was run over, I cycle with a friend safely on my tail along the pavement to that junction. Get off. Cross the road. And then staying on the road, complete the journey to Leith. It is deeply unpleasant. Every vehicle a potential killer. But I do it. Thanks to my patient friend. I am victorious. I have got past that junction. Everything now is possible.

And the next day I do it alone. OK, there are no lorries. I pick a Sunday deliberately. And I am partly forced into it by unexpected and difficult circumstances (more on that in a forthcoming post). I meet a police car with its siren going. And sit behind a large red angry tractor at the lights. Don't undertake it despite the wait. Stopping in Tiso's car park while waiting for a friend I notice my legs and lower lip tremble.

Twenty odd miles that day. All the way to Cramond (and back in the dark). What fun to be back out on the bike, wind in hair and freewheeling down long straight hills on traffic free cycle paths. (How I used to mock!)

And the consequences? Not all good. A throbbing knee. An aching foot. An emotional wreck - poisoned by hours of pumping adrenalin. Unable to string a sentence together until the next day. Exhausted by the sheer scale of the whole thing.

I am not cured. Normal service has not resumed. To cycle to work I will have to contend with lorry after lorry after lorry. I don't know if that will ever be possible. But I can do Sundays. And that's a hell of a start....

A fond kiss

2010-02-15T21:50:00.006Z

It sounded like a good idea at the time. Well, it was my idea. So it must have been good. Yes? Lets go and have a look at the Moulton. For the first time. The trashed-by-a-truck Moulton. The Moulton that's been moldering in my aunt's shed for over a year.

The same Moulton that careered through the Andes and down into the Amazon basin. That tossed its rider onto the gravel on the steepest downhill track in Ecuador. That whisked along off-road tracks on its little slicks. The perky wee blue thing that raised eyebrows and a smile wherever it went. That stopped strangers in the street. That made its rider friends for life. That wasn't allowed on the London Underground. That was hooted at by smiling waving taxi drivers. Whose suspension was a godsend for anyone with a fear of White Finger.

That went over the Picos with a Thorn that continued on through Africa and is now soldiering on through the Americas. That was inadvertently offloaded from a train in York and almost didn't make it to Cuba. But did. Performing for every street musician and drumming crowd. That was scraped and dented and rarely got a puncture. That flew over the cobbled streets of Edinburgh and was dead staunch when facing off buses in Glasgow. That was allowed inside banks and museums, art galleries and cafes, and even the ESPC on the hunt for a new flat. That had pride of place in the tenement stair - resisting theft at every turn.

And whose final journey was unceremonious, violent and filthy. A dirty junction on a dirtier road. On a light grey day. The day of the Scottish Transport Awards. Oh the irony. An inconceivable end for a glorious piece of engineering. Handbuilt by master craftsmen in England. Top dollar.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. Less damage I guess. Hadn't anticipated the enormous forces that corkscrewed the frame. A folded Moulton. But the experts amongst you will know that Moultons don't fold. Well not normally. The front wheel seems true. And the seat OK. My hands shake a little as I pull it out into the daylight. Dusty and rusted. Suspension ripped apart. Gaping holes in the steel. And here's the rub. The bike is steel. And I am not. How come the bike is fucked? And I'm not?

On the return home on the bypass we sit for sometime behind an ambulance. I curse my bravado. But its done now. And in a few weeks the bits that can't be salvaged by The Bike Station will go to the great metal scrapheap in the sky. There will be no formal ceremony. Its just a bike after all. But there will be a quiet salute - and a gentle whispering of those famous lines:

A fond kiss, and then we sever;
A farewell, alas, forever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

The operation date that wasn't

2010-02-07T20:48:00.004Z

Oh, it was so close. The letter came in. The good news: a date for the clinic and the following day an afternoon slot in theatre. Even get to have breakfast. The bad news: as anticipated, the operation is scheduled for the Golden Jubilee - 50 miles away.

I phone the hospital.

Check who the surgeon is. It wouldn't do to run out in a flapping theatre gown when you discover on the operating table that they've given you someone else just to meet the waiting times (they haven't).

Check whether its a day case or an overnighter as the letter doesn't say (its a day case).

Check whether I have to go to the clinic or whether as a professional theatre patient I can just give it a miss (no I cant give it a miss).

As a sop, am offered free hotel accommodation for the night between the clinic and the operation (food not paid for).

So. All systems go. Need to take a week off work post anesthetic (based on the last experience). Start clearing diary and canceling meetings. Need to find a way of getting to the hospital (door to door its a bus and two trains). Need to find a way of getting back from the hospital (a bus and two trains is not going to work after a general anesthetic).

In the midst of all this, some 20 minutes after speaking to the waiting list manager, I get another call. The operation is off. Surgeon cancels his list that day. An emergency. Head in hands at my desk.

All systems go. Start reinstating meetings. Canceling the cancellations. Breathe a furious sigh. Then hesitate for a moment.

Operation number six is technically cosmetic. My 'thigh on a shin' will become a shin. Just a shin. With some minor scars. I have been wanting this for a long time. Not even questioned wanting it. My thigh on a shin is hideous. The photos don't lie. Nor does my mirror. OK the scar itself is very neat. Good stitching. Great job by a fabulous surgeon. But people stare when it pokes out from under my jeans. Sheer vanity means I don't wear skirts. And sheer bulk means no boots. It shakes a bit when I swim. A strange piece of flab clinging on for dear life.

But my thigh on a shin has had, and continues to have, critical functions. It saved my leg. It put skin where there was no skin - and soft tissue where there was no soft tissue. It protected my bones as they healed. It took precious nutrients to where they were most needed. And its been a cushion over a place that badly required some protection. Both physically and emotionally. I haven't seen my shin for over a year. Which is probably just as well in the circumstances.

Pause again. Stroke my thigh on a shin. Actually, its going to be more complex to give this up than expected. The clever man who put it there is going to take some of it away. This is necessary and important. But the loss shouldn't be underestimated. By me at least. And had I not got the operation date that wasn't, I might just have jettisoned the thigh on a shin with a barely a second thought. And no doubt paid heavily later.

My thigh on a shin lives on for another day. We find our peace somewhere in the realms of co-dependency. And I will quietly mourn my loss when the end finally comes.

Moving Well

2010-01-24T17:56:00.004Z

My mobility, it seems, is not just my business. In the last couple of weeks 'you're moving well' has become the opening gambit of friends, colleagues, strangers who have heard of me, shopkeepers in my high street, health professionals who know me, and a few others not in any of these categories.

On a couple of occasions, people have looked openly surprised. Smiling. A minor medical miracle strolling into a meeting room, standing watching a gig all night in The Caves, wandering round Scotmid nonchalantly, daring to cross the road against the lights, springing off the bus without hanging onto the guard rail, no longer sitting by the right hand aisle in the cinema....

What few see of course, are the clumsy orthotics, the daily grind of physio, the twice weekly biodex machine hammering me to hammer my quads, the visits to the psychologist, the (largely) hidden skin graft scars, the ongoing pain in my knee and ankle, meetings with lawyers, discussions with HR about sick pay, the angst of trying to do a full time job effectively with all this other rehab stuff, and the fatigued collapse at the end of the day from sheer bloody mindedness in making all this happen.

I am not cured. I cannot run. I can't yet attempt a Munroe. I'm still not back in the traffic on my bike. But I am far further on that anyone thought possible. Some would call this a miracle. Lucky. High quality NHS results. But actually this is now all down to physio and hard graft. My physiotherapist. Her assistant who operates the Biodex machine. And me. Collectively we are taking on the world. And winning. And if there's a moral to this story, its simply that.

Folks - if you are told to do your physio or related exercise, do it. Don't put it off for another day. Don't be frustrated by slow progress. Or lonely in your endeavours. Or angry about 'why me?' Or think someone else will do it for you. Just get on with it. Because the results are not just for you. They're for everyone else around you who is just itching for your success.

The Waiting List

2010-01-17T19:25:00.003Z

Christmas and new year passed with snow, ice, champagne and not a single fall. A visit to a French ski field (without the skis of course) was a harsh lesson in 'look what I can't do (yet)'.

But it was also a victory in 'look where I can go now'. Walking on snow. Jumping into a moving gondola. Climbing up the icy steps to the restaurant. Not being run over by an errant snow boarder... Strolling to the next village.

Walking round Geneva for five hours, with its $500,000 watches and the International Red Cross Museum (what an extraordinary combination) was a lesson that lasted nearly a week. Ill nae do that again...

Safely back in Scotland, to my disappointment, there is no letter from St Johns. Ten weeks after the clinic appointment. I ring the waiting times manager and leave a message. Astonishingly, he rings me back. Polite, helpful and generous with his time.

It seems that, unusually, my plastic surgeon operates on Fridays. As Christmas and new year fell on Fridays, two operating days were lost. Then there was the snow. And emergencies. And he has to take some leave this year because he didn't get much last year. There are new HEAT targets, but its not clear which operations they apply to (presumably not cosmetic surgery to improve my ego and help me get a pair of boots on) . And suddenly Houston, we have a problem.

Would I consider going to the Golden Jubilee in Glasgow? I am reassured that I would still have the same consultant. Of course I say (ever helpful). Without asking where it actually is. Or how I am going to get to the other side of Glasgow for 7am. (Later I discover it is near the Erskine Bridge. Getting there will be one thing. Getting back post anesthetic will be something else indeed).

So. The waiting list manager knows who I am. He will speak to my consultant about the Golden Jubilee. But I do not have my appointment. Which means I cannot plan. Anything. Any time in February, March or April. No theatre tickets. No gigs. No holidays. No major work events. I am in a waiting list limbo. With an Erskine Bridge logistics puzzle. And a physio regime that suddenly requires gym equipment rather than a couple of ankle weights at home. This, it seems, is the nature of rehab. Just when you have mastered the exercise regime and the time and motion practices required to make it happen, a whole new thing has to be developed, learnt, and built into one's life. Is this manageable? Of course. I think of Haiti. And I crack on.

The Ice Maiden

2009-12-25T22:21:00.008Z

The enemy of the mobility impaired is not Christmas crowds. Not speeding traffic. Not an out of control Labrador. Not even eight drunken Santas in the Two Monkeys. No, the real enemy is ice. Black ice. Thin ice. Ice on pavements. Ice on roads. Slushy ice. Snow covered ice. Beach ice. Muddy ice.

The route to Scotmid may as well be the death zone above Everest's camp 4. But there are no fluttering prayer flags on the way. No stupas to protect the frail and vulnerable. Just incredibly stupid drivers sliding their cars onto the pavement. And, (I do a double take) a couple of random cross country skiers out for an urban thrill....

There are two options. Face the ice. Or stay at home for several days. The latter is not, of course, an option. For me at least. But rest assured, there will be thousands of people across the country too afraid to go out - as the main roads are gritted and the pavements are not. This is not necessarily the council's fault. The council could not get to every street. But if each householder just did their entrance, the streets would be cleared. And Living Streets wouldn't be making a polite complaint on national radio... But I digress...

I stand at the tenement door to check out the other pedestrians. There aren't any. I step out onto the snow covered ice. My right heel slides away immediately. Amazingly, I don't fall. All that physio is paying off. Another step. And another. More sliding. I hold onto the railings. Which is fine until I have to cross the road. I stare at the other side. Over the abyss. The ice on the road is an inch thick. And sheer. I cross like a crow. Make it. Slide again and grab the big wheely bin. Almost over that time. I am terribly afraid. But it also extremely funny. I am laughing. I am victorious. Because I am managing it. Just as well as everyone else. Because by this time, there are a few others with over bent knees, huddled in their woolly hats, hanging onto anything that will prevent a fall.

I make it to Scotmid. To the hospital. Onto the bus. Into the city. To the cinema. But not to Glasgow. That's a step too far. Walking on snow is natural physiotherapy. I couldn't design that exercise if I tried. Never mind make the gizmo required. But my foot aches. The skin pinkens and swells round my scar. And after two days, I resurrect my stick. Back on the best seat in the bus. Straight to the front of Xmas queues. The crowds open in front of me like the parting of the Red Sea. I am an ice maiden with a stick. The stick is back. Long live the stick.

Colin and the Number 26 Bus

2009-12-16T19:53:00.004Z

Another day. Another milestone. Its pouring with rain. Rush hour. Waiting for the No. 26. bus . Last person to squeeze on. Downstairs, the bus is full. Deep breath. Decide to climb the stairs. Deep breath. Hope the bus doesn't take off while I'm half way up. Make it safely. Another deep breath. Wonder how I'm going to get down again. Daren't attempt it if the bus is still moving.

Three seats from the front I have a perfect view of the coupe that appears from nowhere on our right and attempts to cut us up. The bus driver hauls on the brakes. Holds down the horn. Emergency stop. Downstairs there are shouts and crashes. More shouting. The bus pulls over. We are four stops from home.

I can hear the driver talking to a man, asking him what's wrong. Then he is calling an ambulance. By now, the entire bus knows that a 52 year old man called Colin has been thrown three feet down the bus, hurt his arm and cracked his head. Upstairs we remain quiet. There are absolutely no complaints. A woman suggests she needs a drink. Someone else agrees. Colin is conscious but quiet. The driver fears that he will be blamed, his knuckles rapped. But it absolutely wasn't his fault. And he is meticulous in his response.

Ten minutes later the ambulance arrives. So does another 26 bus We offload obediently leaving Colin with the ambulance man, and get onto the other bus. Four stops later, I disembark. I have safely navigated the upstairs of a bus. Colin, less fortunate on the lower deck, is on his way to hospital. And the driver of the coupe, unidentified, is presumably relaxing with a drink at home. His ignorance is his bliss. There is, absolutely, no justice.

OPD 6 (orthopedic clinic)

2009-12-15T20:03:00.005Z

A Tuesday afternoon six weeks after the last operation. Yes, time for another visit to ODP 6. I wonder whether to go. For the first time since my accident I have a day off sick that is not related to the truck, I have a stinking horrible cold. But if I don't go it may be very difficult to get another appointment. I swallow some ibuprofen and stagger out.

In the old days I used to get there on time. And then wait. And wait. And wait. Now I am becoming more cunning. Today I take a bus that might (according to the timetable) get me there on time. Of course it doesn't. As expected. I am a respectable 15 minutes late. No sooner have I sat down, then I'm whisked up to the Green Waiting Room. (The colour of the waiting room is important but that's a story for another time). Another minute and its into the consultant's office.

A two minute conversation, then its off for an x-ray (the radiographer is rather unprofessionally startled by my graft) - and back to the office. He shows me the x-rays. Astonishing. Almost everything has healed. Except for a small gap in the fibula. Which doesn't matter apparently. We discuss future function (this is orthopedic speak for "Please doctor, will I be able to hill walk again?)

He doesn't commit. Notes that I will probably develop arthritis in my ankle (I daren't ask when) and that I should crack on with my physio and come back to see him in a year. A year? A year! And if I need to see him before hand, if I want anything else removed (I daren't ask what), I should just give him a call. I think that he is saying there is still a whole year in which to make more progress. A week may be a long time in politics, but it is a nano second in orthopedics....

The Allotment (and other diversionary tactics)

2009-12-12T20:40:00.006Z

The task is bigger than Christmas. Bigger even than Africa. But smaller than a 32 tonne truck. And definitely smaller than a year of physio.

I mean, how hard can it be tackling a few brambles, some towering roses and several feral holly trees? When it has rained every weekend for months? And it took two weeks to realise there was actually a shed in there somewhere?

And while the vines grow ever taller, the great allotment conqueror is also ensconced in at least five other hobbies (read diversionary tactics) at the same time. These include, in no particular order of importance: weekly private Spanish lessons: Fisherrow Yacht Club Committee meetings; knitting nights; vociferous reading; twice weekly swimming; and about 5 hours a day of Radio 4. Oh, and of course there's work to do too...

No doubt a psychiatrist would have a bit to say about all this avoidance stuff. Something about replacing two wheels with something more manageable; and providing visible evidence of achievement. This is not far off the truth. And it is worth considerable more examination. Later. I'm far too busy at the moment. Whatever the psycho-babble, its all getting very confusing. And thorny. I haven't managed to knit a solution for the brambles yet - instead razing them to the ground with a flamethrower in a pique of must-seize-control-of my-life garden rages.

The Yacht Club Committee speaks English, not Spanish (much to my disappointment). And the Spanish teacher alas, is not fluent in the art of Day Skipper Theory and parallel rulers. However, it does all keep the scary stuff at bay. At least for the time being. At least until I have to face it head on with the psychologist.

Whether or not the diversionary tactics are good for my long term mental health remains to be seen. Even if not, at least I'll be considerably more learned at the end of it, and I'll also have grown a few onions and mastered the bowline and the half hitch... Which means that, taking the new ironing board into account, my life will indeed be complete. That is, of course once I've learnt the ancient art of flame eating...

Ding Dong the Stick is Dead. Long Live the Stick.

2009-12-05T14:15:00.003Z

I am free. At last. Free to stagger down to the end of the bus in search of the last seat. Free to stand at bars. Free to carry an umbrella and a bag at the same time. Free to sit in a restaurant without tripping the waiter up. Free from strangers asking what's wrong with me. Free to take the stairs. Free to get through revolving doors without jamming them and me. Free Free!

The stick is gone. Long live the stick. A trusty companion for months, I am semi naked without it. A constant 'something's missing anxiety'. Phantom limb syndrome. Almost limpless, I am now almost normal. Which, irony or ironies, does have its drawbacks.

For while I can walk without a stick, for several blocks even, hills are not my forte. Nor are cobbles. And when you live in a world heritage city, this is a serious disadvantage. There is no iPhone application yet that route plans for these eventualities. Not that I have an iPhone. But I would if such an application existed.

And with the stick, goes the sympathy. And the generosity. Strangers pushing past me now don't know that if I stumble, I'll probably fall. Bus drivers take off before I have got to my seat. And car drivers rev in frustration as I troop slowly over crossings. And the chats I used to have with other people with sticks. (There's a whole stick community out there which you just don't see if you don't have a stick yourself.)

And I am slow. Terribly slow. With funny little short steps to avoid putting too much pressure on my knee. But this will improve. In four weeks I will be back on my bike. My knee will be strong enough to start impact work (that's physio-talk for running). And my two trusty sticks will be returned to St Johns - ready for their next thankful companion.

Buy Nothing Day

2009-11-28T14:21:00.006Z

Today is Buy Nothing Day. Unfortunately I only heard about this after I bought (for £3.50) thorn proof gloves for another onslaught on the allotment. Is this allowed? Or should I have made do with a pair of old socks lined with cardboard toilet roll innards?

It followed a (all expenses paid) night out with an international delegation in a country hotel out of town. Where fine wine flowed with a view to increasing sustainable profits in the countries involved. And the Annual Chambers of Commerce Dinner in Glasgow earlier in the week. Where the 20 year old keynote speaker made millions from his gran's jam recipe - and where I had to wait 45 minutes for a taxi to for a one mile journey that I could easily have made on foot had I not been using a stick.

At both of these events I wore my trainers. Which made the formal dress code somewhat difficult. Not, I confess, as a protest to the gods of economic growth. I don't possess that sort of courage. (Nor of course would it be professional. I was at both events representing my employer. And I'm a stickler for doing the right thing. ) But because, one year after the truck thing, I still have to wear club footer orthotics. Which will only fit in my trainers.

One year in the same pair of shoes. I am a poster child for anti consumerism.. With a penchant for Ebay.... How could this have happened to a woman who couldn't get a past a shoe shop without frosting the window with misty eyed anticipation....

The first year anniversary of being covered by Disability Discrimination legislation passed relatively quietly. No one at work noticed. Until I told them, that is. One or two people sent texts. Considerate and thoughtful. I invited some pals to dinner. We drank fizz and celebrated. Sitting at a dinner table I am perfectly normal. Even funny at times. I can still cook. I can still entertain. As long, of course, that it doesn't involve walking more than a couple of blocks for a crucial missing ingredient.

One friend bought me a new ironing board. Ironing on the floor with a knackered leg is deeply uncomfortable. To be avoided at all costs. And not having access to a car or a pair of decent legs, prevented independent purchase. I am delighted with my acquisition. It has smiling pink dots. Hangs on the back of the laundry door with a certain chutzpas. These days its the simple pleasures that count. In the past it would have been a new tent. State of the art cycle panniers. A sleeping bag that would fold into one's palm. And now I am charmed by an ironing board. Jesus!

One year on I feel I should write down all the zen like things I have learnt. Profound lessons of the heart. How I have reformed because I'm lucky to be alive. But alas dear friends, life is not like that. I have not raised a million for charity. Nor put myself through some dreadful endurance test in some far flung corner of the world. I do not command audiences on how to be good. Or do motivational speeches in the corporate world. I've simply read a few good books, done a spot of gardening and continued relentlessly with my physio. And, in the last few days, reveled in the unexpected pleasure of a new ironing board... My life is almost complete.

Support Tights (and post op blues)

2009-11-10T11:57:00.002Z

Six days after my operation. My foot hurts. I can't get to the Co-op because of the pain. But worse than this, I want to lie down all the time. Its a sort of verging-on-fainting crossed with low-blood-sugar/low-blood-pressure sort of horror. I scour the Internet. Seems this is a fairly normal post anesthetic experience. I don't remember it from last time. I lie on the couch. Fuming.

However, no time for self pity. Monday 9th November. Must be St Johns Plastic Surgery Clinic (a 45 minute drive). My aunt deposits me at the front door and hunts down a car park (with difficulty). In the outpatients clinic we are informed of a 45 minute delay - which becomes an hour. This gives us time to sample the rather good fruit scones from the little canteen. And herbal tea.

Finally, its my turn. The nurse has read my notes and comments on the near anniversary of my accident. I almost weep with gratitude. Its a small thing. But so important. She whips off my dressing. I am less grateful for this. The consultant thinks that he can reduce the graft to near 'normal'. Straight forward liposuction - repeated if necessary. Day Surgery and a general anesthetic. 1:100 risk of infection. 18 week waiting list which will reduce at new year.

Strangely - this is not music to my ears. Have extra funds been provided to reduce waiting times? Or it will it be done through efficiency gains and time and motion studies? I'm no expert but, given the choice (which I wont be of course) I'd rather wait longer and have more holistic care than being rammed through the system like some sort of inverse slaughterhouse. I decide to give them the benefit of the doubt. Reducing waiting times should be a good thing. I will embrace it with open arms.

And speaking of embracing, there's the small problem of support tights. Apparently I will have to wear the aforementioned horrors for 8 weeks after the operation. To keep the swelling down and ensure a good result. And to get used to this, I have to start practicing soon. Twenty minutes a day. Christ! I haven't decided on the colour yet, but I'm thinking blood red as a starter for ten. I could even jazz them up with some graffiti. Best suggestion wins the left support stocking - which of course - I will have absolutely no need for.

Tension Wires

2009-11-09T14:54:00.004Z

On Wednesday morning my neighbour dropped me at the Day Surgery Unit at 7.15. The waiting room was surprisingly busy, surprisingly cold and bereft of mental simulation. The receptionist (also a nurse) had lost the list for Theatre 18. Being on Theatre 21 list meant by interest was purely theoretical. Why wasn't the list on a computer file somewhere? Why was she phoning other departments to ask them to fax it to her? Whatever happened to a health care service fit for the 21st century? Or is it simply that so many people need access to the list, that a computer file would be less manageable?

Around an hour later I meet my nurse and we do the usual checking and testing. Next - the anaesthetist who is under the impression I am having something done to my elbow. Having corrected her we discuss anaesthetic options. She decides on a general. Apparently I am fit and healthy. Then the minion of my consultant draws an arrow on my leg with a black felt pen. Minion, I guess, probably isn't fair - but I can't quite remember who he was. At this point I am second on the list. Then suddenly I am first. Whipped into a changing room. Gown, hat, slippers and some weird space blanket thing which is to be my dressing gown on the way to theatre. Onto the trolley and down the corridor at a brisk pace.

In the anaesthetic room (which is horribly small) the desultory conversation turns nasty over the Edinburgh Trams. As a protagonist for sustainable transport, clearly I am a supporter. The anaesthetist and one of her sidekicks clearly aren't. I am on my back and vulnerable. They wield the power. And the drugs. I panic. Not over the trams - which are outwith the control of a patient in the ERI about to have surgery, but at the mask - which appears too fast. I push it off and mumble something along the lines of 'no yet'. This has little effect. I am given a hand to hold. The anti-trams people win, and the next thing I know I'm in Recovery.

I move from Recovery to a ward without windows. There are more nurses in one place than the total I have seen in the last year. Well, I think they are nurses. Its very hard to tell. From cleaners to surgeons the uniform is the same. Which may be useful for cost savings. But it ain't great for patient confidence. They do have badges. But these cant be read from a distance.

At some point I get tea and a biscuit. Later a sandwich and a yogurt. Even cheese and biscuits. The food is fresh and good and the tea is horrible. Meant to bring my own. My blood pressure drops like a stone. I'm not allowed up. This, it turns out, is because I have had a sciatic nerve block. Which, for the uninformed - is in essence a dead leg. I don't remember agreeing to this. Which later becomes a problem. Because although I am ready for discharge. Have my GP letter, my drugs and wound dressing instructions, I am not allowed home until the block effect disappears. Which I am told in the afternoon, could take 24 hours.

I weep. I rant. I try persuasion. I do not want to stay the night. I was not prepared for this No one mentioned it. I have no stuff. No money. And there are no windows in this place. I have not had a wash. Eventually I am told I can only leave if I sign a self discharge form. Clearly I am not going to do this. I don't want it on my file. I give in. Ask to be moved to the other side of the 'ward'. Complain of the stifling heat. Am given a fan. And surprisingly, sleep for most of the night. In retrospect this tantrum was probably caused by stress. And lack of control. And the weird prison like environment - despite the general friendliness of the nurses. I dont want to be a prima donna... But still....

Around 3am I realise my block has vanished. I now understand the link between the block and pain. And that the block was probably a good thing. I sleep a bit more until we are woken at 6 so that the night shift can prepare the ward, patients and breakfasts before the day shift comes on. This seems a bit early to me - but I guess its the routine that works for the staff and the numbers of patients they need to process each day.

I take a handful of painkillers. Panadol. Dihydrocodeine, Ibuprofen. And hope for the best. Breakfast is stunning. There is juice, but only be chance. I am reminded I am lucky to have this - left over from yesterday. Juice is not normally available for breakfast. I eat bran flakes in misery and wash my face at the sink with no mirror. I hop on my crutches without permission and head for the bathroom. I do my teeth and ignore the shower. The instructions for keeping my wound dry meant that showering is far too much hassle. I discover several more patients down the corridor that have been as quiet as mice all night.

Around 10.30am I am rescued by an anesthetist friend and delivered home. I am intact, minus the tension wires that were removed, with a small neat scar with dissolving stitches. I have survived operation number 5.

Where are the wild things?

2009-11-03T01:21:00.006Z

Monday night. Spent watching The Fabulous Mr Fox. With a friend. Overeating Minstrels. (Me - not her). And seeing the Jonz trailer for the first time. Noticed I keep getting my words mixed up. Indigestion all day Sunday. Stress probably. The forthcoming operation? Or the ten hour days at work? The stupidly arrogant nurses at the clinic last week? Or knackering my knee and having to reduce my physio for a couple of weeks.... Or simply a Scottish winter closing in....

But its not all doom and gloom. Swapped the guerrilla allotment for Lynn's mother's garden rather closer to home. A ten minute walk. With a shed. And a briar jungle. Sharing it with an old school friend. Clearing the brambles and tripping over stumps was a (failed) test for my foot. I haven't mastered rough ground yet. But the garden is cool. As are the 'new' neighbours. One with a handy machete. And another with a pretty cat and a penchant for wildflowers. And a sunny market garden wall for everyone. I hope Lynn's mother doesn't move. At least not for a couple of years.

I still carry my stick around. But I forgot to take it to the clinic last week. Which must be a good sign. Its more of a comfort blanket these days. But after the gardening, I needed it for sure. And after operation Number 5, its companion will be dragged out of the wardrobe and put back into service. 352 days in.

I'm planning some sort of survival anniversary on the 19th. Anyone for Where the Wild Things Are?

Riding Solo

2009-10-18T17:36:00.003+01:00

I was out in the traffic two times with friends before I attempted it on my own. Sunday pedaling with fewer buses and trucks. On the flat in good weather. My friend behind and slightly out to the right. It was relatively easy. My hands shook a bit the first time a lorry went past. And my foot hurt when I took off at junctions. Not helped by having clip in pedals which I couldn't clip into. Ironically the main hazards were dogs and small people on bikes (COME HERE MORGAN - BAD DOG BAD DOG, WATCH THE LADY ON THE BIKE...). And of course the fear of a puncture - I can cycle an awful lot further than I can walk.... But in general, I enjoyed it. Out in the fresh air. Free at last.

So today, with no friend available, I went on my own. Down the Promenade (illegally) and then onto the main road to Musselburgh. In the cycle lane (where numerous cars were frustratingly parked) and through a major junction. And although the traffic was relatively quiet, this was much harder than cycling with a friend. I was afraid. Heart pounding. Hands trembling on the bars. Not helped by the idiot who opened a car door as I came past - missing my by a whisker. I stopped, shouted and he apologised. He didn't know my circumstances of course. But its no excuse - particularly as the car in question was parked facing me. Are all of us on two wheels actually invisible?

Home safe I'd managed around 7 miles. In theory this means that I can manage the distance to my work. But the work route is end to end lorry. With horrible junctions. And a badly surfaced road. Which is not ideal for a 7 kilo road bike with a bag of nerves on top. And given that there's another operation coming up which will mean no more cycling for a while, it will be quite some time before I'm a safe and confident cycle commuter....

Operation No. 5 (preparation)

2009-10-16T23:20:00.004+01:00

Well, it seems I was getting a bit ahead of myself. Advice from my Physio is to hang onto the stick for a bit longer. Not to overdo it. Go easy on the crossramp in the gym. Oh and by the way - "take the crutches to Operation Number 5 because you'll need them afterwards for a while..."

If I had thought about it long enough I might have come to this conclusion myself. When the tension wires are removed, they will leave tiny holes in the bone. And those holes will have to heal. And the healing will take around ten weeks. No physio for ten days after the operation. Which means a set back on the muscle strengthening. Which may mean that my knee starts playing up again. Which means problems on the bike (just when I had finally worked up the courage to cycle on the road - in the traffic). I even have to postpone my plastic surgery clinic - impractically scheduled five days after the operation (at a hospital 30 miles away). Etc Etc Etc My consultant never mentioned any of this. Said it was a simple process. Day surgery only. And I only planned to take a couple of days off work.

The pre-op clinic is next week. Quite why I have to attend this (and take yet another half day off work) is beyond me - I've been in that hospital so many times that I'm on first name terms with most of the Department. But heh - a girl has to cooperate...

In the meantime, my lawyer has served a summons on the lorry driver and his employer. I haven't had the heart, or the nerve, to read it yet. And with that documentation - a form explaining that my employment contract includes a clause which requires me to pay back my sick pay if I receive compensation. Its a funny old world.

Independent Traveller

2009-10-10T17:38:00.003+01:00

On Friday I went to work by bus - on my own - and walked around a kilometre in total between work, bus stops and home. Sometimes I used my stick. And sometimes I did not. I think this makes me an independent traveller.... The end of taxi chits in nigh.

Almost stickless

2009-10-05T23:09:00.004+01:00

A week on from the Scotmid adventure and I am becoming quite bold. A slow but sure circuit of the block (800m?). Stalking the corridors of power at work. All the way to the bus stop on the way to Physio. And each time the pain is a bit less, and my step a bit more confident. But I still feel woozy at times. A strange sort of sea sicknesses. Its been quite some time since I walked properly - without thinking carefully about each step.

My Physio dictates some new exercises. Trying to stop my foot collapsing inwards. Another small thing stuffed into my shoe. And I have to start jumping. Every second day. Twenty jumps. This, not surprisingly, hurts. Meanwhile on the wobble board I am starting to feel more balanced. Thirty seconds is the test. And I'm almost there. But I still attend the hospital twice a week. And that next operation is looming...

Back on my bike on the Prom my knee complains habitually but I feel ready to tackle the road. And the traffic. This may be a false confidence. Brought on by the sudden stickless freedom. And the relentless boredom of pedaling slowly up and down the same route day after day. And I'm weak as a weak thing. With a certain reluctance for emergency stops. And no way of returning in the event of an unfortunate break down. But I've set my heart on a ride to Musselburgh. Which is absolutely nothing to do with the safety of the route - and everything to do with ice cream.

To Scotmid without a stick

2009-09-27T16:59:00.004+01:00

This is a difficult time. Everywhere I look there are people doing things that I want to do, but can't. People getting off the bus to go to the gym. Locking up their bikes outside the cinema. Running down the beach into the sea. Wandering the shops without a plan. Going hill walking. Dancing at ceilidhs. Being spontaneous. Being mobile. Its the proverbial woman who can't get pregnant - seeing pregnant women and small children everywhere. Difference is that, should the woman be desperate enough, she can always consider snatching a child (I say consider - not actually carry it out) ... Snatching someone's legs on the other hand...

And on top of all of this, every day I get asked the same questions by well meaning people,. Generous comments on the speed of my progress by friends and colleagues, and every day I have to think of some anodyne friendly response. Instead of screaming that I am absolutely and totally sick of it all. That it's now more than ten months and my foot is still sore every day. That I still go to physio twice a week while working full time with a team of eight people. That I still suffer the indignity of pre-op clinics that last three times the length of the actual operation. That my knee hurts within minutes of setting off on my bike, and doesn't settle for hours afterwards. That I am still not independently mobile. That I still haven't sorted out my insurance claim, never mind any compensation.

And with those angry and pointless (and self pitying) thoughts this afternoon, I picked up my keys and bag, stepped carefully over my stick, and went - stickless - to Scotmid. Staggering slightly, but not limping, I made it. Bought a paper and some juice and walked cautiously home. Analysed another new pain in the left side of my ankle, and experimented on how best to carry my bag. Strange how heavy a litre of juice is when you don't have your stick.

I guess this journey was a triumph. But it doesn't feel like that at all. It just illustrates how far I actually have to go before I get some semblance of my old life back. And how much work I'll have to do in the meantime. (And the thought that we never discuss - that I wont actually get it back at all).

Competent Crew

2009-09-26T13:58:00.003+01:00

Holidays are very difficult with a stick. No cycling. No walking around. No hill climbing or mountaineering. No sitting around beaches or swanning around half a dozen art galleries. That doesn't leave much else - except for sailing. So - after a few hours searching on the Internet, a few emails and the gathering of some friends, we four arrive at Glenborrodale in Ardnamurchan with our water proofs, cameras (and prayers) to undertake the RYA Competent Crew course.

On a tiny jetty owned by Glenborrodale Castle we meet our skipper (also cook, cleaner, instructor and moral compass) for the week - Chris. Chris looks at least authentic. Early 60s, grey whiskers and a rather fabulous yacht (for the techies amongst you - a Jeanneau Sun Legend 41). We load our gear onto the Dory, and motor out to the boat.

First test for my leg - get off the Dory and onto the boat. This is achieved. And the rest, as they say, is history. Over five days it doesn't rain. We eat like kings and we learn our knots. We take the helm, reef the main sail and understand cleats and winches. We can heave to, and jibe without disaster. We can manage the jib and have a crack at the spinnaker. We sleep in very small cabins and treat fresh water like gold. We pay for a shower in Coll, and three days later in Tobermory. We practise 'man overboard' and pulling up the anchor. We enjoy our gin, and hot chocolate with rum. We oggle the sea eagle and squint into the sun for dolphins. We obey the signs 'do not feed the otter' and learn the rules of the sea. We pay due respect to ferries and whistle rudely at yachts that fail to give way. And on Friday, back on the jetty, we line up for our certificates. We are, according to the Royal Yacht Association, officially Competent.

And how was my gammy leg through all of this? Well, my knee ached pretty much the whole time. But my ankle was surprisingly silent. Was I cured? Alas no. Back on shore a week later I am still paying the price. My ankle joints stiffened up through their enforced rest and now I appear to be worse off than before. Was it worth it? Absolutely. Next spring we will tackle the Day Skipper Practical. And with that little certificate we can charter on our own....

Round Catalunya with a stick

2009-09-12T08:22:00.003+01:00

Hace mucho calor. Cada dia. Cada noche. 32 degrees, dropping to 29 at night. This is no place for a person with a stick. And certainly no place for a person who can't wear sandals (the waiters did, after a while, get used to me sitting with my shoes off in the shadiest corner of the terrace). And finally, no place for a person with low blood pressure, who faints away if forced to stand still for more than a few minutes....

Weird having a holiday when you can't really walk around. Can't do the sights. Or the shopping. Wander the old town at night. Too hot even for physio. And the tiled floors, while beautiful, horribly unforgiving on a shattered ankle.

But. It was perfect. Eating. Sleeping. Reading. Hablo castellano. More sleeping. Three cold showers a day. Swimming in the Med. Swimming in the little pool. Eating grapes from the vine. Wandering the ramblas (well, one or two blocks). Wallowing in the generosity of my friends and their families. Marveling at the flat of my friends - 300 years old and perched on a Roman wall.

Ironically the heat prevented potential frustration. Had it been five or six degrees cooler, I would have wanted to get out there. Visiting every museum, art gallery and Roman ruin. Inspecting every Gaudi. But when its 32 degrees you wake up at 10. You eat finish breakfast around 11.30. You plan your next meal. You linger over lunch til 3. Then a siesta. A short stroll to a terrace. Or a drive into the mountains. Catching one part of an exhibition. And dinner at 10. And then more sleeping. For ten glorious days in Catalunya I almost forgot about my disability.

The journey home was the wake up call. Ever noticed how far you have to walk in airports? And then double that for the departure and the arrival. But - I achieved it. I got myself, and my stick, to Barcelona and back.

The Interview

2009-08-18T22:23:00.002+01:00

What can I say? I only have myself to blame. They were both decent, fair and kind. They did exactly what they were supposed to do. There were no surprises. Attentive and smiling. Gave me every opportunity. And I completely and utterly blew it.

Today I had an interview for another job. I went to Physio first. Then two meetings back to back. Then jumped in a taxi. Arrived early. Walked into the room smiling. Did (I think) a good presentation. And then fell apart. Rambled. Strayed off the point. Didn't sell myself.

I will find out next week. While I'm in Spain. But its pretty obvious already. I wouldn't hire me - so why would someone else? Can I blame my accident for this? Hard to say. I'd like to, but it may just be an excuse. I have missed out on jobs before. But never performed as badly as this. Strange how an incident nine months ago can start affecting other life chances. Wonder how long it will take, if ever, to get back to normal.

In the meantime, my colleague and friend fell off his bike today on his way to work and broke both his elbows. Dog ran out in front of him apparently. Pitched straight over his handlebars. Sometimes there is simply no justice.

Paying the price

2009-08-09T15:23:00.003+01:00

Meanwhile, back at St John's clinic last week, I was told I would need another two operations on my skin graft. In essence these are cosmetic, although the results should also allow me to wear socks without a slit down the side. I should also be able to get into a normal wetsuit. The idea is to debulk the graft using liposuction and then, some weeks later, reduce the skin to fit. There is, of course, a small risk of infection from each procedure. My consultant assures me that the team will do everything they can to avoid this. Good. However, we cannot proceed with this until I get the all clear from my orthopedic consultant at ERI. This appointment is booked for Tuesday. Perhaps optimistically, I am booked back into the plastic surgery clinic in November. All being well, I will have the surgery at the end of the year.

In the meantime, I am paying a significant price from gallivanting around the beach yesterday without a stick. Hauling the boat up and down the sand didn't seem an issue at the time. It certainly is now. Putting too much weight through my ankle has resulted in extreme pain - even 24 hours later. Probably not helped by wearing the little rubber boots without orthotics. Its a strange thing the stick. I carry it along, a bit like a pet, without realising what it actually does. A few short trips without it round the office - no problem. But constant weight over distances (particularly without my special insoles) is not yet possible. This is frustrating and disappointing. And there's no end in sight. My stick will continue to be a bit of a pet for some time to come.

Open Water

2009-08-08T18:42:00.005+01:00

I had the idea when the new sailing club opened 20 metres from my bedroom window. If you can't stop them - join them. And if you cant do the things you used to do because of a gammy leg, then do new things. So - I decided to become a sailor. And to become a sailor at Porty Boat Club - you need your own boat. This is not as easy it as sounds. You cant just pop down to Scotmid and pick up a dinghy.

First you have to decide what kind. And your choice somewhat narrows when you realise that you have to get the boat down the beach to the water - there is no jetty, no marina. And if there is no one around to help - you have to do it yourself. And do you buy a single hander or a double hander? Because it seems that there isn't really a lightweight boat that will do both. Is it more fun to sail alone - or with a friend? And what about attaching an outboard? Or fishing? What about maintenance? Insurance? I search the Internet. Call a distant cousin who happens to be the Commodore (yes!) of a yacht club on the West Coast.

And during all the this frantic effort, a vague unease that I might not be physically up to, it my leg might not hold up, my knee too sore.. Meanwhile the search goes on. The budget rises. And then falls when HR refuses to buy out my leave. And then, how lucky am I, I meet an avid dinghy sailor who is a member of a club a couple of miles down the road. A club that has dinghies for use by members. A club that has a bar, and changing rooms, and lots of kit. A club, in other words, that is infinitely better than the one outside my bedroom window.

And this is how I ended up out on the open water in the Forth crammed onto a Pico with a friend. In a borrowed shorty wetsuit, soft black rubber boots, my skin graft open to the elements. Soaking up salty spray. Laughing and whooping. An anxious hand on the tiller. Cautious jibes and more confident tacks. Heading rapidly out to Fife, unaware that the rescue boat was never launched due to engine failure.

Back on the beach an hour later we are triumphant. De-rig and drag the boat back up the beach to the club house. Hand in my membership cheque and hose down my kit. Big smiles and aching foot. Home on the bus with my salty hair and a firm grasp of my stick. I am, officially, a sailor.

Just call me one stick

2009-07-23T20:49:00.002+01:00

Vertigo was the last thing on my mind. But the first time I headed to the local shop with just one stick it wasn't the pain that threw me - but a strange feeling of imbalance. My head hurt, I felt sick - and I badly wanted to sit down. Unfortunately the rather handy bench in the post office has been removed. There's no rest, literally, for the wicked. These symptoms didn't occur over short distances. And they didn't last more than a few days. But they were extremely unpleasant. And very unexpected.

Since my promotion to one stick I have organised and attended The Big Lunch, been to an awards dinner in Park Lane, mastered escalators, braved the London Tube, taken a couple of four hour train rides, test ridden three fold up bikes on a (quiet) street, been trapped in a hotel shower (the tray was too high for my inflexible ankle) and taken on a new set of physio exercises. I've had a Mexican couch surfer to stay, practiced my Spanish and completed full weeks at work without collapsing at the weekends. I've harvested my radishes, planted more seeds and booked a sailing holiday round the West Coast for September.

Much of this has involved varying levels of pain or discomfort. But the exhaustion is, thank God, diminishing. The physio is harder, and keeping motivated, a struggle. My right knee continues to be problematic - preventing any real exercise beyond a dozen lengths of the pool. But walking off without my stick (left in the corner of a bar, or at the back of a meeting room) is becoming increasingly common. I like to think that this is nothing to do with short term memory loss - and everything to do with not needing the sodding thing for much longer.

Go Fast Pink

2009-07-12T17:38:00.002+01:00

I used to have two bikes. A little blue cutie and a go fast pink one. Now I'm down to one. The Pink one. It's not a practical bike. 7.5kgs of unadulterated streamlined design. Made by a superpower with arsenals of weapons of mass destruction. It's not for pottering round town. Or learning to ride again after an accident. It cant be left locked to a railing. Or leant up against a shop window just for a minute. Its tiny rims are unforgiving. Its white flowery seat torture on an untrained bum. No mudguards or carriers. No chain guard. Not even a pretty little bell.

This pink bike has been hanging sadly on the wall for eight months. Two flat tyres, a split tube, grey dust on its carbon fibre forks. Until today that is. A long hobble to the bike shop. Handing over £18 for a new tyre. Hauling stuff out of cupboards to find tyre levers and pump. A generous pal putting it all together. And carrying it downstairs.

Riding the pink bike turns out to be the easiest part. Getting on and stopping is much more challenging. Drop handlebars and tiny peddles don't help. Cycling is technically banned on the Promenade. But an army of police officers wont get me onto the road. Not yet anyway. Especially since they are half the reason I'm in this predicament. Its quite enough contending with the prams, scooters, toddlers, dogs, and gangs of half dressed teenagers. I weave in and out of them, breathless with nerves.

Once past the ice cream crowds, we cycle sedately down to the end of the Promenade. Feels great. Normal even. Breeze in my hair (because of course I'm not wearing a helmet). I'd like to speed up but I'm terrified of falling and damaging my graft. My knee is fine. My foot hurts - but no more than usual. We stop at the end, rest a bit, gaze out to sea and return. Stopping is tricky. Pushing my weight through my right foot is uncomfortable and uncertain. Emergency stops clearly out of the question. Walking off the Prom with the bike for a few metres much more difficult than pedalling it.

So cycling, it appears, is going to be much easier than walking. Certainly in the medium term. I cant off course get a bike up and down the stairs myself. Nor can I cycle up anytihing steep. My nerves are still dodgy and there's the stop start thing. But still, I reckon I'll be pedalling to work by late Autumn. And maybe even on my go fast pink bike.

Back on the treddlie

2009-07-10T22:03:00.004+01:00

I'd been plotting it for a while. Waiting til my knee stopped twinging. Testing my nerves on the train trip. Finding a place with no trucks. Borrowing a bike from a colleague. Hobbling down to the office car park at lunch time. A sea of cars. Bright sun. A mountain bike with slick tyres, SPD pedals and several inches too small. Wrong shoes. Rolled up right trouser leg. Skin graft exposed. Put down the sticks. Climb onto the bike. And I'm off. Shaking hands. Looking for trucks. Leg and ankle fine. No pain. No trucks. Racing heart. Do a few circuits. My colleague as a witness. Smiling. Still the racing heart. Dare not change gear for fear of falling. And cruise to gentle stop. Safe.

Back in the office my momentous moment goes largely unnoticed. Sit back down at the computer. And carry on. Friday afternoon. Too much to do. And too many days to count - but its nearly eight months. Only 100 metres pedalled. But every pedal counts. Today the car park. Next week the Prom. After that, a new bike of my own. Meanwhile my foot hurt so badly that I passed up the physio. An uncomfortable reminder that there's still rather a long way to go.

A wee trip out

2009-06-29T20:53:00.003+01:00

Its launch day. After months of preparation. Long days and late nights. Researching and writing and editing. Meetings and negotiations. Missing my physio sessions. Checking and cross checking. Shouting last minute instructions. Printing and publishing deadlines. Press releases and speeches. My whole focus since returning to work. Now just the conference to get through. The conference, however, is not in my home town. Its an hour's train ride away. I don't give it a second thought. I'll just get a taxi to the station. Hop on the train. Then hobble a couple of hundred metres to the conference centre. Need to leave home around 7.30 am. And return around 12 hours later.

Yeah... Whatever....

I was OK in the taxi. Early at the station so bought a coffee. Couldn't really carry it so drank it too fast, too hot. Boarded the train and sat, ironically, in the bike area. Plenty of leg room. Picked up my papers and started reading. Train left the station. Then the strangest of things. My hands started shaking. My heartbeat increased. I was dreadfully tired. I couldn't focus. I was afraid. But afraid of what? Leaving the city? The train? the conference? These things were part of my normal life blood. Nothing to worry about. Wasn't even speaking at the conference. Arriving was no better. Struggled out of the train. The crowds were too close and too rude. The distance to the exit seemed ridiculously far. Hobbling out in the heat of the city. Meeting a couple of colleagues. Facing the twenty steps up to the entrance of the concert hall. Lurching into the centre. Far too many stairs and not a lift in sight,

Telling the story once more a thousand times. To colleagues not seen for months. To strangers. To people I vaguely recognised and to apparent strangers who claimed they knew me. My voice started trembling. It was far too much. I sat in the back. But I had things to do. People to meet. Speakers to thank. Food to eat and later, wine to drink.

Back on the 6pm train my legs wobbled and my concentration faded. I couldn't catch my words. I could barely stagger to the waiting taxi to take me home. The conference was a success. My colleagues tired and happy. And I, seven months after being under a truck, was totally fucked.

Men with sticks

2009-06-22T22:26:00.003+01:00

Picture the scene. A pavement just wide enough for one person. Person A, on crutches, is heading down it in a southerly direction. Person B, on sticks, is heading up it in a northerly direction. Each has a decision to make. To make contact? Or to sidle past? The distance is narrowing. Each person looks up. Eye contact is made. Both start smiling. Then wider grins. By the time they meet, these two strangers, with nothing in common but a pair of NHS sticks, are laughing out loud. They stop to chat. Sharing their grim tales. He's from the medical profession. South African. Ex rugby player. Hip problems. Her story is already well known.

The next day they meet on the bus. The following day its the beach. She tests his anti apartheid credentials. Remember the Springboks boycott in New Zealand? Tore the country apart. On the fourth day she accuses him of stalking her. And offers him a croissant. The spare one that she bought, rather greedily, to eat in the sun on the Promenade.

If this was Cosmo, this chance meeting of sticks would become a love story. But this is no glossy mag. And of course there is no love story. There is, however, a strange but burgeoning friendship between two people who, on paper at least, should never have met. And certainty never have spoken. Funny old things these sticks. It may be worth hanging on to them for just a bit longer.

Only Five Degrees

2009-06-18T12:43:00.002+01:00

Apparently I now only need another five degrees of planter/dorsi movement and I'll be able to walk properly... Only five degrees? May as well be a hundred. My Physio thinks it is possible. My ankle is 'springy' rather than 'clunky'. For 'springy' read potential to improve. So now I have yet more exercises. Walking sideways like a crab and trying not to fall over. Walking with one foot immediately in front of the other and trying not to fall over. Learning the Taoist Walk (Tai Chi): an exercise in extreme concentration, patience and balance. And still all the old exercises too.

Work continues on my knee. Its still twinging and so still a constraint to progress. Current assessment is that I should be able to sort the knee issues within six weeks. If I keep at the physio and the gym. It hurts in the pool after 15 lengths of breaststroke. This is immensely frustrating. But with backstroke the pain kicks in immediately. Time for swimming lessons. Except of course there is no time. So much to do. So little time. And so much energy required. There's a self help manual to be written in this somewhere. I could make my fortune. Star on Oprah Winfrey. Write a column for the Guardian. But no time, of course, to sit down and script the sodding thing.

Big Girl's Blouse

2009-06-14T15:44:00.004+01:00

The pain is back. And a weird exhaustion. Kind of physical, kind of mental. Like the day before you go down with a cold. Something's not quite right but it's not clear what. Feel the need to go out, though, for the sake of normality. Movies. Gigs. Dinners. Beer. The Department of Knitting. Doing it all and trying not to say no. Forking out for taxis at immense expense. But knowing that going out and being normal is now more tiring than it was a few weeks ago. Because I'm back at work. And the trouble with being back at work is that it takes all weekend to recover. This can't be right. Doesn't seem fair. But can't abuse the tax payer's generosity.

But the exhaustion is not just work. It's also a result of seven months of trying to recover. Every day some physio or exercise regime. Every day the same conversations with different people. Every week some clinic or other. And there's no let up. Not a single day. And this will go on and on and on. How anyone can keep this sort of momentum up I have no idea. I guess people just do. I guess I will too.

And then on top of all of this is the dawning realisation that actually, its always going to be hard. There will always be constraints. All the chat about a new life is actually correct.

There is no pain free way of dealing with these thoughts. And its not just the big things. Try finding a pair of shoes that fit when your right foot is swollen, the graft gets in the way and you have to wear hot and sweaty insoles that only seem to fit your horrid trainers. No more cutesy shoes for me, then. How to plan a holiday when you're scuppered from doing all the things you used to do. Even a long train journey seems an immense burden.

Emerging from all this are unconscious coping mechanisms. The new activities are fairly obvious. What is more surprising is the number of rather bright shirts appearing in my wardrobe. Women who don't like their figures often focus more on shoes and bags, or exquisite lingerie. But when shoes are out of the question, bags are a pain with crutches, and no fancy underwear can hide the scars, the only thing left is a pretty shirt. Compete with me on eBay at your peril. I take no prisoners in the pursuit of the perfect big girl's blouse.

Do not feed the animals

2009-06-08T19:41:00.004+01:00

I don't know how people successfully manage to phase back to work over several weeks. Today I worked nine hours, with no lunch break and only two minutes of physio. I just could not get all the work done. Meeting after meeting. Sitting down on the floor beside my desk tweaking a rubber round my foot while drawing breath. No time for a swim. Too tired for the gym after work. I am supposed to do no more than seven and a half hours. And its only Monday.

On the good side, much of my pain has subsided. I don't go to the canteen, and rarely move from my desk. My colleagues deliver my lunch. And cakes, sweets and biscuits.

I seem to have more flexibility in my foot, but worryingly, have developed a slight rash on my skin graft. I imagine this might be some sort of contact dermatitis. Either that, or my right leg has finally woken up to the fact that there's a bit of left thigh on it and has started the process of rejection. God forbid....

I have started yoga again, managing four of the five Tibetan Rites. (The last one is clearly impossible - used to be my favourite too..) I'm astonished by my loss of flexibility and stamina but rather pleased that I can spin round, albeit very slowly and unsteadily. My balance has been badly affected, partly because I don't have enough muscle strength in my calves to hold myself up. So my latest exercise is to stand on my right leg, and balance for 30 seconds. I can manage about 5 seconds because I collapse in a heap. But I persevere.

The Tibetan Rites require the giving up of sugar. I'm not doing well. A scone, a muffin and a large piece of cake were inhaled at work instead of lunch. And two cups of very strong coffee. This is not good for my anxiety levels, nor, presumably, my general health. For the first time in years I'm putting on weight. I just can't do enough exercise to burn off calories. But how to resist the cakes? I could take up smoking, but going all the way down the stairs for a fag is more hassle than its worth. I could try willpower, but all of that is being spent on the physio. I'm not sodding superwoman. I could stop buying them, but that doesn't remove the freebies in the office.

Perhaps a DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS should be pinned to my desk. Yes, that's it. Along with DO NOT TEASE tacked to my chair. And SEND HOME BEFORE BEHAVIOURAL PROBLEMS ARISE. That should do it. In nice big red letters. In Times New Roman. Security can pop up and down every so often to ensure compliance. And pink sheet me if I step out of line.

The Professor

2009-06-04T20:42:00.004+01:00

The compensation claim is a long slow process. I have little to do with it but turn up for the odd appointment. It is one of these that brings me into contact with The Professor. This gentleman, from an earlier era, is to write my medical report that will go to the truck driver's insurance company. It is not appropriate for my own consultant to write the report - for obvious reasons. Thus neutral and expert advice is sought. My union is paying for this. The fee is well over £100.

First problem. How to get there. The private clinic is on a useful bus route. The bus drops me close to the entrance but on the wrong side of the road. There is no safe way to cross. The road is four lanes wide. It is too far to hobble with my crutches all the way to the lights. I spend several minutes waiting for a lull, the go for it. Safely on the other side I meet problem number two.

The clinic is at the top of a very steep hill. There is no courtesy vehicle. There is also only partial pavement. I am forced onto the road more than once. This is a place for cars and of course, their drivers. In sweltering heat I hobble up the hill. It takes around 15 minutes. Ridiculous. I mention the idea of a courtesy vehicle to the receptionist. And the danger of the road crossing. I meet another victim who also complains. I guess nothing will change. Us carless folk are strange creatures in this place.

I have around 25 minutes with The Professor. During this time he shows me no empathy, no sympathy. He is curt to the point of rudeness. He disagrees with my descriptions of my experiences. And in a couple of bullet points he wipes out my future. I am deeply shocked. No one had said any of this stuff to me before.

I will never walk properly on rough ground. So that's the end of hill walking then. Even the beach is going to prove difficult. I will never cycle up mountains again. If I dare to, I will suffer. I have had a 'devastating injury'. I should not have positive expectations. My previous life is over. He is less clear on arthritis. Its a possibility. And if it occurs it will hurt. My suggestions of other sports, such as sailing. also prove pointless. Skiing may be possible, he says. but he doubts I'll get ski boots to fit. He has no advice on footwear. He advises me to end my medication. Side effects he says. And with that, a few gentle twists of my ankle, and a couple of questions about pain and interests, I am ushered out.

As I wait for my taxi to work I am in tears. I've been living in a dream world. My working assumption is that as long as I do my physio, I'll get back to some level of normality. What have I been thinking? Such head in the sand behaviour! But there is no other way of doing the physio. It has to have a positive end. Otherwise, why get out of bed in the morning? Why go through the pain and hassle?

But I am also furious. Furious with The Professor. I paid, though my union membership, for that very expensive consultation. Messages such as these are always difficult to pass on. But there are ways and means of delivering them. Clearly The Professor's skills are technical rather than social. He may be a wizard with a hacksaw but a counsellor he is not.

At work, I weep a bit more. The next day too. But four days on I am back as an ostrich. I spend 2 hours at physio and a further 2 at the gym and pool. If I can get out from under a 32 tonne truck, The Professor should be no problem at all.

Grounded

2009-05-29T17:40:00.002+01:00

It was only a matter of time. Its a while since I've had a 'regression' and now here it is. Seems that a couple of days of work were simply too much for my ankle and foot to cope with. The distances in the office are considerably more than my living room - and its a fair old hike to the printer. My ankle complained almost immediately, as did my knee. My Physio prodded and poked and decided we should ease back on the exercises, boycott the gym and stop walking for non essential trips.

This is, of course, infuriating. As is the constant pain. The weather is fabulous. I need to get to my allotment. I have a huge work load to address. There's a chance to share a dinghy in our new 'neighbourly' sailing club. I want to try on wetsuits. I had finally found my independence. - getting the bus into town on my own. I had just started some cardio exercise. And now I'm essentially stuck at home. Getting fatter with each waking hour. With a new set of very subtle quad and knee exercises. Too close a proximity to the kitchen. And some rather baffled cats.

So, in a desperate act of normality, I book a flight to Barcelona for late August to visit my fabulous friends in Tarragona. I feel vaguely guilty about this flight. This was going to be my year of not flying. But I fear 18 hours on the train may be too much for a semi - cripple. (It remains to be seen whether the airline will charge me extra for the sticks. To prevent potential humiliation I forked out an extra £100 to avoid Ryanair...)

I listen to my Spanish lessons on the bus to Physio. I line up my Spanish books on the table. Beside my gardening books. I may even open them sometimes. I accept a few more couch surfers, and I wonder how long this whole recuperation lark is going to take. I read blogs of folk cycling the world and I wish it was me. I have a check of my stat counter and note that Boris has been doing searches on himself again. Surprisingly, this makes my day. There are no secrets on the Internet. Especially from people who have nowt to do all day but teach themselves Internet forensics. You have been warned....

A short walk in the Hindu Kush

2009-05-23T13:13:00.004+01:00

The day my tiny sunflowers burst through the soil is my second half day in the office. I am supposed to be phasing in over six weeks. But I've no idea how to manage this. By chance, and through no one's fault, there are three 'lines of command' out of the office on my return. Two above me and one immediately below. And with my own absence this means there is a lot of catching up to do. Fast.

My quandary is personal. No one is insisting that I get everything done. But how to hobble out of the office without doing so? Should I stay longer and get involved? Or leave people to it? If I wasn't there they would be doing it on their own anyway. My diary is filling up faster than I can block out days off. But after four hours in the office I hit the wall. I can't even summon the energy for a swim. It took me 12 hours to recover from the second day. This is enormously frustrating - and surprising.

I have a colleague who works with 'dispassionate' enthusiasm. He does a brilliant job. But he doesn't take his work home in his head. He leaves on time unless there is a genuine crisis. This is something I must also master. But no one can tell me how to do this. In my recuperation period I have an enormous opportunity to learn - there'll never be a never chance. But already my friends are telling me they see and hear the 'old me' on the work front, a tendency to long hours and (over?) passionate enthusiasm.

And my half pay has kicked in. Every day out of the office is a loss of money. And because HR did not know exactly when I was coming back, this month's pay is already 'docked' more than it should have been had my hours been known. So the incentive is to work more hours than advised by OH to avoid the loss of salary. Even although I can afford the temporary loss and its too late this month anyway. God, the mind plays fearful tricks over money.

Meanwhile back at physio, there are yet more issues. This time 'mechanical'. So now I have a taped foot and a taped knee. And an end objective. Apparently it is normal for the physiotherapy to continue until the patient is back at their pre injury sporting standard. For me this is the ability to cycle up extremely high mountains. Eight hours on a bike at 4000m elevation. I guess I'll be going to physio a bit longer than I expected. Time for a short walk in the Hindu Kush - complements of the NHS.

The woman who knitted the world

2009-05-20T19:48:00.005+01:00

Wednesday 20th May. Six months to the day. And back to work. But first, up at 7.15 because its my penultimate patient transport experience. And knowing my luck the ambulance might just come at 8. In the event, it doesn't. Sod's Law. Gives me time to tidy up before the cleaner comes. A decent breakfast and then its off to physio.

Not a physio session goes by without a new problem emerging. This time its the identification (finally!) of soft tissue damage in my right thigh. Despite having it drained twice in hospital, and it hurting like hell ever since, no medical professional seemed interested in having a look at it. Until today. The damage seems to be causing some of my knee problems. And the mad 'split' across the front? Could have, it appears, been caused by a tourniquet during one of my early operations. To stem bleeding from my lower leg. So more exercises for it, and hefty massage treatment - by the Physio and myself. This as usual, is, as the Physio says, 'uncomfortable'.

Back home I have half an hour to prepare for work. I realise too late that my school bag was wrecked in the aftermath of my accident. Problem number 1. How to carry laptop, use my crutches, and remain stylish at all times? Problem not solved. Use ugly old backpack in the meantime until eBay produces something better.

In the taxi I am nervous. But there was no need to be. Within 20 minutes of arrival it felt like I'd simply been away on holiday. Everything was the same. Kind colleagues who had worked hard in my absence to keep things going. This should have felt good - but....

I deleted over 2000 emails and the world continued to turn. I had two rapid meetings and solved a couple of problems. I remembered acronyms. I had a conversation with a colleague about a policy issue - and realised with a sinking heart that I had had an identical conversation some eight months before.

Around 5.15 I am suddenly exhausted. There's already a pile of papers on my desk for take home reading. The taxi driver on the return journey was a senior bank manager. He quit some six years ago when he realised what was going wrong with toxic loans. He didn't agree on principle. He has a nice life now. Short hours, interesting chats and enough money for essentials and golf. His partner supported his move. I like that.

Where I wonder is the Department of Knitting? I think I want a transfer. Its not that I don't like my job. Its a great job with good people. And excellent conditions. Especially in my predicament. Its just that, instead of being a mere policy wonk who had a nasty incident with a truck, I could be the woman who knitted the world.

I may only be knitting tank tops now, but I'm sure I have the ability, or at least the dedication, with my fellow knitters of course, to knit a solution to climate change, crochet an end to child poverty and invisible blanket stitch world peace...

Planting the seeds

2009-05-17T20:41:00.005+01:00

It seems there's more to this gardening lark than meets the eye. And a lot more generosity. You will recall that my kind friend dug two beds for me down at the allotment. Next time I returned, another had been dug, and one planted with seed potatoes. This time by a man of a certain age that I had only met once, who knew of my plans for the beds. Am I the luckiest lass in Scotland?

So - it was off to B and Q for some rabbit proof fencing and some seeds. Lesson Number 1. Rabbit Proof Fencing is not cheap - £25 for 20 metres. And that's before any consideration of the posts. Then the seeds. Shocking! This is not a hobby for poor people. - at least in terms of start up costs. Cheaper at the shops. But a hot tip in my gardening book (Growing Stuff - An Alternative Guide to Gardening) - buy kids' seeds.

Sure enough, a packet of children's sunflower seeds is a third of the price of those for grownups. Alas, it seems there is not a children's market for nasturtiums. I cough up £2. Then some radishes, two bags of organic peat free compost (a fortune), and its back to the allotment with my booty. My new friend of a certain age takes the wire, hides it in his shed and promises to put in my posts. I am so astonished that I offer to bake him a cake (this is no humble offer - its 20 years since I last did any baking; and then I used buckwheat instead of sugar. You can imagine the result).

Back home there's a letter from the Guardian. A couple of weeks previously I had applied for its offer of free seeds and herb plants - paying the postage of around £3.50. It seems, though, that the offer was somewhat oversubscribed. I will receive my seeds in June (postal strike dependent). I am outraged. June is far too late. The Guardian, it appears, is rather less efficient than my pals down at the allotment.

Never mind. There is still work to be done. The French couch surfer drags the hefty bags of compost all the way up the stairs. Betty (the cat) and I then set to work. By the time we are finished there is compost all over the rugs, the seeds are safe in their pots with their little clear plastic jackets on and we (Betty, the Frenchman and myself) are all very virtuous. Its a pity , of course, that I forgot to label the pots. But I'm sure I will be able to tell the difference between a kids' sunflower and an adults' nasturtium. Eventually.

A toothbrush, a bag of rice and an old sock

2009-05-11T14:26:00.004+01:00

Just as everything seems to be on the road to a fullish recovery, along comes a sensational problem. Literally. The area round my ankle and calf is hypersensitive - mistaking the touch of a towel for a chainsaw. This is, naturally, impeding my physio. I can barely tolerate the necessary scar tissue massage. The solution?

Find an old toothbrush. Ensure its clean and dry. Brush the offending area. Three times a day. I comply. I hope no one is watching - in appearance at least, its borderline insanity. It does have the added bonus, though, of keeping my increasingly lengthy leg hairs nice and tidy...

Meanwhile, my right knee is not behaving. Since the last operation I can't seem to get it going without pain. Walking is fine. But the exercise bike is not. Nor are all those mad leg lifts on the gym ball. The trick is gentle strengthening of my quads and calf - with the help of an old sock filled with rice. I tie the sock to my ankle and do leg raises. And then tie the sock to my knee for some hip extensions. This is OK at home, but at the gym there are a few raised eyebrows. My sock, it seems, may not be up to standard.

I have now been at this physio caper for around five months. Boring it is not. But keeping it going is tough. I wonder, in my my more conspiratorial moments, whether the toothbrush and or the rice-in-a-sock is just a wizard wheeze of the Physio to keep it entertaining. I guess I'll never know.

Digging for Scotland

2009-05-09T21:57:00.007+01:00

The first turf is cut!

But lets take a step back. In Edinburgh, the official wait for an allotment is several years. And the list is getting longer. We folk without gardens are in despair. You can only get so far with window boxes and north facing coastal strips.

Then along comes a well known man with a big idea. Find all the people who aren't using their land. Find all the people who want to use some land. Pair them up. And heh presto - less wasted land and more happy people. Thanks to the man with the big idea, and the joys of the Internet, only a week after registering, I have access to a man with a piece of land. A few days later a kind friend takes me to see it. I have to decide then and there whether or not to accept it. I have to say yes. Buy land, the expression goes, because they don't make it anymore.

But I am on crutches. The land has not been dug over. The land is not within walking distance of my flat. And it has been raining. A lot. And windy too. And if I don't start digging this land soon, someone else may be more deserving than me - and take it off my hands.

How am I going to get this land dug? First I need the tools. Then I need a lift. Then I need 'some help' with the digging. 'Some help' means of course, 'all of the digging'. I have a lot of very generous and kind friends. But this may be a step too far. I will have to ask. This is tricky. My friends have already been going out of their way for nearly six months to cook, shop, entertain, chauffeur and generally ease me back to normality. Digging for Scotland is not everyone's idea of a nice day out. Especially in grim weather.

And then, would you believe it, I have not one but two offers of help. People like me don't deserve this level of kindness. So on a blustery wet Saturday afternoon my friend and I head for the land. With his tools. In his car. He digs the turf off, and I fork the soil. I cannot do this with my feet so its shoulder to the grind.

But I am without crutches - feet in the soft wet earth. Hiding the worms from the birds. Throwing the odd stone over the hedge. Preparing the soil for a 'lazy bed' (yet another kind friend is providing the garden advice via text from afar). Hands freezing in my cycle gloves. Worrying for my friend as he digs and digs. Stopping for warm tea and chocolate. And then we are done. Surveying our handiwork. Two decent sized beds. In a sunny position. Reasonable security. Friendly neighbours. This is almost too good to be true.

As we drive off, filthy and tired but proud of a physical job well done, a large crow hops into the freshly dug earth and grabs one of the worms. Swallows it whole, as crows do. My efforts at protection were in vain. Still, there are plenty of worms to go round. I practice mindfulness on Mr Crow. He is still in sight when we disappear round the corner - feasting on the fruits of our labour.

Murder in the Library

2009-05-07T18:43:00.003+01:00

There was a murder in the library this afternoon. Well, not an actual murder, but the story of the murder, a relative of the murderer, and the murderer's friend. I was sitting innocently on the 'comfy sofa' preparing myself for work. In essence this means concentrating for as long as possible on reading material and ignoring the cacophony of screaming babies, crawling toddlers, mothers talking to other mothers about pram jogging and Pilates, and the elderly deaf (mostly men) chatting with slightly raised voices. A young man was going though the same CD piles over and over again without looking at them - click click click click....

I don't particularly mind all of this - but on a Thursday afternoon the term 'library' is less informative than perhaps 'community drop in centre and local creche'. So I'm sitting on the sofa engrossed in the latest Granta when an elderly man is dropped off onto my sofa by his daughter. His toddler grandson is roaring up and down the Romance aisle. He has a vague smell of whisky about him, and walks with a stick. He strikes up conversation.

Within seconds I glean that he is a self confessed alcoholic (bottle and half of whisky a day he claims), he knew someone living in Spain who claimed his wife's pension for eight years after she died, he has been in and out of hospital with alcohol related problems - and please could he have my sticks because they look better than his?

A young man sits down at our table. My new found friend strikes up conversation - recognising the man as a relative of his friend. The young man has just been laid off - lost his job in the construction industry. Come in to read the paper, and perhaps to kill time. I feel sorry for him. Here am I on full pay, idling time at the library. But I don't join in. I focus on A. L. Kennedy and her rather fabulous fictional account of her teeth. The young man leaves and the old man leans in to me conspiratorially.

"That lad is related to a murderer. Got life the bloke. Been out for long time though. Loaded. Drugs, crime. Killed someone in a fight in a bar... The lad's alright though - you can't be responsible for your relatives." I am aghast but strangely titillated. Like finding a red top on the bus - you know you shouldn't read it but there just might be something gruesome so you stretch over to grab it and pray that no one sees. I get a few more details, including the location, then he changes the subject.

On the way home, staggering in the wind, I meet another old man with a stick. I recognise this one - met him in Scotmid yesterday - he was hit by a truck in the 1970s in London and has suffered ever since. Head injuries. We exchange pleasantries, compare wind and stick notes (which is better in the wind - one stick or two?) and continue on our separate ways. I don't tell him my murder story - but I probably will the next time I see him. Because so far, he's one up on the truck story - and I need something to compete.

Ready Steady Walk!

2009-05-07T12:24:00.002+01:00

Its official. From now, no crutches inside. Sticks for outside only. But of course, its not that simple. While I am 'walking' unaided, its more of a flat footed stagger than a real walk. And my knee hurts like hell. The problems, it seems, stem both from the original injury, and weak leg and foot muscles. Amazingly, my Physio can assess all this by watching my stagger across the gym. So a new set of exercises for foot and knee, and a strong caution - don't over do it.

But now that I can weight bear fully, a devil somewhere is tempting me to do more and more. I can carry things now, drink tea where I want to, pick up a squirming cat, move furniture. I have reduced my painkillers so much that I often forget to take them - and thus the pain arrives suddenly and unexpectedly. Sleeping is more difficult these days rather than less - my 'locking screws' that hold my tibia nail in place hurt like hell and I can't get comfortable at night. Boredom is setting in but I still don't have enough stamina to do all the things I want to. Which leads to the 64 Million Dollar Question - when to return to work?

The work question is very tricky. Returning too early risks set backs and going off sick again - which is not only poor for moral and hopeless for business planning but also not advisable financially. But not being at work is becoming boring - and I may face accusations of malingering. Dragging things out as long as possible. "You can walk (a few steps) - why aren't you at work?" This is outrageous of course - I didn't throw myself under a truck to get 6 months full pay for the sheer joy of it. And in the end, although I receive advice from Occupational Health and my GP, I have to decide.

So today, in discussion with yet another GP in my practice (I have never seen the same one twice), we agreed on a provisional date of 20th May. I had, rather optimistically, been considering the 13th - but with my knee problem (and a daunting experience in the wind today) - that seems a tad early. The 20th is in reach - but its not tomorrow. It will mean moving on to half pay for those days I am not at work - and any sick days between now and the end of the year. But these days a drop in salary seems rather unimportant. So now all I have to do is get cracking on the physio regime, and count down the days. And then of course, deal with all the bureaucracy of a phased return to work.

Open for business

2009-05-03T18:45:00.002+01:00

Given that I can now take a few, albeit ungainly, crutch free steps, it is time to open the couch for business (www.couchsurfing.com). I duly change my 'couch status' to available, sit back and wait for the avalanche of requests. I do not wait long.

The first few come from the under 20s. The young uns tend not to bother reading my profile, send the same request to 30 people, and are generally on the scrounge for a free bed. I ignore them. This reduces my 'response status'. Do I care?

Then a couple that are more interesting. An Italian post doc researcher based in the UK and a French train driver. Unfortunately they both want the same dates. I ping back a 'yes' to the Italian woman and a 'no' to the Frenchman - on the basis that the Italian contacted me first.

By a strange twist of fate too complex to explain, they both end up staying at the same time. Picture the scene. A Scot on crutches with a smattering of French. A smart and stylish Italian woman with no French but awesome enthusiasm. A (on first appearances) quiet and calm French man with a smattering of English and no Italian. Two bamboozled cats who understand neither French nor Italian but are very up for the chicken salad (never before encountered).

A bit like hosting two cats, two surfers are better than one when the host is immobile. They entertain each other during the day in the city, and then, unlike cats, prepare delicious meals, make the coffee, buy the croissants, and do the washing up. I am immensely cheered and motivated by all this positive activity. I manage up the stairs with 'normal' steps. I lose my second crutch constantly (this has to be a good sign), and on occasion wander off without any crutches at all.

Meal times are a whirl of English, French and Spanish (quite why the latter is used, no one quite knows - but it sounds good at least). We are served up sumptuous crepes and home made chocolate oranges. We play and argue wildly over some bizarre card game (Sets?) that will no doubt be introduced to the national curriculum given its level of difficulty and complexity. We ponder the ablution habits of French train drivers (is there a toilet in the cabin??).

The French man leaves for his free train travel up north (oh, to be a European train driver), and the Italian returns to work a day later. I pick up my knitting again, go to the gym, make my first venture out to the back garden with Betty, and actively consider cycling again on Seafield Road.

Couch surfing is not always this good (witness a previous encounter with a rather different Frenchman), but this time it was tremendous. As I previously noted, NHS (England and Wales) is running a competition for innovative ideas to save money and improve health care. Perhaps couch surfing should be included. Patient returns home early (thus saving money), and their home is then invaded by polite, enthusiastic, 'foreign' surfers who provide food, cleaning and pure unadulterated entertainment. Patient recovers more quickly, less services are required and we even get a bonus cultural exchange - which makes us all happy well rounded multi lingual people. Unfortunately the competition is only open to NHS staff - but if there is anyone out there reading this - feel free to submit it. I will not, however, be responsible for any rogue surfer who spoils it all and ends up as campaign target by the Sun.

The case of the mysterious dissolving stitches

2009-04-30T12:22:00.001+01:00

Two weeks after my 4th operation I recommence physio. I have lost a bit of joint movement and my knee hurts like hell. I start doing my exercises again at home.

I have another OH appointment. £25 in taxi fares there and back. My employer will pick this up but it still stings. We agree at OH on how I will go back to work, but not when. This decision is for my GP. I have fixed a date in my mind that will bring me back much quicker than my team is expecting. Over the last few days I have felt a strong desire to start interfering. This is a good thing for me and a bad thing for those on the receiving end.

There is a debacle over my stitches. I turn up as requested at my GP's surgery to have my stitches removed. The practice nurse tugs and pulls, to no avail. The stitch ends break off in her forceps. She phones Ward 109. We wait ten minutes for the call back. The doctor with an unpronounceable surname suggests I head up to A and E so that he can have a look. I am appalled - I could be there for days. My uncle kindly gives me a lift.

I am seen by the doctor within 15 minutes - a model of efficiency. He prods and pulls and then calls the Registrar on his iPhone. For a moment I think he is going to photograph the offending article and send it through the Ethernet for a second opinion - but I am disappointed. They discuss the colour of the stitch. Then the verdict. My stitches are dissolvable - no need for removal. Fifteen minutes later I am home - my stitch ends trimmed. I can only pray that the verdict is correct.

On the eve of Workers Day I cast aside my moon boot and my tatty tubigrip. Under the supervision of my Physio I take tentative steps in my bare feet without my crutches. Strangely, walking backwards is easier than walking forwards. I have to practice this at home every day - although not having parallel bars at home is a bit of a disadvantage.

And a postscript. Remember Boris? Well, I had a lovely email from him recently inquiring after my mental desease (sic) and worrying about my lack of friends. Unfortunately I am not able to report on how he is getting on with his humanitarian endeavours or indeed his bee keeping.

Recuperation

2009-04-24T11:33:00.000+01:00

There is something immensely frustrating when you have spent five months recovering from a serious accident, you are just reaching a normal level of fitness and enthusiasm for life, and then you are suddenly knocked back by what is essentially a fairly straightforward orthopaedic operation.

Ten days on I am doing my own dressings, almost managing my pain, and dragging myself down the street to the Co-op. To my shame I am not motivated to do any exercises at home, I'm too tired to get to the gym, and I've only just managed to get the accursed moon boot back on.

The District Nurse came on Monday to look at my dressings and take the bulky one down, and I have an appointment with the Practice Nurse (yes they are different but I don't really understand how they relate to each other if they do at all) to take my three sets of stitches out. Strangely, I have 'running stitches' - never seen these before - perhaps some junior medic was practicing for his or her Stitch 'n' Bitch group?

In my boredom I have suddenly found myself to be the organiser of a street party (www.thebiglunch.com) - I design and print out a leaflet and then realise, stupidly, that I cant deliver it. I have another Occupational Health appointment next week, but I still can't get there by bus. And Handicabs is full (and I still owe them £3.50 for a last minute cancellation through no fault of my own).

I have, however, cracked on with my knitting. I have watched another series of The Wire. Series 3 should be shown at every Leadership course in the land. I have become a national expert on Darling's Budget (all that paper reading) and I ponder how lucky I am to have my operation this year, and not 2011 - if public expenditure is frozen what on earth will the impacts be on the NHS? Perhaps the ERI could just abandon providing food altogether to save costs and wastage (except to those patients without friends or families - and here standards of nutrition would be improved) and communities could take over the feeding of their loved ones. Surely a win win all round...

Tibial Nail Replacement- Part 2

2009-04-22T11:49:00.000+01:00

I spend around 22 hours in Ward 109.

Waking up properly I see I have a drip and a morphine pump. My leg is bandaged from ankle to knee and hurts. Blood seeps onto my sheets. I am in the right hand corner of the ward beside the window. I don't recall the view. My observations are taken and everything is fine. Blood pressure a bit low but then it usually is.

At 5pm dinner is served. Its a bit early but at least its food. I manage to get a vegetarian lasagna which is surprisingly good but the portion is small. Food standards later drop dramatically. At visiting time my friend brings me in (illicitly I presume) a home made salad. I am very grateful.

A nurse arrives with the drug trolley around 6. There's a bit of a problem with my medication. Its been changed - but no one told me and now the nurse is unable to tell me why. I doze off. The room is far too hot but the woman on my left continually complains of the cold. I strip off the blanket and cover and still, its stifling.

Night time on the ward is indescribably awful. Two nurses for every twelve patients - split into three wards. It is impossible to sleep. My three fellow inmates are up and down to the commode all night. Buzzers ring for over ten minutes without being answered. The nurses just cant keep up. I hear a crash call for Ward 111. There are pounding feet. In my room one woman is snoring. Another talks quietly to herself - suggesting she needs to go to the toilet. I ring my buzzer a number of times for her. A nurse checks my morphine pump hourly. When I dare to use the pump, its high pitched beeping sound would wake the dead - except presumably even the dead cant sleep here anyway.

I listen to music. I drink my water. I use the commode - with assistance. I cant get out of bed myself because there are too many tubes. Eventually I sleep from around 5am for an hour On waking I ask when the tea will be coming round. The night nurse says it will be hours yet so she very kindly makes me a cup. I am shattered, sore and angry. Blood is taken from my right arm.

The night staff serve up breakfast. For some reason (costs?) it doesn't aspire to the Government guidelines on nutrition. No fruit, juice or yoghurt. Cereal, toast or bread and marmalade. I cant eat cereal with milk. I should have brought some juice with me but I didn't think it would be this bad. Why can St Johns provide a healthy tasty breakfast but the ERI cant? I accept some toast but turn down the tea and coffee.

I expect a paper trolley. But nothing comes. No chance to buy a paper, or some juice or fruit.

I wait for the ward round. I have to get out of here. I am tired and hungry and need a wash badly. My consultant turns up on his own well after the other doctors have left. I plead for discharge. Yes, I can go home. We discuss pain relief, physio and my dressings. He is helpful and kind - on his way to theatre with what appears to be his breakfast in his hand.

Around 11.30am the nurses finally get to our ward. They are surprised to hear of my discharge. I will have to wait until the afternoon before my paper work is complete and my drugs sorted. I don't mind. I just need the promise of an exit.

The staff nurse helps me into the shower and bags up my leg. I wash my hair and struggle into my clothes. The pain is intense and I have lost mobility in my knee. The bandages are cutting hard into my foot.

After lunch (tasteless) I see the physio, get some more stair practice and listen to an OT tell one of the ladies opposite that she will have to go into a home. Another physio turns up and teaches an elderly lady how to get in and out of the bed on her own. As soon as he leaves, she has forgotten and I have to talk her through it myself.

Discharge is a complicated business for the staff nurse. I require an appointment with the district nurse, a letter for my GP, a discussion with the junior doctor and coordination between ward and clinic physios.

I am out of the ward by 2pm, staggering down to the exit in pain, and in my own bed by 2.30 where I spend the next day and a half. I did not succumb to a hospital infection, and my operation, so far as I understand, was a success. I am grateful for both of those outcomes. But...

Its difficult to describe how awful my experience was in the ward. The medical care was excellent and the nurses did their best. But there simply weren't enough of them. Is it old fashioned to expect a decent wash after returning from theatre? Why is the food so poor that relatives are bringing in alternatives. I didn't mind helping the elderly patients in my room but I shouldn't have felt the need to do that when I was feeling so poorly myself. And how can we ensure that patients get enough sleep to help them recover?

And the biggest question of all - why can St Johns manage to get all of these things right, and the ERI (at least in my experience) cant. Perhaps I expect too much of the wards. Maybe my standards too high? I wonder now whether senior hospital managers are aware that this is the level of care provided and are satisfied that it is the best that they can do within a limited budget.

Or, perhaps they haven't experienced it and therefore cant or don't understand what it feels like as a patient. I don't know. Its a tough job being a hospital manager - lives are at stake. Mistakes are picked up by the media but the positive stories (by far and away the majority) never are. And in general, everyone involved is doing their best. But for the first time in my life I am contemplating going privately if I have to repeat this operation - not for the medical care, but just to get a decent night's sleep and a proper wash after a very hard and stressful day waiting for, and then having, an operation.

Tibial Nail Replacement - Part 1

2009-04-17T14:51:00.000+01:00

6am Wed 15th April. My brother's birthday and time to get up to head to the hospital. My mother kindly drops me off at ODP 6 at 7am and I hobble to the ridiculously located orthopedics department. At reception I am told to go into the waiting room. No good mornings, no welcomes, no calming of nerves. In the waiting room there are already around ten people - each with their little overnight bag and reading material. There's a strange camaraderie in the room - no one wants to impose but everyone is warm and friendly.

Within 15 minutes I am called to see the nurse. Go through the check list again. Then through to the changing area.... Picture the scene. Small narrow room. Down the left wall four large wheel chairs, each with a blanket, a theatre gown, and theatre pants (ugh!). On the right a number of large plastic boxes piled onto a theatre trolley - each with a patient's name and a ward number. With horror I see that I am heading to Ward 109. This is a trauma ward - in essence the same as 108 where I was the last time. There is no god - no justice. The room is reminiscent of a mental health institution circa 1940. I am about to get changed when the nurse rushes in. There is some confusion. I am not first on the list after all. I am second, or actually, perhaps I am sixth - there are two competing lists and no one seems to know which is the correct one. I am sent back to the waiting room - to wait.

A nurse turns the TV on and we are subjected (mostly against our will) to GMTV and then day time telly. There is some dreadful show (Jeremy Kyle?) where couples fight about their collapsed relationships and then take a lie detector test so that Jeremy can shout at them in front of a studio audience (and presumably another 1000 odd people watching in hospitals around the country). No one wants to be seen to be watching this - but where else to look? There is no window in the waiting room and we cant really stare at each other...

We form friendships in the waiting room depending on where we are sitting. Bill, beside me, has a hip flask of whisky in his bag and is ready for his right knee replacement. The friendly woman beside him is having her hip done. The youngish deaf guy down the end has just been told that his operation has been cancelled - for the second time in two weeks.

As we all get to know each other, the procedure unfolds. Each patient is seen by a nurse, one of the theatre medics, and an anaesthetist. Once the theatre teams leave for the theatres - they don't return - thus the need to be in early to see them. So even if an operation is scheduled for 2pm, the patient still needs to arrive around 7. My junior doctor sees me in what can only be described as a store room - there is a wheelchair for me and no chair for him. So he stands and I sit. He draws a black arrow on my leg with a marker, asks me if I have any questions and then leaves. I think I knew more about my operation than he did.

An hour or two later I am called by Dr Swan. He is my anaesthetist. This is a good sign. He has decided I will have a general anaesthetic as there is a one in ten chance I would have severe headaches if he gives me a spinal. This is news to me - especially as I was recommended a spinal for the last orthopeadic operation. Perhaps I needed more pain relief that time? He is kind and helpful. I am to take my painkillers with a sip of water.

20 minutes later, at around 1pm, I am sent to the changing room - again. I struggle to get the gown on and complain about the theatre pants. Apparently these monsters are to protect my dignity. A green oblong of nappy type cotton with a tie at each corner. I protest that it would be more dignified not to bother with the pants at all. A silent response.

I sit in my chair, wrap myself in my blanket and watch my right foot turn purple with cold. Then suddenly I'm called. I recognise my theatre porter immediately - same guy as last time - tats and chewing gum - I love him! We race down to the theatre in a disorderly fashion - burst through the double doors and arrive in the theatre complex. More familiar faces. My anaesthetic technicians are again the same as the last time - and they remember me. There's plenty of backchat and its not polite. I relax. This is all going to be fine. I transfer onto the theatre trolley and am wheeled into the anaesthetic room. I show off my 'free flap' skin graft - I'm hoping they will be impressed - the last time they saw my leg it was a bloody open mess. I am pricked, tubed and stickered, the mask goes on and within a few minutes I am out for the count - my last mumblings oddly requesting Bach to be played during my operation.

I wake up in the recovery room some three hours later and am wheeled to Ward 109 to meet my three fellow inmates - the youngest is 87. This doesn't bode well.

First on the list (at the moment)

2009-04-14T17:39:00.000+01:00

Its the day before my fourth operation. I failed to attend my physio session (this time the transport balls up was entirely my fault) and so had a final sweat at the local gym instead. 5ks on the exercise bike (with a bit of an incline - although I don't think its Dundas Street equivalent yet), an hour of weights and stretches and the gym ball and then, too lazy to swim, plod home.

Reread my admission instructions. Note the ambiguity about taking clothes. (A friend or relative is supposed to bring them in after the operation). Should I just go to the hospital then in my (borrowed) nightie? Its tempting - given that I have to leave home before 7am. But I still have some dignity intact - and I might get a row from the nursing staff - they weren't the friendliest the last time - and I've no reason to think that their mood might have improved (unless of course the NHS has been forking out for charm school - unlikely given the astronomical cost of new cancer drugs...).

Test out the charm by ringing them. Ask where I am on the list. You are first, she said, at the moment. I noted the caveat with care. The Ryanair model of healthcare. If all goes to plan, I should be in theatre by 9am. Out by lunch time and sitting up in time for my delicious hospital food at 5pm. If, however, there is a successful terrorist attack, an earthquake, or the entire operative team phones in sick - I'll miss my tea. And you can bet that if that happens, it will be black tea and digestives - if I'm lucky.

I don't have to start fasting til midnight - but given that I've eaten enough chocolate in the last four days to pay off the debt off a medium sized Latin American country, I may just start earlier. A broken leg attracts chocolate like a magnet.....

Rogue Ambulance Driver

2009-04-10T21:02:00.000+01:00

Last physio appointment before Easter. Its an important one - because after that its a four day break. The appointment is scheduled for 2pm. This means I need to be ready by 12 for the ambulance - which in essence wipes out the whole day. At 12 I am ready. By 1pm I'm a bit hungry - but daren't start preparing food. Eat a couple of muesli bars. by way of lunch. At 2pm I phone the hospital to tell them I'll be late - and to ask if they actually booked the transport. Yes they did. At 2.30 the buzzer rings. I meet the driver half way down the stair. Where there problems with traffic? No, he says, innocently. I missed my appointment I say petulantly. He offers my some medical advice on crush injuries as a response.

Its 3pm by the time we get to the hospital. The driver says he is now heading home and someone else will pick me up - he doesn't say when. My appointment is long gone but usually the physios manage to fit me in. I start on the exercise bike, then get round the rest of the equipment. At 3.15 my physio offers me 15 minutes - then promptly disappears. By the time she returns the 15 minute slot is lost. She then offers me a five minute slot. Its not that I'm ungrateful, but I refuse - five minutes?? Then she offers me a slot at 4.30. I am resigned to spending the rest of my life in this department. I accept - and then wander round to reception to check whether I can get an ambulance home around 5pm. It appears nothing is guaranteed. I wander back. No sign of my physio.

At 4pm another ambulance driver turns up to take me home. By rights I can refuse this ride, wait for my physio at 4.30 and then wait for another ride later. But its not auguring well. I dont know whether I will actually get the 4.30 slot. I curse under my breath, gather up my belongings and get in the ambulance. An entire day of hassle for a ten minute ride on an exercise bike.

I record this not because its interesting for anyone else - I know its not. Its very dull. Its just that these things never seem to get reported. This is not an isolated incident. It wont be long before I can start getting the bus and I can say farewell to this service. In the meantime I'll be packing my tea and a book and practicing mindfulness with zen like concentration.

Locker Vigilantes

2009-04-09T11:42:00.000+01:00

It was one of those days. Didn't realise that the pool closed every Wednesday for staff training. Did the gym for an hour and then, with the fitness instructor, dreamt up ways to fill the gym at quiet times. Had just struggled into my togs when the siren went. Wondering idly whether there was a fire and, if so, would I have to hobble outside in my swimming costume. God forbid. But no. Just the pool closing. Clothes back on, and a promise from reception to let me in for free later in the day. Kind.

At 4.30 I returned. Back into the disabled changing room. Togs on. And the search for a pound coin for the locker. Damn - couldn't find it anywhere. Knew I had had it earlier in the day. Considered options. Clothes back on and a trip to reception? No - it would take too long. Into reception in my togs on my crutches. No for obvious reasons of dignity. Leave the stuff in the locker and risk theft. Yes. Theft of moonboot highly unlikely - and no valuables except for flat keys. Took the final option and went into the pool.

A couple of lengths of breaststroke later I looked up and saw a fattish guy walk through the disabled doors into the pool area waving my moonboot. How odd. I swam towards him and gestured. I had tucked my towel into the boot (luckily not my pants!). He started to remonstrate. I should have locked the locker. I explained, from the pool, that I didn't have a pound coin. was on crutches and blah blah... what was the problem? He continued to harp on - there are thieves around etc etc. I should have locked the locker. He was quite insistent.

Now that everyone was looking, the lifeguard came over and intervened. Sent the guy away, and went to reception to get a pound. He then locked my locker and gave me the key. The other people in the pool turned away - back to the business of swimming. I continued on too - another dozen lengths. And then the usual walking up and down to practice a more normal gait.

Back in the changing room I puzzled over the incident. Was the fat man honestly trying to be helpful? Or was he deliberately out to humiliate the disabled? Was he in fact a professional locker vigilante - trained and hired by the Home Office to keep us radicals from breaking the locker rules? Who knows - I guess I should just be grateful that he didn't walk into the pool area with my knickers on his head...

Pre-asssessment - Orthopaedics admission

2009-04-07T16:33:00.000+01:00

The 'urgent' appointment for my titanium nail replacement takes around three weeks. Not bad for the NHS. First, though, I have to attend an outpatients clinic. This takes places the week before the operation and is presumably designed to ensure the patient is ready for theatre, and to reduce the burden of the admitting nurses. By a strange turn of fate, my pre-assessment appointment is on the same day as a friend's, although his is in a different department. We go in together - and later compare notes.

First, find the clinic. Being an old hand at the RIE in Little France I know my way around now. Still, its a long walk to the clinic and the word 'adjacent' (to ward 109) is a little optimistic. The waiting room is small - only about ten seats. There's a television in the corner and a table with hot and cold drinks. The accompanying poster says that these are provided by the nursing staff and so donations are welcome (I wonder silently if this is allowed in the PFI contract - I've been told that the WRVS women are no longer allowed to sell drinks and snacks - and thus that particular source of funds has been cut off). Its kind of the nurses to provide this - the cafe is a long way from the clinic.

First I'm seen by my consultant. He spends around 20 minutes considering the details of my operation, examining my on-line x-rays and pondering where my artery to my graft is plumbed in. He promises to check this in theatre with his doppler. I am reassured and confident. Consultants sometimes get a bad press for poor communication skills or arrogance - but there has never been any of that - quite the opposite in fact. Mr Keanan explains that I will need to stay one night in the hospital, and to lay off the physio for a fortnight after my operation The nail replacement is a straight forward procedure, and he will not need to lift up my skin graft. I may end up with a plaster cast depending on how stable my tibia is when he opens it up. Its not possible to tell from the x-rays.

Back in the waiting room its another half an hour before I am called to see the staff nurse. We get off to a bad start, possibly because of my ill advised comment about data protection when I see my name writ large on a white board outside her room. The usual questions about medical history, swabs for MRSA, urine sample, weight and blood pressure, no small talk (despite my efforts to engage her) and then onto the discussion about my operation. And this is where it starts to go wrong.

Despite my protestations to the contrary, she insists that I am coming in for day surgery, and that I will need to report to the Day Surgery counter, somewhere else in the hospital. She hands me my the instructions. These conflict with the letter I had received, and the information from my consultant some half an hour earlier. Then she tells me that my operation is on the 14th of April, and when I protest she says that my consultant doesnt have a list on the 15th. Finally she starts listening to me, and heads out of the room 'to check'. On her return to appears that I am right and she is wrong. I am on the trauma list, not the Day Case list. Start again. Different forms. Different instructions. Same principles though.

Come alone. No valuables. No home cooking. Bring your own medication. Phone numbers for relatives. Fasting from midnight. Shower before arrival but no fancy products. Minimal jewellery. No valuables (and if you do have the audacity to bring any, 'we will not be held responsible if you lose them'). Drugs at 6.30am. Bring a book (presumably for the hours and hours of waiting). Assured of a physio check before I am discharged (re stair management) - and that's it. I escape, not forgetting to say thank you several times (important to mend bridges) and head off to the other side of the hospital to hear how my friend has got on.

Several hours later I am now contemplating my experience. I think overall it was positive. Attending the clinic should reduce the bureaucracy on the day of my operation. All the information has been provided, and I am well prepared. The leaflets on infection control and anaesthetics are concise and useful. All I need to do now is talk to the anaesthetist about a choice of anaesthetics, and we will be ready to go. But I was struck by the lack of humanity in a couple of aspects of the procedure. Particularly in relation to my experience at St Johns. Perhaps its not a fair comparison. I didn't, after all, go in to St Johns from home as an elective patient.

But the unwillingness of the staff nurse to listen to me, or at least check earlier in our conversation on which list I was on, demonstrates a lack of empathy. I know her job must be laborious at times, and patients' questions annoying. But still..... And the rules on arriving alone seem ridiculous. Operations are frightening experiences for everyone, even when you have had them before. Costs of course are behind a lot of this. Managing limited and tight resources in every increasing political and public expectations is really tough. But in the end the patient must come first. Patient centred care must be delivered in practice, not just on paper.

My friend is going for a much more complex operation than mine. And I (and I presume he!) am pleased to report that his pre-assessment clinic was excellent: timely, informative and compassionate. There are, then, an awful lot of staff at the RIE getting it right despite difficult working conditions. And a final turn of fate? My friend and I are both being admitted on the same day for our operations. He, unfortunately, will be in for a lot longer than I. It remains to be seen whether we are successful in smuggling in delicious home cooking to speed his recovery...

On fashion

2009-04-02T15:58:00.000+01:00

Last night I went to a fashion show. Yes, I know - a bit ridiculous, but I'll field any genre of entertainment these days. It was my first solo outing on a bus too. All I had to do was get to George Street on the Number 26. With one or two minor mishaps (change of drivers not good for the mobility impaired - the instructions get lost at the handover...) I arrived in one piece only one block away from my destination. Dressed up nicely too, except for the sodding moonboot (and the oily cycle gloves...). Important to maintain standards at all times.

£15 for a ticket. Included champagne (which I couldn't drink) and a lurid patent pink clutch bag (which goes with my eyes). Apparently this little number is retailing at over £65. Mmm - I ponder what I might raise on eBay for it...

"Ladies... patent is the absolutely must have this season.. in shoes and bags... team it with block colour and one of our handy little short sleeve tops ..." The rather fabulous store manager, in a block yellow 60s dress, black leggings and rather flattering patent white wedges., gives us the lowdown and then the 'models' strut their stuff. (The models were actually the staff, but they did a pretty good job teetering around in their mostly pretty clothes. All shapes and sizes too).

After about ten outfits, the show is over. We win nothing in the raffle, which is just as well, and then we are invited to shop til we drop, with a special 20% discount just for the night.

As I have vowed to buy no new clothes this year except for underwear, I don't buy. I intend to live this recession like its supposed to be lived, despite Gordon's endless entreaties to do otherwise. But I do look. I finger the little bright frocks, the pretty skirts, the dainty cardies. And I realise that, even if I did want to buy this stuff, I couldn't really wear it with my leg in the state its currently in. I explain this idly to the photographer, the only male in the room. He doesn't argue, so I surmise I am correct. The swimming pool is one thing, but going public with my disfigurement is quite another.

I don't want to overplay this. I didn't rush home and throw myself into the sea. I didn't weep and wail. I did rather enjoy the fashion show. It was hoot in fact. I just have to acknowledge that my 'fashion' choices will be more limited this year. And this feels a little sad. I rather like retro frocks. Especially the block colour ones. And bowing to this also means I have to question my acquiescence to the public curiosity, and on occasion revulsion, of disfigurements.

I know, that if I wear the pretty frocks, with my right lower leg exposed, people will stare. They will wonder. They might even ask (based on my wheelchair experiences). The pretty frock will be rather wasted. Many disability groups would perhaps say I should just wear the frock. Stand up. Be proud. Pretty even. But I'm not quite up to that yet. I still care what people think. I'll need to work on that. And Im not sure I'll ever get there. On a lighter note, though, think of the money I'll save...

From strength to strength

2009-04-01T12:43:00.000+01:00

Something has changed in the last few days. Suddenly I have a lot more energy. Twelve laps of the pool is effortless. An hour in the gym before hand is relatively easy. And when I get home, I'm ready for more action. Between physio and the gym I have five work outs a week - and I'm still looking for more...

My first bus trip, the No. 42 to Stockbridge, was seamless and successful (apart from the arrogant twit in the BMW parked in the bus stop - forcing the bus driver to stop in the middle of the road - why, why is it always BMW drivers...?). Now that I can get the bus I am mobile although I still have to manage the hobble to and from the bus stops.

And now that I can get the bus, I can ween myself off patient transport - which means less waiting around and a lot more certainty (bus timetables permitting). There are only two buses an hour direct to the hospital but at least I can choose which one I take.

I am feeling better. I can do more things. I am less tired. So here lies the rub. Boredom is a real and present danger. How to manage my time in the period where work isn't quite possible but my brain and body think they are ready for a more 'normal' lifestyle. And will my next operation knock this on the head?

It must be time to pick up the Spanish books...

Walking on water

2009-03-26T17:26:00.000Z

As I said, its not all doom and gloom. Being run over by a truck means you get a personal trainer for £2.80 an hour. With a qualification in sports rehab and remediation. And a nice Scottish name. Today it was my first real session down at the gym. And after the session, I finally got into the pool.

First challenge. Getting undressed and changed and then hauling my gear into an overhead locker - a few steps away from the disabled changing area. Had to take each item individually. Had a look at myself in the full length mirror. Mmm. Bit odd. My graft is bulky and strange. My right buttock has migrated down my leg and I still have massive bruising on my right thigh. Have to expose this lot to the public.

Hopped into the pool area. Waved at the life guard. He gave me some weird green tube that acts as a flotation device. And then I was in. Was easy to slip into the pool. Left my crutches by the ladder. And then I walked. Actually I walked in the water, not on it, but it felt pretty miraculous. Walking without crutches. And the deeper the water, the easier it became. I walked two lengths, and then tried a swim. Extraordinary.

Managed a couple of lengths breaststroke with almost no pain at all. OK - I was a lot slower than I used to be. And two lengths is fairly minimal. But I was swimming... A few more exercises and then it was time to get out. No point in overdoing it. And its cold when you aren't racing up and down.

Getting out was a breeze. This was unexpected. I had been offered the hoist.... And then the last challenge. Getting everything back out of the locker and into the changing room - item by item - while wet and cold. There's a design fault here somewhere.... I'm booked in with the personal trainer next Tuesday at 3pm. And I'm actually looking forward to it...

Operation No. 4

2009-03-24T19:52:00.000Z

Back to the consultant. A lift there by a kind friend. Patient transport was full. X-ray first. (I asked the technician to colour in any hole he noticed in the x-rays). Then a short wait and in to see the miracle maker.

But it was too much to hope for. The hole was still there. And the technician hadnt't helped me out (no Photoshop in the RIE it seems). My tibia is 'lazy'. And, as it hasn't healed, it will have to be 'encouraged'. This will be done by replacing the current nail (from my ankle to my knee) with a slightly bigger one. When the new nail is pushed through, it results in a kind of bone graft - by pushing tiny fragments of bone through to the hole which then activates healing. In essence the operation aggravates the site and gives it a boot up the proverbial.... We hope.

It may not be successful, in which case we try again, with another nail replacement three months later.

The operation will take two hours and I should only be in hospital overnight, assuming everything goes well. I should take around a week to 'recover' and so I won't be knocked back to the beginning. I have to keep on with the physio and the moon boot stays. I asked not to go back to the orthopedic trauma ward. But there are no guarantees - it all depends where a bed can be found...

The operation is slightly complicated by my free flap (skin graft). My flap is fed by an artery, which may be very close to the screws holding the nail in. To undo the screws near the artery means care is required. If the artery is damaged, my skin graft is at risk. (although it now has other blood supplies). So a letter is being fired off to my plastics consultant to find out where the artery is.

God, I hope he can remember. I hope he wrote it down! The artery can be traced with a doppler if all else fails. And my consultant is a modest genius - he will not get it wrong.

So now its a waiting game for the appointment letter. My case is marked urgent. This means I should only have to wait 4 - 6 weeks. Given that this is operation No. 4. my consultant has said he wont bother with a preoperative clinic appointment. I've been in so many times I practically run the place. And it would only mean more hassles with patient transport.

So to the big question. How do I feel? Strange really. Not as I expected. Not hysterical. Not furious. Not desperate. Not anxious.

Just flat. And tired. Tired of the pain which continues to get worse although at least I know the root cause... Tired of telling the same story. Tired of being upbeat. Tired of thinking I should do valuable things with my time and not doing them. Tired of relying on other people. Tired of being tired....

But its not all doom and gloom. Today my ambulance crew included the fabulous Ali. Ali is a fairly recent recruit - around 18 months into the job. And she's wanted to do this work for years. And she starts with the emergency crews in May. She bounced up the stairs, met me with a cheery smile, told me how much she enjoyed her job and beamed all the way to the hospital and back. So much smiling. So much happiness! I can't remember the last time I met someone so genuinely upbeat. I might have a hole in my tibia, but I get to meet people like Ali.. And not many people get that happy opportunity...

Stan and his wife

2009-03-23T18:12:00.000Z

Stan carries a picture of his wife in his wallet. He has always done so. For as long as he can remember. The picture was taken in 1944. Stan's wife is beautiful in the photo. The photo is protected in a clear plastic bag. Its the second one. The first was lost in Spain when Stan's wallet was stolen. They go abroad twice a year on holiday. They were evacuated from Croatia during the Bosnian crisis. Stan and his wife have been married for over 60 years. They met in the war at a RAF base in England. They are devoted to each other.

Stan and his wife have lived in the same house for over 40 years. It was new when they moved in. Until his wife's fall, they went out every day in the car: to Portobello or Arthurs Seat for a walk. They took tea in a flask. Stan's wife suffers from anxiety. This is caused, she thinks, by her experience of the war. Bombed night after night. After a while her mother didn't wait for the sound of the air raid sirens. She just took the children to the shelter in the evening. And there they slept. Terrified. Around 70 years later Stan's wife was nervous of her hospital appointment because of those air raids.

Stan's wife was the last patient on the ambulance list. The ambulance crew were in the house for quite some time. Stan's wife wasn't ready and she was nervous about travelling without Stan. So Stan came too. He was told he would have to find his own way back if the ambulance was full later. Stan's wife was wearing a nightie over her trousers, and a navy blue coat buttoned up tight. She had a soft neck brace and one arm in a sling. She was awfully pale. However, she survived her appointment and wasn't kept in. Come back in another three weeks they said.

I guess I wont see them again. 800 patients are collected each day in Edinburgh for their appointments. So the chances are slim. But I was very struck by Stan and his photo. Over 60 years. How beautiful is that?

Four Months

2009-03-19T13:20:00.000Z

Four months on. time for an update.
I have just started my exercise referral. In essence this means I get to use the local gym/pool for £2.80 a time. The referral comes from my physiotherapist. Once again, though, I stumbled onto the opportunity by accident. Nobody told me about it. I just wandered into the gym and asked what was available. So this morning I had my first session. With a Fitness Instructor. Was more difficult than the physio as the minimum weights in most of the machines are 5kgs - rather than the 2kgs I'm used to. This means I have to be careful not to overdo it or injure myself inadvertently.

And next week I will use the pool. Getting in will be alright. Getting out will be a great deal trickier. There is a hoist. but I'm damned if I'm being lifted out of the pool - at least not with the lights on! My visits to physio will reduce to twice a week from early April - supplemented by the these gym and pool sessions. This must be progress.

I am still on my crutches and still not fully weight bearing. My ankle movement is still limited although my knee is almost 100%. 'Walking' round the block is exhausting. The local shop, though, is manageable. I am still eligible for patient transport and still haven't managed to use a bus. I think, though, I can now walk to my GP's surgery - just... My wheelchair can probably be returned to the Red Cross - perhaps after I have seen my consultant next week.

I have had a letter from my employer informing me about half pay. This is frightening - and very complicated. Three conversations with patient HR staff and I still only vaguely understand it. Sick pay is worked out on a calender year - but also over four years. (This means that as well as my injury leaving a physical and perhaps mental legacy, my time off work now will continue to have an impact over several years.) And weekends and public holidays count as sick days on continuous sick leave.

I have to start sorting out my finances. As I will go back to work on a 'phased return' I will almost certainly run out of full sick pay. This means that future sick days will be paid at half rate. A future operation (or two) for example. A stomach upset or the flu. Stress. Or a setback with my injury. A drop in income is guaranteed. So now I am investigating my finances, reducing my mortgage (thank god for the ridiculously low interest rates), raiding my savings to pay off my loan, and binning my credit card. Reduced mobility tends to cut down spending on some things - but it increases on others - particularly transport. Taxis do not come cheap.

I am as skinny as ever. 50kgs at last count. This is largely to do with lost muscle tone. But cooking also remains a drag. Eating in the kitchen isn't much fun - although the radio helps. I am practically a local down at Ambridge... I have less assistance now that I'm four months on. More independence is required. I can eat at the pub next door. But its expensive and often full.

My mood still swings and I have almost no tolerance for what I perceive as bullshit. I have been badly behaved in a local community group meeting and stupidly upset by a canceled lunch appointment. I am visibly shaken when I see a policeman on the street, and passing trucks are too big, too close and too loud. Listening to a House of Lords debate on cycle safety the other night was odd. Reading about Hillsborough (20 years ago in May) also very unsettling. I assume this will dissipate over time - but its worrying nonetheless. However, my concentration has improved. I am ploughing through books and spending less time on the Internet.

Here in Edinburgh spring has arrived. Its hard to be miserable when the sparrows are singing on the skylight and my flat is filled with sunshine. Healing requires a focus on the present - not the future or the past. One breath at a time. One step at a time. Its so easy to write...

Lost in transit

2009-03-16T11:32:00.000Z

Its Monday. Its physio. My appointment is at 10am. This means I have to be ready at 8.30am just in case (last week the ambulance came dead on 8.30 for a 9.30 appointment). I have breakfast and wait. And wait. And wait. at 10 I try to phone Patient Transport. Cant get through. At 10.15 I phone the physio department to say I will be late. I try Patient Transport again. And again. And again.

In the meantime I try to call St Johns. I have an appointment in April and I need to arrange patient transport. But the secretary's number doesn't work. I try switchboard. Seems the secretary's phone has been put on the wrong setting. There is no way of contacting her. I call someone in the outpatient department. Not their responsibility apparently. They tell me to call Patient Transport direct.

At 11 I get a call from Physio. The person is extremely apologetic. Seems someone forgot to book my transport. My appointment is lost and I have wasted two and a half hours waiting. And money on all the phone calls.

I ring Patient Transport again. Astonishing. Get through. Try to book the trip to St Johns. No. Its the rule. The hospital has to make the booking if its less than six months since I saw them the last time. Outrageous. But I cant get through to the correct person in the hospital. I plead. Pleading doesn't work. I ring the switchboard. Ask if there is any way of contacting the secretary. No. What about email? I am given an address. I have no idea if hospital staff read their emails. Most of the systems still appear to be on paper. I send her an email anyway.

I don't like complaining about the NHS. People work hard. And they care. Resources are stretched. But I am a good patient. I turn up on time. I do my physio. I am always ready when the ambulance comes. I fulfill my side of the contract. But today's antics are more akin to a 19th century French farce than a state of the art health system. Of course it is probably just coincidence that the booking wasn't made and the phone was on the wrong setting. The systems are set up tp produce efficient positive outcomes. But I made around 15 phone calls this morning. With nothing to show for it but disappointment and frustration.

I did, though, get a nice letter about my prescription payments - warning me that my pre paid prescription card was about to expire. It remains to be seen how easy it is to renew it! Going on my experience with community pharmacies to date, it should be a piece of cake...

A legacy for Ward 18

2009-03-13T11:41:00.000Z

Most of us want a legacy of some sort. Something positive to be remembered by. Its not necessarily altruistic. We want to be seen to be doing good for others. It makes us feel warm inside. Some people leave their bodies to medical science (cheaper than a funeral too...). Others pay for a park bench (sometimes situated in the oddest of places...). Still others leave money to charities. Cat and dog homes are popular. Cancer research and hospices too. Conservation charities do well. Church roofs used to be the in thing. And often the people who have the least to give donate the highest proportion of their wealth.

There's been a lot of mention of this in the media recently. Millionaire and billionaire 'philanthropists' who donate large sums to charity with plenty of media coverage but don't pay tax in this country. There's a wonderful irony in this. For their tax bills would probably be considerably higher than their donations. And with more tax coming in, would there be less need for the charitable donations...?

So where do I fit into this? I pay direct debits to three well known charities. I have a charity credit card. Every time I buy something, a little brown bird benefits. I make one off contributions to disaster funds: earthquakes, tsunamis, illegal wars. And then suffer the interminable phone calls for weeks afterwards asking for more. I could off course make more and higher contributions. But sometimes it feels strange to be funding things - where the perpetrator of the loss or suffering should really pick up the costs. Gaza being a prime example. However, I digress.

Back in November I was in Ward 18 in St Johns Hospital, Livingstone. The standard of medical, nursing and 'hotel' services was outstanding. Staff coming in on their days off to decorate a Christmas tree. Time taken for patient hair washing. Fresh hot delicious food. A comforting chat in the dead of night. I genuinely didn't want to leave. I noticed, though, that the ward could have done with another commode. An extra one would save nurses time and effort, and increase the comfort of patients. So at Christmas I sent a card, offering to purchase one for the ward. It was a daft idea, but appealed somehow. What a legacy!

Yesterday I finally received a call from the Ward. Was I still interested in buying the commode? The nurse was a little embarrassed about the price. Someone is making a healthy profit out there. But the cost of the commode is less than a weekend trip to Barcelona, less than dinner for four at a Michelin star restaurant, less than a designer handbag. OK, perhaps the NHS should be picking up the tab. But it isn't. So I, with a generous contribution from my mother, will buy the commode. Its not clear yet whether there will be a plaque, but if so, we will need something appropriate with just the right amount of cheek. Entries on a postcard please...

The great escape

2009-03-12T17:23:00.000Z

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Getting into my flat is always a bit tricky. Holding the door open and trying to hop in without jamming my fingers, or slipping on the rug. And every time there are two furry spectators, sitting just far enough away to be safe from my sticks. Waiting for a opportunity to head out themselves. Last night they finally made a bid for freedom.

It was around midnight. I'd been at the movies with a friend. I opened the door and the two furry creatures looked up, and then cool as cool things, strode out the door into the stairwell. Shit! I fumbled around, trying to screw up a bit of paper to entice them back in. (usually works a treat when getting them out of the living room). But I couldn't manage without letting go of the door. I propped the door open with my coat, hopped through to the kitchen, grabbed the cat food and scattered some cat biscuits in the hall. Betty, the little furry one, couldn't resist and strolled back in. But Gordito was sniffing the plants. Its a jungle out there. I shut the door and chased Betty into the kitchen. Then, armed with more biscuits I struggled back into the stairwell. Looked down. Gordito was two floors down scrutinising the neighbours' doormat. I called him. He ignored me.

Overheating and stressed I hopped downstairs with my crutches. Gordito started to pad upstairs. He passed me half way and found the biscuits I'd laid as bait outside the door. He's a greedy thing so he stopped to munch. I hopped back up and caught him. But I was unable to hold onto him, open the door, keep Betty in and hold my crutches at the same time. I sat down on the floor. Furious. But laughing. Thank goodness no one could see. Gordito ate more biscuits. Betty cried on the other side of the door. Sitting was easier though. I opened the door, threw some biscuits inside for Betty, shoved the fat one through and shut the door. Now they were inside and I was out - on the floor. It took me a few minutes of planning and a lot of manoeuvring to get back in safely. Once in I collapsed on the couch. They looked at my in puzzlement. And then Betty asked for more biscuits.

The next day, revenge was had. I didn't wake up until 11am (despite the incessant and increasingly desperate furry wrestling on my bed). The creatures had their breakfast three hours late. That'll learn them...

The definition of justice

2009-03-11T14:30:00.000Z

Up until now most of my time since my truck incident has been spent interacting within the health system. I am patient and passenger, client and customer. All the people I deal with are there, directly or indirectly, to help me recover. Of course they have their own agendas. They have targets and timetables. They have systems and processes. There are policies and procedures - thousands of them. They have objectives and appraisals, supervision and exams. They have bosses and minions, students and professors. Sometimes they have dramas, other times its more humdrum. They have celebrations and personal tragedies.

Despite of and because of all of this I am making progress. I have come to understand the system, the systems within systems, the idiosyncrasies and madness, the friendliness and occasional heartlessness. And of course, I am now an integral part of the system - no patients - no medical teams - no passengers - no transport.

And just as I begin to understand the health system, I have to add in the justice system. It is the justice system that will determine any compensation for my injuries and associated suffering and losses. But this is a whole new ball game. Here my understanding stems only from the study of justice and philosophy. It comes from Rawls and Hume and Plato. Hypothetical veils of ignorance and Socratic conversations some two thousand years ago. The more recent occasional chat with a community policeman hasn't led to many insights.

My road to potential compensation is unlikely, though, to involve desultory conversation about justice as fairness or justice as doing no harm. Rather, it will involve the police, lawyers, insurance companies, the court system, independent medical checks, and god knows what else. Unlike the health system, not everyone will necessarily be 'on my side'. Because of course there is more than one party in my truck incident. And most frustrating of all, I wont be able to write about it.

You can challenge me on this if you like - but for some reason it feels inappropriate to write it down and 'publish' it. Not safe somehow. Not that there isn't a story in it - quite the opposite in fact. But it comes at a time when the role of the state is being questioned in relation to personal data. And a time when the balance between liberty and safety (from terrorist acts) is resulting in strange decisions. There is a loss of confidence by some communities in the institutions who are supposed to protect us and keep us safe.

So, if you want to hear how its going with me and the justice system, you'll have to drop in for a coffee, or take me for a cake. I'll tell you stories that will make the hairs on the nape of your neck stand on end. And when its all over, at least two years away as I understand, I'll give you my definition of justice, as it happened to me. Socrates, I imagine, will turn in his grave.

Overstepping the mark

2009-03-09T18:45:00.000Z

Today was not good. Firstly I pulled the string on the bathroom light and it came off in my hands - leaving the light on. No idea at all how to fix this given that I cant climb up to have a look at the light or reach up to the switchboard and turn off the circuit. Crutches and ladders just aren't a happy combination.

Then collected in an 'ambulance car' for physio. Does this mean I've been promoted? Out of the three pick ups on route I am the only person who bothers to answer the door. What a waste of resources. Despite arriving on time, I then had to wait 15 minutes for my physio. And the session started with what I would call an aggressive (although necessary) invasion of my talis bone.

In essence my Physio presses her thumb hard into the front of my talis and then glides the bone a few millimetres at a time for several minutes. This is intensely painful - evidenced by the angry red mark which hangs around for ten minutes or so afterwards. Then further endurance required as I stand with my right foot on a low box and do 20 dreadful lunges. But worse was to come.

The other biodex machine. (Obviously this is not me in the picture although my expression was somewhat similar). This biodex is rather like a Wii. You stand on it, keep your feet firmly planted, the ground beneath you starts to move and then you shift your weight around to get a cursor into a box on the panel at eye level. I failed at my first go, and the Physio changed the settings. It was difficult and painful. My right foot has little flexibility let alone enough movement to withstand the motion of the plate. I suffered it for 2 minutes, keeping that cursor in the box with my right foot (pride and ego seem the only antidote to the pain). Wondered vaguely whether this was invented before computer games or was a torturous offshoot. Or something stemming from military hardwear perhaps?

Back at home the pain in my right ankle continued for the rest of the day. My lawyer came and went and still the pain was there. The pain could indicate a loosening of the screws in my ankle. Or it could be that we just overdid it. It is unusual though and handfuls of painkillers had no effect.

Missus Two Shoes

2009-03-06T17:05:00.000Z

Friday 6th March. The day I get to don my right shoe. Over three months without wearing two shoes. Can you imagine? Unfortunately it wasn't a fancy shoe (my cheeky little Think ankle boots not quite orthotic enough..). But heh, it was a start. First problem - what to wear with it? When you are used to wearing only one shoe, and thus only one sock, all the socks in your collection mysteriously lose their partners. Turned my drawers upside looking for a matching pair of socks. No luck. Had to wear odd socks at physio - but no one bats an eyelid there. And, as usual with these frissons of excitement, they are held back to the last ten minutes of the physio session. And this time by the infamous biodex machine.

The biodex machine looks to all intents and purposes like an instrument of torture. I sat on it (not strapped in although most other people are to stop them cheating or falling off - depending on who you ask), my right thigh raised above my hips and my right foot resting on a metal plate out in front of me. Once my foot was safely strapped on, the machine started. In essence I got ten minutes of slowly increasing dorsi and planter movement. The gentle rocking motion was surprisingly pleasant. And I managed to get 38 degrees of movement before the pain became too much. And then finally, there can be no further diversions - I head for my second shoe.

It was tricky to get the shoe on despite the assistance of the very shy Norwegian physio student. I tried first with the sock but the shoe wouldn't fit. (All that trouble looking for a sock...) Then I tried with a light weight tubigrip. That worked although it looked a bit odd. Then I was up and standing in my two shoes - crutches ready. I took a few steps. It was very odd. My leg appeared to have shrunk a couple of inches and my right hip didn't quite know what to do. I also felt light - the moon boot must be at least a kilo if not more. I tried the leg press, and the exercise bike, with my two shoes. I was victorious (shorter mind..) but almost normal. Still have to wear the moon boot outside (just in case) but the boot is formally in the past when I'm at home. Now just have to get over my pride about wearing ancient trainers (I hate the sodding things!).

Just like riding a bike..

2009-03-04T16:05:00.000Z

Another day... More physio... But this time I've been promoted: to the giant green gym ball: and, more importantly, to the exercise bike. The home physio has paid off. I now have 5 degrees of dorsi movement in my ankle (out of a possible 15). This has been achieved by sheer brute force: the full weight of my Physiotherapist when at the hospital: and my hauling it with a towel at home. And my reward? Getting on the exercise bike.

Strange. It hadn't occurred to me that my first 'ride' would be in the gym. I looked at the machine with suspicion. "You're not a real bike" I muttered. I'd always thought that people who exercised on these things were rather mad. What a pointless activity. But I guess safe from trucks - unless one manages to penetrate deep into the department from the madness of the car park. Imagine the headlines.. Anyway - back to the machine.

Since I am still only wearing one shoe I had to climb on and put my good shod foot into the left pedal loop, and then ease my gammy right one (in its multicoloured sock - nothing like a bit of attention seeking when you've got something to hide) into the right. The grey vinyl seat was remarkably uncomfortable. I complained about this - and then without further thought - started pedalling.

Well - it wasn't hard and I didn't go anywhere. No sounds of traffic and no trucks. Pedalled gently for a few minutes and then picked up a bit of speed. The idea is to strengthen my quads and get a cheeky dorsi stretch at the same time. After 5 minutes I was instructed to stop. Dismounted with the ease and confidence of an old hand.

The gym ball wasn't so easy. I had to sit on this without holding onto anything stable and then rock over my right ankle - more dorsi activity. Balance is tricky - mainly because my 'core' strength is limited. Lack of physical activity over the past few months has taken its toll. However I do get some dorsi movement, don't fall off and crucially, don't embarrass myself. The thrice daily sit ups have apparently paid off.

Then onto the leg press for some final stretches. and a bit more pain. Now that I have 5 degrees my world expands. Gym balls, exercise bikes, leg press machines (and on Friday will be wearing my right shoe for the first time). Soon, as my pal Kenny says, I'll be up for the dancin...

An army of health professionals

2009-03-03T18:44:00.000Z

My first sick note expires this week. Time for a GP visit, and an OH (occupational health) assessment. My GP is situated just out of reach of crutch hobbling, but too close for a taxi (in my opinion anyway). The receptionist said it would be fine to renew my sick line through a phone appointment. Relying on this advice I duly made, and then had, the appointment. Sods law. The GP said no - she couldn't do the sick line without seeing me. This meant missing my deadline for work, (ie, having a few days off without a sick line) and having to coordinate an available appointment with my very kind and patient neighbours who would provide the transport. Two phone calls and several texts later we settled for Friday 6th March.

In the meantime, I had to get myself to the OH surgery this morning, handily located out at Liberton. The appointment letter comes with bus information - which is a good thing. But of course, I can't get to the bus stop yet never mind manage two buses. Luckily Handicabs was available - so £8 for the transport. It was bitterly cold when we arrived at the surgery. I followed the signs for the disabled entrance and headed up the ramp on my crutches. It started to rain. The door was locked. I rang the bell. Nothing. Rang again and again. Fingers frozen and turning blue at the tips. Eventually the door was opened and I was ushered in. I understand the door has to be locked for security reasons, and the staff were extremely apologetic. But its just another example of what people with mobility problems have to put up with.

I spoke with the OH doctor for around half an hour. We concluded that I was not fit to return to work - and would see him again in a couple of months time. Unfortunately he can not sign my sick line - thus another visit to another health professional required (see above). My GP does not get a copy of his letter to my employer unless I make one available. And yet its my GP who is signing me off. There's a method in all this madness - mainly independent specialist advice for myself and my employer - but it makes for a complicated life.

I am now in the care of one GP practice, one OH doctor, two physiotherapists (a junior and a senior), one psychologist, one consultant at the RIE and one consultant at St Johns in Livingstone. Oh - and the community pharmacist and the pharmacy delivery boy. In theory I have an occupational therapist although they have never made contact. I have three transport contacts: Lothian Patient Transport, Handicabs and the local minicab company. I also have a lawyer (in relation to a potential compensation claim), a boss and an HR contact at my work. It is my job to coordinate the information and appointments between all of these professionals and colleagues. I spend half my life on my mobile phone, the other half at appointments - its really not that dissimilar to being at work....

100 Days...

2009-02-27T15:15:00.000Z

100 days - has a catchy ring doesn't it? On my 100th day I put my right foot down on the ground, with its moon boot, and with my crutches, I 'walked'. (I am not putting much weight through it yet). I also, for the first time, started hard core weights work with my right ankle. Sitting on the machine with my feet up pushing hard with the smallest weight. Left leg and foot acts as brake. Right foot and ankle forcibly on the move. My Physio says its time to 'challenge my joints'. I was under the impression that there had already been 100 days of challenge. No so. Now its for real.

My set of exercises are now long and hard. We are trying to strengthen my knee and quads. Without the joint movement and without the strengthening there will be no walking. Even my gait has to be reconstructed. Now its a right toe point, pulling the knee hard in, easing my foot back and then the final knee bend (ever thought about how to walk??) 'No pain no gain' said the ambulance driver... Mmm

On the eve of my 100th day I took my moon boot off for the first time overnight. My strange little leg exposed to only a duvet for 8 hours. It felt very light - and indeed it is. My calf muscle, what little there is, hangs sullenly. My graft looks bigger now that my leg has regained more of a shape - particularly round the ankle. With most of the swelling gone I now understand why my graft needs cosmetic surgery. Its not a thing to flash in front of small children... Or adults for that matter.

Despite all this progress I'm not in good form. This is normal apparently - but deeply unpleasant. I am cross and permanently weepy. Despite the enormous amounts of goodwill from my pals and the NHS there are still things that conspire against my disability. At the Filmhouse this afternoon I have an argument with the manager. I am not allowed a stool to put my foot on because of health and safety regulations. And if I am given one this time, (it is eventually grudgingly offered for a one off) it may set a dangerous precedent. I am close to tears with this public humiliation. I argue. People are allowed to take their shopping bags in. If I had my wheelchair I would have the leg extension. And the extension is far more hazardous than a stool (although if Health and Safety ever work this out there'll be no more trips out for anyone using one).

I stomp off on my crutches, find the wheelchair space, sit on a seat beside it and put my leg up on the seat in front. There doesn't seem to be a regulation preventing this. Its not ideal but it does the trick. There are around 20 people in Cinema One (seats hundreds) - not one of whom would be obstructed in the event of a fire. I and the Filmhouse are finished. I have sympathy for people obeying rules - but there must be ways of providing some sort of leg support which is legal. When you don't get out much because your mobility is limited the last thing you need is zealotry preventing your entertainment. This simply creates more misery - and thus slows healing.

100 days. Strangers regularly approach me and ask me how much longer before I am walking around freely. I have no idea. I can't even get to the bus stop yet - so I guess it will be a while.

Grim times

2009-02-24T19:56:00.000Z

Progress should be good, right? But it doesn't always seem so. Strangely, some of my milestones seem to accentuate my (temporary) disabilities rather than diminish them. They make me weep rather than smile. I'm 98 days on and yesterday I managed, with my crutches, to get myself to the local Co-op to buy a paper. This trip - in total perhaps 500 metres, used to take me 10 minutes. Yesterday it took around 50. And I was shattered, hot and cross when I got home. There is nowhere to sit down on the way up Bath Street. There is nowhere to sit down in the shop itself. In the queue, no one allowed me to go forward, even though I was clearly edgy. Of course they might have thought it was patronising to offer to help - and I could have asked. Instead of celebrating the success I noted the effort, the time, and the little old ladies passing me on the inside lane...

On my return I met my neighbour's brother - who must be in his 70s at least. He is mobile but slow. He asked me to let him know if I needed anything done in my flat. Very kind - but dreadful in some way. An old man who helps out his older housebound sister in our stair every day offering to help me. Another neighbour offered me her phone number when she met me downstairs - so that I didn't need to struggle to the shop. I must have looked rough. I declined gracefully.

A few days ago I had my first bath since November. Designed to be warm and relaxing it was initially stressful. I took my phone in case I got stuck. But once I was in it was fine. And it struck me that I should have tried a couple of weeks ago. Why didn't I? Its all about confidence - and testing. But once the habits are formed around a physical constraint they are difficult to break. Testing my recovery is a tricky call - there's so much at stake. If I get it wrong I will suffer. Too far from home and I cant make the return trip. Too much stress on my right knee and the pain comes later. Knocking out a pain killer carries the burden of not knowing the impact until its too late.

My body is healing but each day I feel slightly more deranged. And even though I am assured this is normal, its terribly hard to get up each day and take it on.

When your time is up....

2009-02-23T13:41:00.000Z

On Saturday night we went to the Playhouse Theatre - in the wheelchair of course. Struggled through the smokers on the way in. Smiled wryly at the scantily clad tottering fake tanned women in a Scottish February. Tilted my head up to the ticket man. Ushered through the wheelchair access. Parked up and then protected all those fancy tights from laddering on my steel leg extension...

Vagina Monologues - (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Vagina_Monologues) Place should have been packed with feminists - but it seemed that the crowd was more hen party than Germaine Greer... (This may have been something to do with one of the actors having won one of these reality TV star thingies recently - GIE US A SONG - GIE US A SONG!! the hecklers urged...)

Its a cracking piece of theatre. Four woman sitting on stools reciting monologues about vaginas. Funny stories, sad stories, political stories. Genital mutilation, vaginal workshops with mirrors, pet names and orgasms, rape and war, old women and young women and gay women... I'm laughing and crying at the same time. Its a celebration for women - its about empowerment and pleasure. But it also reminds us that across the globe women do not have equal rights or pay, they are mutilated in the name of religion and raped in the name of war. They are beaten by the men who are supposed to love them and abused by employers for having children. And while the actors on stage did their best, strangely with notes (they couldn't learn their lines?) their transitions from pet names to these more difficult stories didn't work - the hen parties and drunken groups tittered with embarrassment and the serious moments were lost.

At half time there was a mass move to the bar. I stayed in my wheelchair - impossible for me to get through. My friend went to buy ice creams (still not drinking - the quarter of a glass of wine the other night resulted in a momentous hangover). A slightly tipsy woman approached me - wanted to know what had happened - why was I in the chair? I outlined the story for the thousandth time. But I was shaky - close to tears. The ex partner stuff was preying on my mind - as was the monologue on genital mutilation (over 12000 women in the UK). My new friend listened and then, to my horror and embarrassment, regaled me with her theories of 'when your time has come - its come' - and 'how many lives did I have left from my starting nine?'. This ghastly one sided conversation continued - I heard about her cousin's son who had died in a car accident (his time had come) and why she didn't wear her seatbelt (her time might come). In a wheelchair you can't escape. And how do you tell someone who is clearly well meaning to piss off? I was saved by the start of the second act - but the damage was done. When would be my time?

The finale of VMs is well known - we reclaim the 'c' word - 1500 women (and about a dozen men) yell CUNT at the top of their voices. How liberating, how wonderful, how joyful to take this unedifying scornful dreadful word only usually uttered by neds and tossers (and famously in Withnail and I to Monty) and shout it to the rooftops - cheering, clapping and smiling. Even being in a sodding wheelchair cant take away the fabulousness of being a woman.... Bring on the vaginas every time....

Put yer coat on dear....

2009-02-17T10:40:00.000Z

Monday - must be physio. Hanging around waiting for a non emergency ambulance is strangely stressful - can't start anything, nervous about going to the toilet, difficult to relax... They came eventually around 9.15 - knocking on the door having used the service buzzer to get into the stair. Two women this time - one in the fluoro kit, the other in a hefty fleece.

"Where's your coat? Its raining out" the tall one said bossily. Surprised and somewhat submissively I pointed it out. She put it on me. Personally I thought it was too warm for a coat and I would only overheat in the overheated ambulance (I did). But you don't argue with the driver. "Have you got your keys?" "In my bag - you can check if you like.." She did! Rustled through my bag and gave it a good shake. I guess you can't be too careful - you must be sick of breaking into people's houses I muttered with what I hoped to be the correct degree of empathy. Its not that I'm not grateful - I am - very - its just very odd to be treated as if I my brain isn't working properly...

I was accompanied down the stairs. No chance of anything untoward happening. Into the ambulance to find my two fellow travellers. The ambulance had already had one aborted collection - no-one answered the door. Off to the Eye Pavilion to drop off the first man. The other bloke, with diabetes, was a stonemason. I asked him if he was retired. He looked at my strangely (later it turned out he was only two years older than me - I swear it was his beard that caused the confusion - but was I simply falling into the trap that everyone on patient transport is 'old'?)

Gave us a not so potted history of all the buildings he had worked on on the way through Newington. The mad colonel with the waxed moustache who had a library full of first editions but never read: 'books are for homosexuals' he had apparently shouted... The wealthy Jewish businessman with the pig farm... The stonemason had also been knocked off his bike in the past - by a bus. And the driver had given him gip. There's a bit of a pattern evolving here...

My physio session was not as interesting as the trip. A couple of new instructions. Take the moonboot off at rest - and put more weight through my right toes. Back in the ambulance I asked for the heating to be turned down and I took my coat off. We left the stonemason behind - hadn't seen his consultant in time. It wasn't the same without him....

A tragic community

2009-02-15T13:52:00.000Z

The small step was smaller than I thought. My new senior Physio explained that my joints are not up to the job yet - and if we push them they will become inflamed and painful. So my touch weight bearing will last at least three weeks. It is hard to hide my disappointment.

I have a lot of pain these days too - pain in areas which weren't damaged as well as areas that were. Just putting my toes down seems to trigger pain across the front of my right foot - this is unexpected and frustrating. Despite this I am trying a slightly reduced pain management regime - dropping one of the tablets in the evening (out of a total of 16 over the day). Its tricky - try to reduce the pills but don't compromise the physio. And my responsibility to work it out. I thought I would be walking to my local Scotmid in a couple of weeks... now my housebound predicament is stretching out without end.

Its a strange time. Lots of people ask me if its like being on holiday - all that time to do what I want. But its nothing like being on holiday. My dark thoughts don't go on holiday - they remain. OK - my social life at home has improved - not a day goes by without someone popping in to help with the shopping, cook me dinner, listen to my rants about patient transport. But these visits, although welcome and critically important, have their downsides. I feel need to 'put on a show' of how well everything is going - when actually its all pretty grim. Not just for me - but the other cyclists who haven't been so lucky in their encounters with moving vehicles.

The woman killed at Seafield roundabout. The roundabout is now being redesigned, partly I assume to prevent such a thing happening there again. The young guy who died with a trashed liver in Morningside - comforted on the road by my nursing friend while everyone else stayed in their cars. The man killed up at Causewayside last year. The woman that went under a bus at Crewe Toll in November - alive and doing well - but with more serious injuries than mine Two people killed in Fife at the end of the year. And another accident in Seafield Road this week.

I am now part of a terrible community - at the lucky end of the spectrum - but grieving for us all.... And each time I hear another story my stomach flutters and I think of what might have been..

One small step

2009-02-11T20:52:00.000Z

Another big day. Being sick is a full time occupation. This is the day that my Spanish friend returns to Spain and I have to look after myself. The day I take my first step. The day I clear 12 weeks of answer phone messages. The day I move my computer to my study instead of languishing on the couch.

The ambulance arrives before I've had breakfast - around 8.30. The driver kindly carries my bag and my breakfast (buttered bread) down the stairs. This time its a van with AMBULANCE written on the side. I sit in the back - no leg room at all. The driver explains that he assesses all the patients on the trip and allocates the front and back seats accordingly. I am uncomfortable within 2 minutes.

We head off to pick up the next patient. He is 89 and blind - went to Edinburgh art college 70 years ago, and attended dances that the city put on for the nurses (they needed more men...). He had been blind for 8 months and had 'got used to it'. But I reckoned he could see a wee bit - especially when we passed his 'old school'...

The next pick up was an oldish woman - very quiet with a gentle smile. We girls sat in the back - men in the front. I was dropped off first - half an hour early for my appointment. For my momentous day I had a new physio - he had started in OPD 5 only three days before. And we were 28 minutes into my 30 minute appointment before I got to walk. 28 minutes of talking and stretching and assessing - would he never get round to it? Finally we were there - moonboot back on and stand up straight - crutches at full attention.

Its called 'touch weight bearing'. Crutches go forward first, then just the toe of my gammy foot, then the good leg last. It was easy. No pain. But very emotional. Here I was starting to walk when 12 weeks ago surgeons were telling me they might have to amputate my leg. And up until now I couldn't even write the A word down - a superstitious fear that things could still go wrong... And perhaps things might - but at least I've got past the superstitious bit....

I asked about the new stair technique. Had a practice on the 'fake' stairs in the gym. And then I'm sent home. Ambulance picks me up first. The other woman hasnt seen her consultant yet. This upsets the whole timetable. Patients coming by ambulance are supposed to be prioritised. We leave without her. I go up the tenement stairs with my new technique - toe touching each stair. Easier on my right hip, harder on my right foot.

So now that I'm almost walking - I can tackle the answerphone messages. And who pops up again but Boris the French couch surfer. Two abusive messages left on 21 November - two days after my accident. Apparently Boris is now training to be a bee keeper and has given up his dreams of humanitarian work - god help the bees...

Fred's big day

2009-02-11T11:44:00.000Z

Yesterday was Fred's big day. It was also mine. Fred apparently had training from a tabloid editor before his performance. I had no training - and forgot to write down my questions. I was picked up by an ambulance at 12.30 - just before my lunch. I don't know whether Fred was too nervous to eat his. I arrived at ODP 6 at the new RIE before the clinic started. The lights were still off. I imagine Fred arrived early or on time. One isn't late for Select Committee appearance.

I had an x-ray - well 4 - just to get every image. Fred would have gone through security and had his bag checked. After my x-rays I sat alone in the consultant's room to gather my thoughts. Fred would have waited outside his Committee room with his colleagues. Perhaps some final advice? Then my consultant appeared.

He couldn't decide what to do . My ankle and foot bones have healed but there is still a gap in my tibia. I was prodded and poked - and asked to stand up. 'Stand up' - I exclaimed - 'are you mad'. Seemed not. I stood on both feet for the first time in twelve weeks. I was afraid. But nothing untoward happened. After some discussion we agreed on the next steps - start weight bearing immediately with the moonboot on - and wait another 6 weeks to see if the tibia heals itself. It was still hot to touch - and thus healing. Might avoid a further operation yet. Back in reception I made by next appointment for March and asked about my transport. I needed to get home to hear how Fred was getting on. The ambulance turned up eventually - and I was home by 3.45. Missed Fred's big moment - but caught it on the net later on.

Fred said sorry. But I'm not sure he and his fellow bankers understood where it had all gone wrong. Or what they were sorry for. While Fred was saying sorry, Kate from Poland was cleaning my flat. My Spanish friend was having his last coffee in Porty before flying home. Later we had my fabulous neighbours up for dinner and a chum from the Borders stayed the night. I managed to cook much of the meal, issuing instructions from my perching stool to my Spanish friend - whose wise cracks demonstrated advanced understanding of the English language. I think my day was better than Fred's.

Day of judgement

2009-02-09T20:14:00.000Z

Tomorrow I will see my consultant. He will look at my x-rays and decide whether I need another operation. I don't have a timed appointment. My patient transport will arrive sometime between 12 and 2.30. I'm not sure how I am supposed to have my lunch or take my pills. I'm thinking I may prepare a packed lunch and then eat it at home. Should I sit with my coat on? How will I get my bag downstairs if I have to take my lunch and a drink? When I'm at the clinic I will have no way of getting a hot drink. I have no idea when I will get home. No one tells you these things.

And my generous Spanish friend, who has looked after me for the last ten days, leaves on Wednesday. I will be alone again.

Despite all of this, I'm strangely calm. I have started reading again. I managed to put together an Excel spreadsheet of my various (33 to date) outpatient appointments for a potential compensation claim. I'm taking the wise advice of my psychologist "you trusted the consultant the last time, so this time he is deserving of trust too.." I have a roster of people lined up to visit and eat with me. Tomorrow night we are even having a dinner party with the neighbours and a chum from Dumfries.

I have joined a book group - and ordered the book from Amazon. I might even read it in advance. I do my physio and I think I see a difference in my knee and ankle movements. I can hop further - I am stronger. And I am wondering about work. My life must be about more than work - and now I have the opportunity to make that happen - how strange that it takes a 32 tonne truck to change my perspective (not to mention a global recession...)

Tomorrow it is not only my day of judgment. Fred gets a turn too. Will Sir Fred Goodwin say sorry at Select Committee tomorrow? £20 billion of public money to save a bank. What will Sir Fred say? It was is the system? He was is just one of many? Banking was is about risk? Risk needs rewarded? Whatever Fred says, we are all bankers now - and for better or worse there are an awful lot more of us who understand the intricacies of the UK finance system - this has to be a good thing!

Dogs have rights too (apparently)

2009-02-07T17:41:00.000Z

Hopping back home on the crutches from the Espy, my local bar, having had a non alcoholic lunch with a pal. A fat chocolate labrador bounds up to us. My friend is afraid of dogs. And while I'm on crutches, I am too. The owners, a couple, call it but don't put in on the lead. They walk past, with no apology. Stupidly I say something to them about keeping it on a lead. Met with astonishing aggression by the man: 'just because you are on crutches doesn't mean that every dog has to be legislated' - wow! Who rattled his cage? I reply along the lines of legislation not being necessary - just that the dog is scary given my current circumstances. He mutters - and walks into the first house on our street. So I know where he lives. Seems like he is one my friendly neighbours. Guess he treats the dog with more respect than the local mobility impaired folk... And after my experience down Portobello High Street today, this is not surprising.

This morning a friend took me to our local library to get some gardening books. Given the distance, we had to take the wheelchair. We soon discovered, as expected, that this wasn't as easy as it seems. In my own street there is no dropped curb. Both I and my friend are nervous of the wheelchair. So I crossed the first road on my crutches, with the intention of joining the wheelchair on the other side. I was then caught by a cross wind blowing straight up the street. Suddenly terrified and leaning into the building (ironically - the neighbours of the friendly dog man). Managed to get across with my friend walking wind side. Then off up the street in the wheelchair. A woman with a child on a scooter met us head on - they move to the side furthest from the road. But we are nervous - ask her to take the other side. She does, without smiling or acknowledging us.

The next crossing has a lowish curb - we tackle it successfully. The third one doesn't. Out of the wheelchair again. This is ridiculous. We make it to the library. Someone has left a bike on the ramp to the entrance. My friend moves it. Finally we are in. Park the wheelchair and onto the crutches - but I cant get through the security barrier into the library - and nobody helps me. I struggle through eventually.

On the way back my only new impediments are meeting friends in the street - we stop to chat - but it is freezing. We flee back down the road, and I'm almost tipped out when what looks like a dropped curb isnt as smooth as expected. My friend is more frightened than myself - I am now resigned to whatever occurs. Off the wheelchair at the end of the road and hop to my door, and then all the way up the stairs. We are both freezing.

My first adventure to the high street has been enlightening. There is no way I could do this on my own - there are not enough dropped curbs - and a minority of the local community cannot be depended on to keep me safe. Without my precious friends and neighbours I would be completely isolated. The moral of this story? Ensure you have your own generous community - nurture it and treat it well. And the pavements? Over to my three local councillors...

Printers and Pickup Sticks

2009-02-06T20:19:00.000Z

Three and a half weeks after my Occupational Therapist referral (which never happened) my pick up stick arrives - yellow and black with warnings about damage and loss - mustn't be careless! What can I do with this fabulous contraption ? Well, cunningly, I can get clothes in and out of my wardrobe. The wardrobe is walk in - but not hop in - due to the large step. Clean clothes have been tantalising me since I got home...

Meanwhile I have discovered one of the few benefits of being on crutches. Shopping. For non routine purchases I usually spend an unwarranted amount of time and untold agony researching quality, costs, eco considerations, corporate social responsibility and god knows what else. Today I decided I needed a printer. A kind friend drove me to PC World in some hellish shopping centre. I hopped in. Without my wheelchair I cannot be long - as I can't stand up for more than ten minutes or so without my right hip complaining. Asked the nice young man to sell me a printer with cheap replacement cartridges. Eight minutes later we left, printer cost £35 and the recycled paper £6. Real cost to self - almost minimal.

Home to a clean flat and a meal cooked my very generous Spanish guest. Then downstairs to my neighbours to watch a film. My Spanish friend stops off on the second floor to feed another neighbour's cat. Cant beat tenement living. We might have problems keeping the stairs clean, but we have no problems at all looking after each other.

All is not what it seems

2009-02-04T17:55:00.000Z

Its Wednesday - so it must be a physio day. Up at the crack of dawn. My transport arriving at 9am. Have to be ready on time. Am in the bathroom when my phone rings. Leave it to ring onto the answerphone (a regular occurrence these days). Listen to the message, so astonished, I listen again...

It was the driver - couldn't find a parking place because all the parents were driving their kids the (very short distance) to school - mayhem - and could 'I please get my mother ready' so that 'we could take her down and get her into the ambulance'... My mother! I hopped down the stairs into the sun. Smiled at the driver. 'I am not my mother' I asserted - grinning. The driver was mortified (well, he gave a good show of it at least!). Explained that 'my answer phone message sounded like someone very young'. I'm not convinced. Hopped up the steps into the van - and we headed off. I pondered. Is the working assumption that all mobility impaired folk are old? And if so, what on earth should I do about it? Arriving at the hospital though, I was beginning to look and behave 'like an older infirm person'. I couldn't get down the steps of the van. Had to be lowered down on the ramp - hanging onto the driver with crutches asunder. Not stylish...

On to the physio. The usual pulling and stretching and tugging. My knee is now an 'active 125 degrees'. This is good apparently. I am a compliant patient. I point my toes on command. My appointment with the psychologist was cancelled at short notice. No time to change the transport times. Given a fly cup of tea by the physio and sat down for a long wait. Had forgotten my book because of the answer phone message.

Driver redeems himself by returning an hour early - didn't even have time to flick through the People's Friend that I've been eyeing up for ages. On the return journey I hear that the driver doesn't own a car - and has no aspirations to own one either - brilliant! Tell him about City Car Club. He tells me about the difficulties of finding a public toilet when out and about collecting folk in the van. Was even refused the use of the toilet at a local police station. So much for community policing...

Back at home my cleaner arrives - Kate from Poland. Kate is quiet, efficient and pleasant. I attempt to clean the oven from the safety of my perching stool while she does the rest of the apartment. Then, miracle of miracles, my drugs turn up. Delivered by a fine young man who doesn't stare at my gammy leg which is naked because he turned up in the middle of my physio... Then a phone call from a fellow ex-patient of St Johns. And suddenly I've managed to get through another day.

Settling in

2009-02-02T19:07:00.000Z

The bureaucracy suffered by the mobility impaired would tempt Kafka out of his grave...

First - transport to my physio appointment. Now that I am living alone I no longer get a lift from my carer. This leaves me three options. First - patient transport. This involves (currently) booking in three weeks ahead. Once you have made the booking, on the appointed day you have to be ready for the bus at least 2 hours before it may arrive because a number of patients are picked up on the way. And of course, we then all have our appointments are are returned home again. On the upside, it is fit for purpose re the vehicle, and its free. The downside is the inordinate amount of time it takes which is tiring, and having to be up early - which is only problematic for me because of my medication. I'm a bit groggy in the mornings.

Second option is Handicabs - a registered charity which provides low cost taxi services for the mobility impaired. However, because resources are limited, the rules of the service limit me to one advance booking at a time to any one location. In essence this means I can only use it once a week to get to the hospital. Again, its fit for purpose and there is no waiting around. In addition it is cheap.

The third option is using a mini cab at the usual rates. I cant' get into a black cab, and cant use a bus yet as the bus stops are too far away. Today I couldn't use Handicabs as I already have a booking for Wednesday, and I couldn't use patient transport because I hadn't booked it in time, not understanding how long I would have to wait. The taxi fare for my 30 minute physio appointment was £20. If I used this option all the time it would cost me £60 a week in fares. On the upside I met Albert on the way out, and Davey on the way back. I didn't have to wait. And we even had a wee adventure in the snow on what was billed as the worst weather for decades.

Then, in the afternoon, three calls from the Occupational Health Team - first there was no record of my pick up stick (last week I was assured the paperwork had been done on the 27th), the second call found it and the third assured me that it will arrive on I Wednesday - along with a shoe horn that I didn't order...

Then organising a cleaner: found a firm on the Internet, visited by the woman (ex Londoner) who runs the franchise in Edinburgh. All sounds wonderful, reasonable prices, cleaners paid £6.50 an hour (well above the minimum wage) - but the cleaners are not insured to clean the oven - too many claims apparently so despite a monthly outlay of £70 I will still have a dirty oven.

Next - how to get drugs when you can't get outside This was surprisingly easy - top marks to my GP and the local pharmacist if it works (will know by tomorrow). First I have a phone appointment with my GP. She rang 3 hours early but I can hardly complain about that. She then faxed my prescription to Mary the pharmacist. Mary then arranged delivery to my door for tomorrow. The potential problem with payment (I have a 4 month pre-paid prescription certificate) solved immediately - just have to show it to the delivery person.

And after all that - I still had time to download a Spanish lesson podcast and procrastinate with Sergio about studying Spanish again...

Where were you on the 31st January 2009?

2009-01-31T11:18:00.000Z

73 days on and I have my first shower. Picture the scene. White plastic bath board across the bath. Towels everywhere to prevent flooding. Strategically placed stools (two) and a chair. Getting naked. Sliding backwards, with the crutches, onto the bath board. Hauling legs over (back to the shower head) careful not to put any weight on my right leg. Left foot planted firmly on the new (hideous) rubber bath mat bought from John Lewis. Watching my right foot go purple. Turning on the shower. Hurrah! Washing - sort of - for ages. Scrubbing my right foot (which turns it back to a normal colour temporarily). Don't wash my hair - too ambitious for first date with shower head - save that for next time.

Drying is an art. Can get to most places on the bath board. Then have to get out with the crutches. Finish off the ablutions with a few fancy products. Then, the piece de resistance, hopping naked, bar the moonboot, to my bedroom. Pause to look in the mirror. Grin and laugh out loud - there is nothing sexy about a moonboot - not even S and M - god, I'll never get a husband at this rate....

Will it be remembered along side Obama's inauguration, Diana's death, or the tsunami? Kennedy's assassination or the moon landing? The day Blair came to power (gosh - remember the optimism then?). I guess not - but my first shower was a momentous thing - and when I'm queen, the occasion will be celebrated by dancing girls and bunting - with Bath Board Day an official public holiday across the land.

Flying solo

2009-01-26T20:26:00.000Z

68 days in and I'm on my own in my flat - officially flying solo - my only extra technical assistance a perching stool for the kitchen and a bath board on order. The community OT referral never came through - despite being marked 'urgent' two weeks ago. Instead, we (my trusty solution orientated Physio and myself) cajoled a hospital ward OT to break the rules and bail me out with some equipment. Without this I would have come home with nothing. And 'nothing' would have meant no cooking (and thus poor nutrition), and no shower (enough said!).

S0, going solo - what does it mean? Ever tried to spend a few weeks on your own on crutches - forbidden to put any weight on your right leg? Well - on the upside - its great to be home - fabulous views of the sea from the bedroom window - shame that I can't get outside at all without assistance. My prison is pleasant but oh to run along the beach...

We often talk about the isolation of the elderly infirm - but seldom stop to think about others who might be stuck indoors. Thank goodness for my fabulous neighbours who are rallying around to ensure I get some fresh air, not to mention my pals who turn up regularly with their (or their parents') cars to take me on a wee outing.

Then there is the problem of food. Great - I can choose to eat whatever I want, whenever I want it. But cooking on one leg is tiring, frustrating and dangerous. Perched on the aptly named perching stool I can swing round and reach most of the kitchen (just as well I'm not rich - a large kitchen would be impossible). I can put things in a pot and stir it. I can eat out of the pot (yes I know - dreadful - but washing the dishes is a drag - literally). I have to put my leg up on the bench to prevent it swelling and hurting - which means I have to hold whatever vessel I'm eating out of. I also have to eat where I cook because I can't carry hot food out of the kitchen - nor hot drinks.

If I run out of something I cant just pop out and get it. And the supermarket is so stressful in a wheelchair that I seldom remember to get what I need. The oven is dirty and I can't clean it without a perilous lean off the stool - although abseil clips could solve that one.

A cup of tea in bed is impossible - unless someone buys me a teasmade (do they still make those?). But I can drink the orange juice out of the carton and no one will know. Cleaning the cat litter tray has me beat - but asking someone else to do it isn't that pleasant either. Hoovering is out of the question, although I did manage to sweep the kitchen floor with a small brush.

So I sit here on my couch, the place a mess because moving anything bigger than a cup is ridiculously difficult, enormously grateful to my relatives who took such good care of me over the last nine weeks - and ponder the case of the man allegedly left to die by a couple of ambulance men some weeks ago. Apparently his home was a dreadful mess - and they judged him for it. Turned out he was simply proud, had cripplng arthritus, and couldn't clean his own home. And here's me - with a temporary gammy leg - unable to clean. Impossible to imagine until it happens to you. Tomorrow I'm ordering in a cleaner that doesnt mind emptying out the cat litter!

Obama Mania

2009-01-21T17:45:00.000Z

In years to come we will all remember where we were on the 20th of January 2009 - the inauguration of the 44th President of the United States of America - Barack Hussein Obama.

Alongside billions of others across the globe, I watched the proceedings on television (only the second programme I've watched in months - the first being the xmas edition of the Royle Family - not sure what that says about me??....). Felt vaguely embarrassed as my eyes welled with tears - hanging on to every word - wanting to believe that this extraordinary man, with his clever colleagues and his pretty daughters, and his fabulous wife, is going to change the world.

Wondered at his oratory powers, his unenviable in-tray, what on earth he said to Bush in those last moments as the previous incumbents walked up to the helicopter... And where was I? On my bed in my temporary quarters, my leg still in its moonboot elevated on a blanket, my crutches still leaning against my pillow, my bag of prunes half empty. Obama unfortunately can't do much for my sodding leg, but he may just might be able to save the world - God bless America!

Measurable progress

2009-01-19T19:40:00.000Z

Today my right knee bent 123 degrees - is this good? Well, yes and no. Compared to three weeks ago its a miracle. Three weeks ago I could barely bend it to get into the car. Nothing intrinsically wrong with my knee though, it just froze from lack of use (and presumably fright from having a large orthopedic nail put through it).

To get to 123 degrees, my physio has put me through low level torture. Which I had to repeat at home four times a day. Not the torture experienced by the prisoners in Guantanamo - nothing like that - but still, in relation to my normal day to day existence, its been pretty painful - even bringing tears to my eyes. And of course, this low level torture is not being used to try and illicit information which I may or may not have, but simply to get me back on my feet - because if my knee doesn't bend, I wont be able to walk, or climb stairs, or even ride my bike. So the incentives are pretty good...

My knee exercises at home have been masterful in their creativity. No treatment bench? No problem! Just lay a mirror on the bed, then slide the right foot up and down on a little doughnut shaped cotton ball over the shiny surface - pushing the knee back a few more degrees each day. No physiotherapist on hand to give a helping hand? No problem! Just take a rolled up sarong, wrap it round the right thigh, and pull hard, holding the stretch for 30s into the pain threshold. Pull a little further each day.

On Friday we were at 110 degrees - three days later at 123. So back to the question. Is it good enough? Apparently not quite. For although I can now master most normal movements with my right knee, and probably have more movement than many other people, my goal is symmetry rather than some nationally agreed level of function. What does this mean in practice? I need to get to the level of my left knee. And when I sit on the bed with a bent knee, I can touch my heel on my thigh. And unfortunately, I made the mistake of showing off this movement to my physio. Lesson learnt - do not, on any account, show off to medical professionals. My knee torture thus continues...

And on the less measurable progress? Today I got up the stairs to my flat with both crutches - an improvement on the weekend's effort. Ironically, I was able to do this because of my non slip mountain bike gloves - highly recommended for hanging onto two crutches at once. And, apparently, the Occupational Therapist collected my referral (marked urgent) today from the clinic out tray - only 4 working days after it was put there. At this rate, I might even get the OT visit while I am still non weight bearing... Watch this space.

Another milestone

2009-01-17T17:14:00.000Z

59 days on from my accident - and finally I scaled the heights of my tenement stair - and got into my flat. OK - I did have a rest and a cup of tea on the first floor with my pals, and a quick break on the second floor - but it was surprisingly easy. Its all about technique and confidence. Left arm and hand on the banister, crutch in the right hand, push down on the crutch and hop up. Remember that the crutch follows on the way up - and has the lead on the way down. Coming down I even managed to carry the spare crutch with me - not an easy feat (I cheated on the way up - had my spare crutch carried up).

Strange to be in my flat - sunny, tidy, unlived in. Like coming back from a long holiday, hopping round, picking things up, wondering why things are out of place, trying not to slip on the rugs. Noticing that the neighbours' children have started learning the trumpet (is there no justice?), that the stair is filthy and covered in sand (trip hazard), that the plants are still alive.

So, stairs conquered, I can technically now move back in: bar the small detail of my OT referral (no idea the waiting times for this) and having to rely on patient transport for clinics and physio appointments (allow half a day for a 30 minute appointment). And of course trying to weasel a third crutch from the physio department so that I can leave a crutch at the bottom of the stair - chained of course to the railing.

Freedom from attachment is the cure for suffering

2009-01-16T16:09:00.001Z

In Buddhism, three concepts are said to characterise all things:

Anicca - nothing is permanent, everything changes
Anatta - there is no separate self - what we experience as identity is a changing constellation of many influences
Dukka - to believe otherwise, to cling to some thing or someone or oneself and expect it to be enduring is to create and amplify suffering.

It will surprise no one that I have turned to Buddhism in my days of immobility - goes with the territory really - fold up bike (trashed), shiny mac powerbook, green energy tariff, right-on recycler, reader of broadsheets, organic veggie box, frequent visitor to South East Asia, and a three month stint on a small farm with a Buddhist family back in 1999. Not that these things have made me a better or happier person - the beautiful irony is of course my very public attachment to this identity, this lifestyle, and the (expensive) shiny things that go with it.

I got to thinking about attachment a few days ago when I discovered, with dismay and disappointment, that my physiotherapist is transferring to another hospital at the end of the month. The frustration of having to meet someone new, to tell my story again, to develop enough trust to accept significant levels of pain, and my toddler like fury at the unfairness of it all, prompted a rethink. My journey through the NHS system is going to require many changes in personel, deviations from planned approaches, setbacks and unexpected successes. I know that I cannot afford to become attached to people or plans - it will only cause more misery and anxiety.

And as I must try to reduce attachments within the NHS, so I must severe the ones that are causing my current frustration. Cycling, cooking, popping out to get a paper, washing my own hair, having a bath, walking on the beach, having two healthy legs and feet... But then, damnit, I need to ensure I don't develop new ones - my moonboot for example is already a not so subtle extension of my right leg, my wheelchair a new bicycle, my crutches a right leg, my status as victim elicits sympathy and visitors, the comfort of my temporary home much preferable to the difficulties of going back to my flat (if I can ever get up the sodding stairs).

Freedom from attachment is the cure for suffering. It sounds trite. It even looks trite. But there is something in it. Lifetimes are required to reach Nirvana - not a couple of years going through the NHS. I guess all I can do for a start is to try to avoid some of the clinging - and give a huge welcoming grin to my new physiotherapist instead of an ungrateful grunt when we finally meet.

Shiny new wheels

2009-01-14T22:05:00.000Z

Today I took delivery of a shiny red wheelchair - its not a bike - I can't jump it up or down curbs (yet) - but in the few hours I've had it - Ive already been to India and back...

And so easy to obtain. My secondary carer (the one who brings me breakfast) dropped me off at physio today. And while I was being soothed and pummeled and stretched and soothed again, he talked to a couple of folk, made a couple of phone calls, and an hour later - on our way home - we picked up the wheels from the Red Cross, round the corner from Dalkeith's Masonic Lodge. It came with three feet attachments: two the usual right and left foot plates; and, the piece de resistance - a right attachment to rest my leg in.

This, for the uninitiated, allows me to sit in the wheelchair and watch a movie without my foot swelling and turning an angry purple. And having this wheelchair means I don't have to carry a stool for my leg, can take a pal to the movies for free (the cinemas generously offer free tickets for carers), and critically, don't have to be driven to the door of where ever I'm going. Without a Blue Badge for the car I've been defeated more times than I can shake a stick - and that's saying something these days... So now its just a bit of work on the upper arm muscles and I'll be off...

Meeting my consultant

2009-01-13T19:13:00.000Z

Well - I waited 2 hours, my carer couldn't get a car park and so had to leave me and return later - and almost everyone had left the department by the time I saw my man. Even the lights had been turned out.

We had about 15 minutes. I took the moonboot off, he tested the movement in my ankle and foot - and pronounced another 4 weeks of non weight bearing. He also said that it was likely I would get back around 80% of full movement - and would be under the care of the hospital for 2 years. Cycling could be a problem - but maybe if I raised the seat a bit it might be possible? There may or may not be another operation - a bone graft - and this would involve lifting up the skin flap - while avoiding the artery to ensure the flap doesn't die in the process.

We talked about getting me back into my flat - and I now have an OT (occupational therapist) referral to sort out kit for (for washing and cooking). I will also need patient transport once I am at home - public transport impossible and taxis too expensive. given the three trips a week to the hospital. I will need chummed up my stairs as I'm too afraid to do it on my own - would be like a solo trip up Everest...

I am bitterly disappointed. Another 4 weeks of relentless physio (not including the physio that will continue once weight bearing starts) continued total dependence on pals who have cars, (I can't even get into a black cab at the moment) and a prognosis that doesn't sound as good as I was hoping - particularly in terms of the bike. Is it time to reinvent Kirsty - or do I just crack on with the original plan? Lets just hope that the motivation for all the work needed now is biological - because if it isn't its going to be very tough!

So near - but so far....

2009-01-11T21:13:00.000Z

A momentous day. Today I managed to get up to the first floor of my tenement. OK - so I live on the third floor - not the first - so I didn't actually get into my flat. But my chums live on the first floor - and they had brought my cats down as well as laying on a digitalised version of Yellow Submarine (circa 1968).

I have two cats (known affectionately as the pirates): Jack and Betty. Jack has spent most of his time since my accident under the bed in my flat. Betty, being an outrageous flirt and far more fickle, has befriended everyone who has fed her (and there have been many).

To Jack's eternal credit, he remembered me, and despite the strange surroundings, hopped onto my lap and purred like a purring thing. Why was this important? Well, not only am I dotty about the pirates - but apparently, if you are recovering from an injury, you should hug a purring cat. Consistent vibrational sound frequencies of 25-150 Hz, which is the range of a cat’s purr, aid in the healing of bones, tendons, ligaments and muscles, as well as providing pain relief.

Jack doesn't like being hugged too much - but I kept him close by just in case there is something in this milarky... So, only two more floors to go to get to my flat and, how lucky am I, but I have more chums on the second floor who also have cat. Their cat, Smokey, is not much of a purring thing. He is however, terrifically mean - so mean that no Black Dog will come within sniffing distance. So now its just cats, physio and a few stairs - and I'll be home!

Black Dogs

2009-01-10T12:30:00.000Z

Churchill had one, there is at least one clinic named after them, as well as several pubs, a tavern, a Led Zeppelin song, a children's website, a film starring Patrick Swayze - and, strangely Black Dog is slang for bad credit in Cork....

I first came across the term when my my friend Helen referred to her Black Dog day on a particularly gruelling pedal up a dirt track at around 4000m close to the Chinese border on the Karakorum Highway. She dropped the bike in the sand, sat down in the dirt and rolled a fag - sending us on without her...

Before my accident I had my own occasional Black Dogs - they came and went with the blasting northerly winds, whipped up by issues as serious as my opposition to the UK's invasion of Iraq and as ridiculous as my fury over the parasitic Boris not replacing the peanut butter. In those days, the good old days before the 19th of November, I got hold of the Black Dog, hauled him onto the beach (or equivalent) and took him for a savage walk in the sand, until he melted away - replaced by more mundane and positive thoughts - of past and yet to be had cycle adventures, of naughty food and fine wines, or just a bloody good read.

But now the Black Dog is different. He comes padding in at the strangest of times - hanging around the bathroom door, lying under the bed, gazing out the window. This Black Dog can't be dragged away with the usual method. His baleful eyes know that I'm not going out without help, that I can't get on a bike or go for a walk on the beach, that there are no planned adventures, that books are still difficult, that I can't pop out for a haircut, and can't even get into the bath.

This Black Dog also senses my pride, my stubbornness and frustration - that he is unlikely to be beaten off by medication - because the side effects of medication draws on his pals - smaller black dogs (black dogs are never puppies - only dogs - which raises a series of very difficult questions!) that hide under the pillow and keep you drowsy, or get in the way of your crutches forcing you to sway dangerously and trip, even pawing at your mouth so that your words are strangely slurred...

And this Black Dog is private - he knows that I need to appear cheerful and well - calm and enduring in my crisis, undemanding of others despite my almost total lack of mobility, grateful that I was lucky (ie, not killed) rather than unlucky to be run over at all.

But my Black Dog has a secret life (other clients?) - he isn't here all the time - laughter seems to banish him as does the presence of pals, he trots off when I focus on my knitting or get an unexpected card in the mail. He's afraid of the little cat that sometimes sleeps on my bed, and he definitely doesn't like the scent of chocolate. He doesn't come with me to physio appointments although he is less shy around my consultants. He doesn't like Scrabble although he does turn up when I'm losing.... He's not sure about shopping - cowering if its enjoyable but baring his teeth at any obvious rampant consumerism...

I guess my Black Dog will stay around a while yet - as long as I keep feeding him - trouble is - if I don't - I'm worried that I'll be done by the RSPCA for cruelty - and that would never do...

A trip to the office

2009-01-08T17:12:00.000Z

Yesterday I went to work. For those of us lucky enough to have a job these days, this would be a normal activity, largely tolerated, often enjoyed, several hours in meetings, in front of a computer, answering emails, phone calls, writing reports, analysing data, preparing advice, and generally doing out best to help make the world a better place. However, for me, currently signed off work until March, my visit to the office was not a normal trip. I was going in to say hello to colleagues and pick up a few things from my desk - not to undertake any paid labour.

The first abnormality was my transport in - we drove, well, my aunt drove. For someone whose job is to reduce single occupancy vehicle trips to reduce congestion and GHG emissions- this was very strange. I felt guilty. Old habits die hard! Once in reception, I collected my reserved wheelchair, and sat down. Immediately the familiar feeling of my workplace changed. I lost half of my height, and any sense of gravitas I once might have thought I had. The helpful man in reception was nervous of working the wheelchair, and his colleague adjusted the brakes - and then I was off. With a couple of colleagues we mastered the lift (lift controls easy to reach) although I had to reverse the wheelchair out. Then through the swing doors - and into my office.

My colleagues were warm, friendly and gathered round. Low in my wheelchair I was nervous - everyone seemed so tall - the furniture bigger, the corridors longer. I was the centre of attention - this should have felt good - but I was faintly embarrassed. People so obviously cared. This is astonishingly humbling. Of course I knew that - from the cards, and flowers and gifts sent to me in hospital - but still, I am a few weeks on from that now - and one imagines that interest diminishes. I told my stories, and we laughed - but inside I was tremulous - felt like I was slurring my words. Someone asked me about my prognosis - and I had no idea how to reply - I've been too cautious (superstitious really) even to write about that, never mind explain my uncertainties out loud.

The old adage ' no one is indispensable' is completely true - everyone is getting on just fine without me. That should have been difficult for someone as controlling and hands on as me - but somehow I am less bothered than I expected. If so, this has to be a good thing - how wonderful to be able to let go, trusting that other people will do what needs to be done, without interfering. or adding my 'personal touch'. I can only hope that this is a change for the good and not simply the painkillers addling my mind....

Being 'disabled'

2009-01-02T20:23:00.000Z

Today we went to the Richter exhibition at the Scottish National Gallery. In my pre accident days this would have meant a simple pedal to the gallery, chaining the bike up outside, purchasing a ticket - and then wandering around, looking at the paintings and feigning an intellectual understanding of the arts. But not now.

First we had to phone the gallery to find out about access, parking and wheelchairs. Then we had to navigate Edinburgh's tourist infested streets and tram works to get to the back of the gallery. After an illegal left turn onto The Mound (sorry officers - but it would have been impossible otherwise), we encountered a set of bollards blocking our way. A man in tartan trousers (uniform of Scottish gallery workers) quizzed us. We don't have a Blue Badge so don't have legal access to the disabled parking areas. After a bit of discussion, and a wave of the crutches to prove our case, he dropped the bollards and we drove to the back of the gallery. A short hop up the ramp, a minute's wait for the wheelchair and I am set - well almost. We have to be accompanied to reception for our tickets.

Then into the first gallery. A couple in their 30s smile at me, and then, thinking they are out of earshot, are overheard to say 'skiing accident'. I'm outraged (skiing accident tends to come without sympathy - generally deemed self imposed and justly deserved) - but also perplexed - after all - I don't have a sun tan. What prompted the interpretation? Was it my red fleece? Or my shapeless brown cotton trousers? My perhaps just my radiating good health?

In the next gallery a rather smart woman in her 60s walks straight up to me and asks me what Ive done to myself - 'run over by a truck' I say surprised. 'Looks like it hurts' she says and heads back to her male companion. Very odd. Would this woman walk up to me if I wasn't in a wheelchair and ask me a similarly personal question? Was it just her way of connecting with me - a kind gesture but actually totally inappropriate?

Its all very strange. Later in the restaurant my good friend attempts to help me into out of the wheelchair - I am brusque and independent - refusing the help. Half an hour later I am critical of a stranger who doesn't open the door for me. I pondered this apparent hypocrisy later with a friend on the phone (my friend has a colleague with MS who has to use a wheelchair). We concluded that, in general, people are generally kind and they want to help. Those of us on the receiving end, however, have set an invisible line - on one side - this help is gracefully received - on the other it is refused. But the line is not obvious - and it may change from time to time - or in different circumstances. I resolve to be more gracious with those offering me assistance - to consider it not as a patronising act - but as a gesture of generosity and good will. I wonder how long I will last!

Farewell to 2008

2008-12-31T19:44:00.000Z

Well - its been a bit of a year - what with splitting up with my partner and being run over by a truck - but more positively - the two week cycle through Spain with Julian and the solo month in Cuba pedaling and studying Spanish were trips that many people could only dream of. And what better way to see it out than an hour at the Royal Infirmary Physio dept - with yet more exercises added in - and a further three physio sessions at home - just for 'fun'.

Today I couldn't resist - and pushed the physiotherapist for answers - which of course she couldn't provide. How long might it be, I asked, before I could get back into my flat. She had seen my notes she said - the injury is serious - and we don't know how long its going to take. She talked about 'furniture walking', the use of one stick, semi weight bearing. Strangely she mentioned cycling - that could help get you round (in the future) she said, instead of walking - less stress on the leg. I was lucky she said - being a cyclist. Hadn't occurred to me of course - particularly as every time I see a cyclist on the road now I feel their vulnerability - wonder how they have the courage to be out on the road on a winter evening - wince as we overtake them - no matter how safe they actually are.

And then we got onto the subject of Chris Hoy - and his knighthood - and his three gold medals - and what he represents - for Scotland - for sport - for common decency - and of course for every single one of us that cycles just for the sheer pleasure of being out in the elements, wind in the hair, hurtling down hills, sweating up them, self propelled, independent, just a little bit righteous, and more than a little anarchic.

But all that seems a long way off - because now my days are filled with discomfort and frustration - and keeping chipper is difficult, despite the enormous support I get from professionals and pals. How do other people do it, summon up the mental energy to get out of bed every day, doing exercises where the gain can be measured only in millimetres? What stops them just lying down and giving up? I puzzle over this often, having far too much time to think about it. Why do I get up in the morning? Is it simply biological - an inate need to do everything possible to heal? Perhaps that explains part of it - but I think its more complex - also to: please my family, demonstrate to my physio that I'm worth her effort, show my consultants that their work wasn't in vain, live up to the expectations of my friends who keep telling me I'm determined enough and strong enough to do this - and for myself - not to fail, especially not to fail.

My horribly wrecked bike, a precious little blue moulton recognised by half the cycling community of Edinburgh, is in the shed outside. We are waiting for the insurance assessors to come and inspect it. I havent had the courage to look at it yet. I guess my new year's resolution has to be to crack on with this sodding physio - replace that bike - and somehow get back on the pedals to bounce over Edinburgh's cobbles with the wind in my hair, and a victorious wave for the throngs of people both within and outside the NHS who made it possible....

Ablutions and moonboots

2008-12-30T19:34:00.000Z

There are a number of things they don't tell you when you leave the hospital - like how to get washed properly when there is a high step into the shower, and how to sleep with a moonboot on without rubbing your heel red raw...

So, unbelievably, I still haven't had a shower since my accident - around 6 weeks. And the near future isn't looking too promising either. First was the problem of the cast. Couldn't get it wet. It is possible to buy a waterproof sleeve - but reports varied on whether it would work or not. And being a canny Scot, I wasn't keen to risk my cash. However, once the cast was swapped for the moonboot (easily removable) I thought I might be in with a chance. Until I stood in front of the shower - with my crutches.

My carer popped a plastic chair into the shower. Now all you have to do, she said encouragingly, is to hop backwards upwards (presumably naked) with your crutches into the seat... And then when you have finished, just launch forward (naked and wet) back out again. Needless to say - I am still washing myself at the sink every day, towels, soap and crutches asunder as I attempt to make myself respectable for my physio visits....

Going to bed (and then sleeping) requires the imagination of Heath Robinson and the patience and stillness of a meditating Tibetan monk. The ritual starts one hour in advance - with the little blue pill. Next stop the physio (see below), then the bathroom (per above), and 2 teaspoons of the dreaded senna liquid (don't ask). While in the bathroom my carer organises the bed - 2 pillows for the head, one for the right leg, and the final one for the edge of the moonboot - this has been cunningly devised as a crevasse for the heel to rest in. Under or beside the pillows for the head - the borrowed ipod, the sock for the good foot and the dressing gown (for night trips to the toilet), the phone (for emergencies), and a stash of food for the strange hunger pangs that come around midnight (tea biscuits, banana and yoghurt).

Once prepared - I hop in - remove my clothes (partly aided by a crutch), haul on a nightie (the first time I've worn one since age 12) and then lie down in the only position possible to keep my right leg raised, my heel pressure free, my donor site comfortable and my right hip (badly bruised) relatively pain free. Essentially this is on my back - in a position perfect for snoring although I guess only the cat will hear. If Im lucky - that's it until the porridge turns up around 9 hours later - courtesy of the ever patient Richard... Even sleeping requires a plan when you are in recuperation.