Physios

OK, so it’s been a couple of weeks since the op, and I go for my first post-op physiotherapy session. I am now walking with one stick only, my leg has more strength in it, and I seem to be doing OK apart from the long boring nights. I have gone through catwomen, Emma Peels, batgirls, and Bondgirls. I also tried sheep, but best not to dwell on that.

By the way, for all you insomniacs out there, the most effective thing I tried (and I am actually trying to be helpful here) was counting backwards from some random three figured number in sevens as fast as possible.

Anyway, back to the physio.


I wish

My physio is called Dave (that’s not his real name: his real name is Phil), and he is annoyingly fit looking.



I mean,  I don’t want him looking like Quasimodo  (that’s my job), but he could at least have the decency to look a little less healthy. Give me at least the impression that I might be able to aspire to his level of fitness.

Off he bounces like tigger to the physio room and I stumble after him.



He checks I am doing the home exercises given me at the hospital, and that seems to satisfy him. Then he gets me up on a table and starts pulling my leg and hip about, doing his best to violate every instruction about dislocation I have been given.

Then he gets me to march on the spot and I am lurching a lot.

“Hmmm, we need to get more weight on that operated leg. Now stand erect, shoulders back. Tighten the core muscles. Clench your buttocks. Tighten the glutes. Tighten your left thigh muscles. Don’t lean! That is a classic Trendelenburg gait you’ve got there.



Keep those shoulders straight! Now lift your good leg gently off the floor…”

I instantly fall over, or would have if he hadn’t caught me

“Don’t lean! Keep those knees in line with your hips. Don’t revolve the knees. Ankles aligned with your liver. Make sure your toes are directly over your buttocks. Keep those kidneys at 54 degrees to the vertical, in line with your pancreas, spine, nipples and left testicle at the same time singing the Horst Wessel song…”

I am now trying to balance and think about ten different postures and muscles at the same time. I have never looked more like Quasimodo.



I think I have incurred Dave’s displeasure. He sends me on my way with many sheets of exercises and a couple of rubber bands that I am supposed to wrap around bits of my body and pull against.

 I brighten at the thought of combining all these appliances including the leg swinger and start up a fetish service for High Court Judges

Why I hate birds

Sorry for huge gap in posting.

Have been at home since May 5^th, and not really much place else, recovering from my Hip Replacement Operation, so what follows are some hugely self-indulgent,  whiney, sulky, peevish, selfish and ungrateful random thoughts about the recovery process which may be of some interest to people who have either had said operation themselves, or are thinking about having it.

Everyone else will probably be bored rigid.

You have been warned.

OK, the first thing is to remember the Three Gremlin No-No’s: FOR SIX WEEKS:

1)      Don’t cross your legs

This means you have to sleep on your back, because if you sleep on your side (which nearly everyone does, including me) you are in danger of crossing your legs at night in your sleep. Result: DISLOCATION

2)      Don’t twist from your middle.  If you do, result: DISLOCATION.  So when you turn round, you have to revolve with a series of little steps.

3)      Don’t bend more than 90 degrees from your middle. If you do, result: DISLOCATION. This means that I cannot put on my socks.

Or my pants.

Or wash my lower legs.

Or feet.

Or cut my toenails.

Or scratch my leg.

Or put on trousers very easily.

Or sit in a chair and bend forward

Or pick something up off the floor

Or sit in a low sofa (all our sofas are low)

Or sleep in our bed (too low)

Or sit on the toilet (too low)

Or crouch

Or squat

Or play Twister

Or bow deeply to the Queen

Strangely, I think my limbo dancing is unaffected

SO…I have to sleep in a different bed from the missus (I hate doing that), on my back, with a pillow between my legs to stop me turning over at night.

I also have to have a raised toilet seat

My missus has to put my socks and pants on. On me, not her.

I also have to wear these long white tight surgical stocking for six weeks to stop getting blood clots. I look like one of those Hassidic Jews

This is a typical night:

Stay up as long as possible.

Around midnight: Sit on bed. Hoik bad leg up onto bed with leg swinger appliance. This is a kind of loop on a stick that you hook round your foot and lift your leg up with.

***WARNING…WARNING…WARNING*** I tried to find a picture on the internet but to no avail. DO NOT type “Leg Swinger” into Google. I have had to bleach my eyeballs.

Stick a large pillow under your knees to relieve pressure on back. Then stick another pillow between your legs to prevent crossed legs. Take all medication

12.10 – 12.30 Read book

12.30 Turn out light and lay on your back. Try to get comfy. Close eyes

12.40 Open eyes. Try to cheat and turn over a bit, but can’t due to huge number of pillows in bed.

12.45 close eyes and try counting catwomen

12.50 open eyes, and listen to iPod thingy

1.30 Still no luck. Turn off iPod

1.35 Get up for pee for something to do. This takes about 20 mins by the time you have extricated yourself from pillows and hoiked leg out of bed and hobble to loo on walking sticks.

1.50 Back in bed. Turn of light. Close eyes. Start to drift off, but are instantly awakened by pounding heart and desperate gasping for breath brought on by sleep Apnoea due to lying on back

2.00 – 2.45 repeat the last step.

2.45 Prop oneself up in bed with 6 pillows to try and avoid sleep Apnoea. Close eyes. Start counting Emma Peels

2.45 – 3.05. Try to get comfy, but as you are now sitting up in bed, not easy

3.05. Go for another pee

3.20. Finally manage to drift off for 30 minutes

3.50 FUCKING BIRDS START UP

4.00am Decide to get up and sit in armchair. Change of scenery at least. Manage about 90 minutes of fitful sleep.

5.30am Wake up due to freezing cold despite duvet wrapped around. Go back to bed and listen to fucking birds. Pass time by devising bird feeder with poisoned fat balls.

The Eagle Has Landed

Apologies for the delay. Have been in hospital for a hip replacement. I mean, I’ve been retired for what, two months, so a hip replacement is long overdue right?

Diary of events as follows:

Friday May 2^nd

11.00am. Arrive at private hospital. Looks like a poncey Travelodge. Nice nurse comes and gives me a gown. You know: the one where your arse hangs out the back a la Carry On Nurse

12.00am The overenthusiastic anaesthetist comes in and gives me the once over. He looks like a wellfed chef giving a rack of ribs the once over.

“Taking any medications, hmm, hmm??”

I reel off my usual endless list and he stops me halfway through, “Ooohh I think that’s enough don’t you?

Now, we are going to do you third.”

“Am I a quick one?”

“Oh no, you are…the main course. We’ll start with a couple of…” He rolls the word round in his smiling, moist mouth and savours it, rather like Hannibal Lector discussing liver, “hors d’oeuvres.”

And he’s gone.

Then the surgeon comes in and he’s all smiles and floppy hair and tanned cheeks. Looks at his notes, and then draws a huge arrow on my left leg, which is both reassuring and a little worrying. I mean, it’s good he’s got the correct leg, but: an arrow?

“come on boys: he went thataway!”

Wheeled off along corridors. I wave regally to passersby, as I crash open all the double doors on the way with my head (made that bit up: we go feet first).

Arrive somewhere, and bits of me are gently grabbed and rubbed. I hear flesh being slapped, although worryingly does not seem to be by own. Am I in the massage parlour by mistake? Someone says something like, “going anywhere nice for your holidays?”

I say, “w…” and I’m out.

I awake out of a black nothingness to a dull ache in my side and beeping sounds. Over the next few hours I find myself back in my room with missus in attendance. Lots of bags with various fluids being put into and out of me. I think they are all connected to each other to save on fluids. All a bit uncomfortable frankly.

At one stage in comes the catering lady. “We have broccoli soup, followed by lamb stew, dumplings and chefs selection of vegetables. Also a nice fruit cobbler with double cream. And do you want the full english tomorrow?”

She really said that.

“Perhaps a small glass of water” I manage to squeak out.

The nurses are all great. Jolly, kind, efficient, pretty good all round. They put these things round my calves that at random, squeeze my legs. I’ve got a drip into me, a drain out of me, and a huge plastic wedge like a carseat stuck between my legs to stop them crossing over (DON’T cross your ankles!! – major danger of hip disclocation). I’ve had anto-coagulent medication, painkillers. Antibiotics, God knows what else. I cannot say I am in a lot of pain (too doped up), but can’t move much and am pretty uncomfortable. On the rare occasion during the night I felt myself dropping off (to sleep not to the floor), the leg squeezers would get up a head of steam.

Of course I cannot get out of bed, and have the benefit of a urine bottle for the night, which I use a couple of times. I cannot vouch for the ladies, but personally I found it pretty damned convienient. However, I have no intention of mucking about with a bedpan, so intend to hold in everything else until they get me up tomorrow.

Sat May 3rd

At about 5.50am, I finally drift off to sleep. Ten minutes later: Two nurses come in “Good Morning!”.(bang crash) Just checking your blood pressure/pulse/fluids/temperature etc etc. Hmm, I see you have passed urine – that is excellent. Let’s have a look at your drain…”

One nurse picks up a bag of gunge that is seeping from me. “Not much there…shall we pass it back in?”

Other nurse “Probably not worth it.”

First nurse (to me): “We’re taking out your drain. At which point they remove a long thin bloody pipe from my side and show me. “There you are! Ready for breakfast??”

“Err…when can I get up?”

“When the physiotherapist comes round: later this morning” and she’s gone.

OK, so you now have to realise that there is something going on down below, in the back trouser region. I am sure however that I can hold on till the physio gets here.

One hour

Another hour

Another bastard hour

“Hi I’m the physio: my you look pleased to see me! Keen to get up? Excellent. Now it might hurt a bit so a few ground rules. Whoa there, steady on: aren't you keen!?”

Anyway, about 5 minutes later, she’s got me upright clinging like grim death to a zimmer frame, my buttock cheeks clenched shut like the doors to the crack of doom

“Just going to visit the bathroom for a wash…” and I stagger the four paces to the loo, gingerly park on the specially raised (thank God) seat, and relax. Suddenly, enough gas to launch a dozen Zepplins is released.

Nothing else, though. I stagger back out. Physio says, “unlikely you will have a bowel movement for another 48 hours due to all the pain killers…”

Now she tells me.

Sun May 4th

So the next two days pass slowly, and I gradually increase my mobility. I have to say the painkillers, although necessary, are awful: they make me feel like a doped up forgotten inmate of an abandoned Rumanian Lunatic Asylum, and when not stimulated by visitors, I stare blankly at my urine bottle, which has become my dearest, constant companion, despite one unpleasant 2.00am tryst when I completely missed and ended up swimming in pints of my own urine. How I laughed.

Mon May 5th

So it’s 4 days later, and the physio has discharged me, the doc has discharged me, the consultant has discharged me. The only thing keeping me in is the nurse called Ben – a huge Samoan with arms the size of beer barrels

 

He won’t let me out until I move my bowels. He’s given me various laxatives the night before and said with a wink, “give it two hours”, but despite his reassurance, said bowels have remained as closed as an off licence on Sunday in North Wales.

Ben comes in at 6.00am “How are bowels?”

“Nothing”

“Nothing? Hmm OK, I am off duty soon, but will come and give you a suppository. Wait.”

I once more go and sit on the loo. Perhaps it was the image of Ben’s massive fingers thrusting into the upper reaches of my colon, perhaps it was just my time, but…The Eagle Has Landed.

I hear movement in my room, and emerge a few minutes later, refreshed and several pounds lighter, to be confronted by not Ben, but a terrified looking tiny nurse, gingerly trying to open a pack of suppositories. She looks up at me, and I say, “That won’t be necessary, we have splashdown (or words to that effect).

If I had just informed her that her entire family had been reprieved from a visit by Torqumada, I do not think she could have looked more relieved.

So, I am home. And what's more, I managed to smuggle the urine bottle out as well. 

A new nightlife beckons.

More to follow