After the second failed physio, it was apparent that my husband was grudgingly accepting us missing out on the Caribbean. On our journey back home he was so quiet, although there is nothing new in this, he’s a man of few words usually, but I knew that resigned look. His horror was obvious when I had been transferred out of the hospital on the makeshift bogie. Then, as if that was not enough, I was unable to get comfortable in the car on the short drive home, and therefore highly unlikely to be able to travel on a plane.
When I got home I made sure I took the appropriate medication as it was clear that this was a defining factor in managing the pain. Lesson learned there, oh yes. So it was that no two days were the same with this injury. The day after physio failure I was more ambulatory, which was entirely due to taking the right amount of medication, just as well as I had two appointments I needed to attend. I could tell that my husband , who was also my personal chauffeur, was more than a bit flummoxed by the shifting fortunes of his hapless wife.
It was nothing short of uplifting the level of pleasure I derived from preparing for my meetings. Putting on a bit of slap and smart clothing also made me feel better. After all I had been wearing PJ’s for nigh on 8 weeks. I still needed help to get my knickers on and my left sock but it was worth the hassle when I looked in the mirror. And it was evident I had lost weight which was the only plus side of this particular drama. I positively waltzed down the stairs. (Ok lying about that, but I did feel 1000% better than the day before). We set off for the first meeting and it was pleasing, even a bit of an indulgence, to be going somewhere other than a hospital.
After the meeting I felt so uplifted that I had managed to get out, stay out and behave as close to normal as possible. “Let’s have lunch out” I said, but my whimsical suggestion fell on deaf ears as my ‘chauffeur’ headed back in the general direction of The Danders. Ever the pragmatist he was denying me any further gratification because I had a second appointment in 2 hours. I knew he was right. It had just been so exhilarating doing normal things, being normal for that hour, but resting, as he reminded me, would ensure I was able to make the next appointment. My husband’s reiteration of the consultant’s advice to rest was paying dividends. I was feeling mentally strong, albeit the physical side was still a work in progress.
Pleasure, guilty or otherwise hadn’t been too achievable these past 8 weeks. Our social calendar had been decimated; concert tickets had been resold, dinners had been cancelled, we missed days out at the races and a wedding. It was punishing for me and worse even simple pleasures were hard to achieve. For example, prior to my injury I have never watched a single episode of Strictly Come Dancing, but Saturday nights had become so dull. This essentially masochistic decision forced me to watch all those fabulous female dancers. They were strutting about in fantastic costumes revealing those long, lean, flawless legs, seemingly without a care for where they trod or placed their feet. Watching them caused me to burst into inconsolable tears as they left me wondering whether I might ever dance again.
So as pleasures were clearly few and far between, despite my husband’s misgivings, I was determined this holiday was going to go ahead. I made contact with the airline and booked mobility assistance, contacted the travel insurance and advised them about the injury and contacted the hotel to get accommodation suitable for my condition. It was almost sorted, with some physical improvement there was now a good chance we would be able to go………….