Performing Seal. Chapter 23

This was a big week; depending on my performance, the home physio and GP had my holiday in the palm of their hands. Although I had made many mistakes when it came to holiday planning, this time it was in someone else’s hands. I was keeping everything crossed as the departure date was imminent.

First up-the physio, they had called ahead to ask if I was happy with a student attending. This was quite an interesting prospect after all there were more than a few learning opportunities for medical staff on my journey so having the chance to influence someone fresh out of the wrapper was mouthwatering.

It’s crazy how much I was looking forward to this appointment, I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve. They arrived on time and the student asked permission to lead the session. We identified the priorities; “I cannot sit, I’m hoping to go on holiday and struggling to walk”. This young man, was confident, listened attentively to my explanation and reassured me with several nods of understanding that felt so genuine, which was something I had seen so infrequently from some medical professionals. So far so good.

He advised that the pool on holiday would be ideal for exercising my leg, walking but no swimming that was too vigorous. My heart skipped a beat – did he just say that! my eyes popped as a result of the heart skipping. I digested this statement and quickly flicked my gaze to the senior physio who had accompanied him. She didn’t appear fazed nor was she forcing these words back in to his mouth, instead she was looking at him intently assessing his guidance and advice without a flinch. It must be ok to go, could that be right?

“Let’s get you sitting” and within minutes he had me standing on my good leg, curling the bad leg behind me. I had to do 30 a day, no more no less. I felt like a performing seal, my tongue protruding from my mouth and gasping loudly with each repetition. (Did I just make that noise?) Such was the level of concentration I’d lost touch with reality. Fair play to him, his good manners ensured that he contained his laughter at this performance. “Next let’s introduce some weight bearing on the bad leg”. He encouraged me to stand on one leg, both hands steadying me on the settee against another fall. A performing seal now a flaming flamingo, nevertheless I was so elated at being able to achieve this.

After a few travails up and down the red carpet he had me ready for the catwalk with an improved technique for using the crutches. I was really working it now. “Take a hot water bottle on the plane they can fill it for you, get some mobility assistance and you’ll be fine”. I asked about DVT’s and they gave me some simple exercises to repeat on the flight. That pretty much concluded their visit with a follow-up appointment after the holiday. I actually want to jump for joy ( don’t worry I won’t yet).

The blood test results revealed a slight improvement in my blood levels, certainly enough to allow me to get away. Again some advice from the GP about DVT’s and I was good to go. Finally I could pack the case. However I had one last test to pass, and it was significant.

The final test was an indulgence I had been denied since before the accident. It was a social occasion; a dinner invitation to sample some Tuscan fare with our friends. I could hardly contain my joy but I how would I cope? I had not enjoyed any wine for over 12 weeks. I put on some make-up, looked out a figure hugging outfit ( you have to make the most of this weight loss it wasn’t likely to last) and off we set. Conversation, music, wine, Prosecco, debate, music, company, fabulous food, oh how I had missed that.

I can confirm I passed that test with flying colours, yes normal service has been resumed and it’s true!! At last I am OFF to the Caribbean……………….

Lightening never strikes twice? Chapter 22

Now you can fully appreciate why unreasonable levels of high anxiety are generated when it comes to me and holidays. Our Florida experience, you would think, should pretty much rule out the chance of any future aggravation. (Lesson’s learned and all that). Except, it seems, I was at it again. The Caribbean holiday, as a matter of record is currently under threat because of me. I get that it was an accident but only I could end up with the kind of limiting injury that might threaten a holiday!

It’s a big week because the home physio and the GP need to support me with a positive assessment to enable us to go, but even if we do get there it’s bound to be a very diluted experience. So what happened to compound this drama with the Florida files and another holiday we had planned for Australia? Life and its little dramas!

It was momentary sympathy, I have no doubt, that crushed my husband’s steely resolve to finally agree that we might go to Australia. I was ‘dumfoonert’ by the lowering of his resistance. This was a pretty big wish that had been falling on deaf ears for the past 6 years. So I didn’t lose any time sending for the brochure.

I noticed an availability sheet was considerately included in my brochure pack. On reflection this was a great marketing tool, because it had SOLD OUT across most of the available dates. This, as I’m sure it was designed to, created sufficient panic to initiate action. I didn’t seem to notice the availability sheet was for 2018/19. Instantly I discovered that our preferred date November 2019 was sold out ( our anniversary). I recall thinking it must be very popular to sell out a year in advance! Wow we were booking something amazing here!

The next available date was February the following year. This appears to be the point where we were in different time zones. In my book the year after 2019 was 2020 (a big birthday for me). Our discussion focused on the relevance of this year which reinforced my belief that we were talking about 2020. We elected for extra stays in Singapore and Bali and changed our flights. It all looked fantastic and I paid the necessary deposit. I was elated to have secured a booking to my dream destination and although it was some way off at least we had a year to save the cash to pay for it.

Lying on my sofa, as I have pretty much become accustomed to doing for the past 8 weeks, with my iPad on my lap, I flicked through my emails. Distant Journeys had sent me an email so I opened it and to my horror realised it contained an invoice for my trip – in February 2019.

How the hell could I make the same mistake twice? But I had. Again. I could feel the viscous liquid rise in my throat. I stared at the email, willing the date to magically morph into what I needed it to be. It’s got to be their mistake (never mine!). I reflected on my recollection of the conversation and it all seemed to point to it being their error (isn’t the brain a wonderful machine). Looking for more concrete evidence I checked their email confirmation and there it was in big, black, bold letters – February 2019.

With my tail very much concealed behind my sore leg, I called them and sheepishly pointed out my mistake. In all reality we could have travelled in February 2019, but I’m not sure how my mobility would be over a month of quite strenuous travelling. Even more ball breaking was how I was going to find the balance for this holiday? Due the same day we were hoping to leave for the Caribbean. Thank goodness for reputable companies who live up to their reviews. I was organised and rescheduled within minutes. Now you might appreciate why the Caribbean is still up in the air. All that remained for me to do was relate the latest debacle to my better half………………

Last call. Chapter 21

You certainly cannot dash or rush anywhere with 2 kids, 5 cases, 4 bags and a buggy. The cases and bags kept falling over, we couldn’t manage them ourselves and couldn’t locate a trolley. The promised liason with our son-in-law at this location was yet to materialise. Tick, tick, tick time was marching on..

We finally made it to the lift. While the benefit of this airport was the proximity of the rental car drop to the main terminal, it also meant the only available lift was busy. Most people waiting for the lift were in the same boat as us, but had way more help than we did. In fairness one glance in our direction and they could smell the panic. They allowed us into the first available lift and we made our way to the check in desk in double quick time.

There was an emotional reunion between the parents and their kids, but icy cool stares guided me directly to the check-in desk. Our flight was at 5.15pm and it was now 4.38pm. My daughter had done a great job preparing the check-in staff for our tardiness. The next flight was also checking in but as it was full we had no chance of getting on that if we missed ours. If that happened we were looking at tomorrow and another 5k for tickets.

“Passports please”. I turned to my husband to ask for the satchel with the passports (all six of them), but a frantic scattering and searching among the assembled bags suggested it was not there. I knew it was there, it just hadn’t jumped out at them yet. So frustrated I stomped over to my family, fuming that I was the only one capable of locating it. No-one dared say what they were thinking as I checked among the various bags, in the buggy, under the baby until I finally accepted it wasnt there. Tick, tick, tick.

I hoped it would be in the car, back at the rental centre. I suddenly felt as if I had been squeezed into a glass bottle that was quickly filling up with washing up liquid, it’s viscous slimy, green liquid frothing up my legs, belching into my stomach and now engulfing my throat. Everyone was looking at me, a mixture of disgust and disappointment all over their faces. I made a bolt for the lift. My son-in-law, caught my eye, much like a whippet out of the stocks after the hare, he vaulted the bags and hurtled toward the car rental centre. I got into an empty lift, (maybe I could beat him) but instantly collapsed to my knees and screamed. I knew now it was futile, our flight was boarding in 20 minutes and we hadn’t even cleared security or checked in yet.

As the lift docked I met my son-in-law hurtling toward me with the missing bag and sat nav both which had been languishing in the passenger seat in the car. ( yes my seat, my fault). I tried to catch him but he was on a mission and it was all I could do to keep up with him. By the time I arrived back I was thrust to the front of the queue ignoring the irate passengers waiting to book in for the later flight. I snarled at them trying to avoid the gaze of my family as they waited with bated breath to find out if we were going home. I glanced at the clock it was 4.55pm.

The check-in assistant typed in the information, she seemed oblivious to me, refusing to acknowledge me as I constantly sought answers to my question “Will we make the flight?” A supervisor was summoned, they chatted off stage left. Perspiration was flooding down my neck, I was flushing, I needed a shower, I wanted to cry. I glanced back at the kids their little faces watching me hopefully. The adults in the group eyed me with great contempt. Finally the supervisor came forward advising that we could proceed but had 15 minutes to make it to the flight.

I let out a howl of relief, then joined the others as we grabbed the remaining luggage and bolted into the security hall. We had no special treatment, no access to express security and we hadn’t packed with security regulations in mind. No-one knew what was in any of the bags. The line for security was 10 lanes deep, for a nano second we breathed out despondently, then in my loudest voice I said our flight was leaving in 10 minutes. People turned to stare; we were dishevelled, inappropriately dressed and, all too apparent, in a total state of panic.

I felt like Moses at the Red Sea; the line parted without a word allowing us to pass through. We flung our bags onto the trays, but that same panic only drew attention to us in security, and sure enough bags were removed for further inspection. I could feel my heart thumping in my chest as I had no idea what might be in the bags. I heard a final call for our family booming down the corridor as I watched and prayed that the searches would prove fruitless. Minutes felt like hours, I needed to pee, finally we were all re-assembled and ran like a herd of bison onto the gate and into the plane.

The doors closed behind us as we found our seat and sat down. There were sighs of relief, there was even laughter, my husband suggested this was much more preferable to waiting around in departures and me? I burst into tears………………

Marriage has its ups and downs! Chapter 20

My oasis of calm descended into instant chaos. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew what to expect from my husband. However, I had to suck it up and allow the anxiety levels to escalate and subside in their own time. After all we had to get to the airport and catch that flight home. We had just over 2 hours till departure with nothing packed, a fridge full of food and toys everywhere. We were the only 2 adults here with so much to do……….so he went for a shower.

My wee mermaid was in tears, so sad to be leaving Disney but after a brief cuddle (it was all I could do) she complied with my request to get ready to leave immediately. Less than a minute later she was back in the room dressed, wearing her backpack and hat, smiling and ready to go, totally over the shock of leaving. More than I could say for her Papa, I could still hear him cursing me from the shower. I tasked her with looking under every bed and in every drawer putting everything she found into the middle of the floor. She set off on this task with fervour. (She was only 7). I also sent a text to my daughter to call us urgently.

I was on hold to British Airways on the landline, I’m not sure why but it seemed to be the most obvious thing to suggest “Hold the flight! we were coming”. I checked us all in on the mobile then, while still on hold, frantically trawled the room pulling everything into one place making it easier to pack it when my hands were free.

As you would expect on any two week holiday order and organisation had not had time to materialise in our villa. Clothes were scattered between 4 bedrooms or in the washing machine, nothing was in drawers, toys were strewn around the floor. All our purchases were stowed in cupboards still in bags, odd shoes and socks were secreted in corners and toiletries dispersed between each of the 3 bathrooms.

5 suitcases yawned hungrily in the centre of the room, the little mermaid filling them slowly; every discovery was studied closely and prompted a story. I was throwing things haphazardly into any case, nothing was folded, everything ownerless. While this mayhem unfolded little T was sound asleep blissfully unaware in his cot (best left there meantime). I hung up my unanswered call to BA when my daughter finally found WiFi and called us from the park.

She was so calm when I relayed the facts and she realised that her date day was over. (I think she was relieved there was nothing up with the kids). We advised that we would pick them up on the way to the airport. I lost the call as my better half emerged from his shower smelling fresh as a daisy and smartly dressed. Meanwhile I was bedraggled; my wet bikini soaking through my t-shirt and jeans, still being berated for this latest faux pas. Finally it was time to waken wee T . He immediately reacted to the stress levels by screaming every time I tried to put him on the ground. So while I continued to sweep the villa for remaining items I had to carry and reassure him.

In a frenzy of disjointed activity we finally threw the last bag in the car and like a scene from fast and furious wheel-spun out of our gated community heading for the I4 on a busy Friday afternoon. We now had 38 minutes to get to the airport usually more than an hour away. My daughter had the wherewithal to head direct to the airport with a plan to keep the check-in staff on side and allow us as much time as possible to make it there. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

The journey was peppered with expletives, thankfully drowned out by the radio which the kids were enjoying in the back, I wished I was sat with them. There were 7 toll booths between us and the airport, and for the first 4 we tossed in our change grateful to by-pass the queues. However for the remaining 3 we had to stew, waiting behind tourists with questions or looking for directions, watching our precious minutes dissolve along with our hopes of making the flight.

We had to arrive at the gate by 4.30pm and pulled into the airport at exactly 4.29. Instead of the orderly rental handover , we bailed as fast as 5 cases, 4 bits of hand luggage, a buggy and two kids would allow. With five minutes to go we set off to find check-in ………………………

Bastille Day. Chapter 19

It was becoming apparent I was a bit of a jinx where holidays were concerned. While it was bad enough wondering whether I would make our Caribbean holiday, another holiday was also beginning to look a bit uncertain. I’d booked a further two holidays while laid up, determined to make the most of my available time. The latest booking was to Australia, a bit of a dream since my retirement in 2012, but it had always seemed a journey too far for my other half. Until this accident. In a moment of weakness strengthened, I suspect, by sympathy he finally relented agreeing at last we could go to Australia!

I didn’t need telling twice and immediately sent for the brochure expecting to make a hasty booking before he changed his mind. It was not unusual to be reserving another holiday before we left on the current one and, although usually meticulous, haste was a key factor in the uncertainty that was now unfolding. Notwithstanding this, and before the jinx element of this story can be realised, there’s another holiday drama which plays directly into this story and the emerging uncertainty for our Australian trip.

It happened last year when we went to Florida with our daughter and her family. We had two weeks in a villa experiencing the most wonderful sights of Disney through the eyes of our grandchildren. Our daughter and son-in-law took full advantage of the on-hand baby sitters having time to explore the adult aspects of the parks. After a full two week break we were due to fly home on Bastille Day; the 14 July.

As we approached the last few days of our holiday we painstakingly planned our final schedule to allow everyone the opportunity to do exactly what they wanted and still leave ample time to prepare for going home on Saturday. On the Friday, my daughter and her husband elected for a date day at Universal Studio while we remained at the villa with the kids to make a start on the packing. I dropped them off glibly telling them to take as long as they liked and enjoy their day.

I arrived back at the villa around noon. The kids wanted to get in the pool but papa had kept them waiting till I returned. This epitomises his cautious nature; he thrives on preparation and planning, nothing spontaneous, he does not do surprises. Despite the delay and now the rain we all got in the pool where much fun and hilarity ensued. I made lunch about 1, then put the youngest for a nap while the mermaid and her papa went back in for a swim.

A few texts back and forth between my daughter and I established that the kids were fine and that they should relax, have a great time and stay out as long as they liked. I was truly an earth mother; equal measures of satisfaction and magnanimity emanating from my selfless actions which had ensured everyone was happy. Saturated with smugness I wanted my son to share in this rare display of earth motherliness and experience this aura of happiness and calm I had created, so I face-timed him and his wife whilst leisurely laying at the pool.

After this I quickly glanced at a few Facebook posts, an almost automatic reaction before putting the phone down, only to immediately pull it back into my face when a reference to Bastille Day flickered across my screen. I’m smart enough to know that is on the 14 July and that realisation suddenly caused a nauseaous bile, propelled by panic, to flood into my throat. I glanced at my husband and the mermaid frolicking in the pool and snuck unnoticed into the villa.

A quick look at my emails identified a flashing red reminder from British Airways. I clicked on the link fearing the worst and to my horror confirmed I had to check in immediately-my flight was leaving in 2 hours. Trying to contain my panic I was also fast forwarding the events about to unfold as I tentatively walked back to the pool side to ‘surprise’ my better half “You’re not going to like this………….”

The Pleasure Principle. Chapter 18

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………….

woman in pink dress doing jump shot while extending arms under white clouds — Photo by Haste LeArt V. on Pexels.com

The Caribbean is like melting ice cream. Chapter 17

8 weeks in and our Caribbean Holiday was teetering on the brink of cancellation. This was a bit of a bummer, because we’d been looking forward to it and couldn’t have predicted that a slip on the wet pavement would threaten it. I mean really! 8 weeks and still I cannot walk any distance or sit, it’s almost unbelievable but that’s where I am.This made physio the number one priority. We had two weeks to decide if this holiday was on or off.

I was banking on my second appointment being the catalyst for change, and keen to make a real effort given we had to abandon the last one. Preparation for the arrival, and maximising participation were crucial. Our holiday depended on it.

The appointment happened to be the day after the burnt vegetables, statistically failure can be traced back to seemingly unconnected past events. And the charcoaled vegetables triggered a chain reaction; I couldn’t eat the meal, that contributed to me missing some medication and later forgetting to take it at all. The ensuing chaos meant everyone was stressed, the house was filled with smoke and the pots were blackened. My tolerance for drama was limited and I couldn’t settle in bed so didn’t get much sleep. All of this played directly into my pain management and the following day I would pay dearly for this.

Still blissfully unaware of the impact of yesterdays events my other preparations went according to plan. I arrived on time, avoided the car park, was deposited at the door albeit by myself. I trundled into the department unaided and a tad undignified as I was still dependent on the crutches. I followed the green line and slowly made my way into the sanctuary of promise and hope.

The reception area lay as far away from the entrance as possible. You were teased on the approach with rows of inviting comfortable seats, only accessible when you’ve finally discharged patient responsibilities and checked in. Having accomplished this I grabbed the nearest seat available hoping my therapist would arrive soon. My pain was slowly building to a crescendo. Lack of pain relief the day before was reducing my resistance to anything but a basic tolerance. A woman I knew walked by me and I looked her way but I was sufficiently distracted to forgo introductory manners. She was deaf so it didn’t seem to matter, and she sat down next to me.

I was struggling now and incredible pain was starting to engulf me so making polite conversation was the last thing on my mind. I stood up, I sat down, I shifted from side to side, I put my leg on the coffee table but I could not find comfort. She was deaf not blind but failed to notice I was paying her no attention, and kept talking. I wanted to scream in her face to ease my tension. (Wanted to but wouldn’t, as I say basic tolerance.) Just as I was about to explain she was summoned and I was left grateful, writhing and waiting for my turn.

Then the physio arrived and I inhaled a faint aroma of the Caribbean. But I knew the moment I got to my feet, I’m not going to manage any of the planned leg gymnastics. And sure enough 3 minutes into our appointment and she’s looking to discharge me thankfully suggesting that I might benefit from home physio, as getting here was taking so much out of me. I started to weep, ( I know its getting to be a habit), but I could feel the Caribbean was beginning to slip from my grasp.

Defiantly I stood up drawing on every ounce of determination, balancing precariously on the crutches but she could see I was verging on hysteria. She brought me a wheelchair, combining this with a four wheel zimmer and bridged them with a pillow, where I could rest my leg. Then she and her colleague guided me rather haphazardly on the makeshift bogie out to the exit and my husband waiting by his car.

How the hell would we make the Caribbean when I couldn’t undertake a 10 minute appointment with the physio. Like a melting ice-cream on a hot July day, it was starting to slip through my fingers………….

woman dropped fail failure — Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com,

Salvation, but not on this occasion. Chapter 16

The physio department at my local hospital has an intricate signage system provided to navigate you to exactly where you need to be. Coloured lines lead to X-ray, Physio and various Out Patients departments and while it’s all a bit WIzard of Oz it’s nontheless effective. I needed the green line to get to my physio appointment. As I had been so eager to get there and start the rehabilitation programme I’d left plenty time to arrive ready for action. Well that was the intention.

I’d opted for an appointment 6 weeks after my accident, as I’d been advised an extended period of inactivity would maximise my chances of recovery. So having been laid on my back for the past 6 weeks (Harrogate aside) the day of reckoning had arrived. Parking at our local hospital is a fine art, it shares the car park with the local health centre so spaces are always at a premium unless its midnight. Our first task, when we arrived, was to secure a space as close to the entrance as possible. Since I had already agreed to walk to the appointment, that proximity was an essential determining factor in our selection of a space, but selection was simply a delusion; its a dog fight in that car park. We were 500yds away.

Bearing in mind this was my first sortie, walking any unnecessary distance was not my wisest decision. But then stagnation does impact your brain function. That also accounted for the poor choice of clothing; it was freezing and the lose fitting pyjama bottoms that were the closest thing I had to joggers were ill equipped to fight the elements. Jack Frost swirled up my legs unfettered, licked my wounds with his acid tongue and nipped me with his nails. I was shivering and exhausted by the time I got to the hospital entrance.

Now frantic with pain and frozen I quickly identified the green line that would guide me to my saviour. Like an apostle I was transformed by a singleminded mission; I refused to allow others to transverse or hinder me in on the route to my salvation. I had a 10am appointment but had arrived a good 20 minutes ( not including the walk in) early to allow for delays. I didn’t factor in the 10 minute delay their side. So by the time I was summoned I had succumbed to the emergent pain from the walk, the cold and having to sit down. This impacted substantially on my ability to walk another 200 yds to the consulting room, so by the time I saw the bed I lunged at it seeking immediate comfort. I really did need a miracle now.

The physio observed with interest and could see I was struggling. She had the patience of Job, working through my wincing she used the time to assess me, monitor my reaction to pain ( shambolic) and determine how we might proceed. She asked me to stand to measure my legs, which by now resembled cocktail sticks wrapped in rice paper. Overcome by the pain, the occasion or something else I became dizzy, unsteady and, unable to retain my composure, I collapsed in a heap on the bed. It was increasingly apparent that this particular saviour was going to have to work miracles to bring change and improvement. We agreed to abandon this appointment in favour of another the following week. With her assistance I used the remainder of the time to re-locate the green line and hirple back toward the car park.

Feeling fragile and a failure, the reality of the matter stung at my eyes and once again I was left inert, unable and incompetent. I was beginning to get the measure of the damage a stage 3 hamstring injury can do.

bird s eye view of parked cars — Photo by Pok Rie on Pexels.com

Is it bin(trash) day? Chapter 15

I’ve had a less than gracious fall from Fab🤾‍♀️to Flab 👵🏼 in 8 weeks. This must be having a big impact on my better half. Especially as it took no real effort, was an alarmingly simple transformation in fact, and I’ve been its main protagonist. In this period I’ve descended into an easy inertia, become a sloth 🧟‍♀️ addicted to TV and with little prospect of immediate improvement, unless of course there’s a miracle 🧞‍♂️ around the corner. Stage 3 hamstrings can have that affect on you and the entire household is suffering.

In all honesty, it’s not been that difficult to lie in one place for 8 weeks, that is the crazy 😜 part. This speaks volumes about how debilitating it’s been because prior to this injury I was an active 50 something menopausal 😨 woman working my ass off to get to a happy place with the way I looked. I was cycling 🚴‍♂️ up to 30- 40 miles weekly. I was playing badminton 🏸 regularly with my old schoolmate and walking at least 4 miles a week 🚶‍♀️ with my ladies. I had my hair 💇‍♀️ coiffed and dyed very 6 weeks and nails 💅🏼gelled every four. Be assured it was not always ‘ladies who lunch’ after all you have to do something physical to balance that level of indulgence 🍷. But in the past 8 weeks all of that has fallen by the wayside.

Mayhem 🌪 has replaced the ambience of peace 🌞 and tranquility that envelopes The Danders and the surrounding community. I usually do all the food 🍱 shopping, cooking, gardening💐, planning and anticipating pretty much everything that happens with our home, family and other key events. I buy cards, presents🎁, do the gift wrap, review menus, plan and prepare meals, when necessary I look after my grandkids and my mother, maintain friendships, plan our social calendar🎉, entertain, book holidays✈️ and of course work, which is all pretty central to balancing my world order. Not that my husband does nothing; he golfs 🏌🏻‍♂️, manages the bin 🚛 rotation and collection (for the entire street), golfs, ⛳️ does the cleaning, washes the car and, oh yes, golfs 🏌🏻‍♂️.

Now the size of the commitment and endeavour necessary for effective bin rotation and management🚚 cannot be underestimated. Just ask my son-in-law! He gets weekly texts to remind him which bin 🗑 has to go out. My man is a living encyclopaedia on weekly refuse collection. So, how bad did it hit him when in the very early stages of my incapacitation, clearly stressed, he actually put out the wrong ❌ bin? (I’m blaming the chaotic new world order that now prevails) However the entire street, who having bowed to his superior knowledge on all matters refuse, did the same thing. So no-one had their bin emptied that week.🙀

Joking aside the injury and ensuing incapacitation has transformed 👾 his world completely. Of course he still manages to golf,🏌🏻‍♂️ but he’s been thrust into a new world🌎 order with little preparation and he has embraced it. Albeit standards were likely to alter during this period. For instance last Sunday, on his rare day off, I put the chicken 🐔 in the oven, and roasted the potatoes 🥔. Unbeknown to me, as I lay prostrate resting, he put the veg 🥦 onto boil a tad early and became engrossed in the football. So we had charcoaled brussel sprouts and carrots🥕 for tea. My pots will never recover no matter how hard he scours them. I’m no good at being a passive member of any team and there’s nothing worse than looking after someone who keeps 👼 noticing things, like the table needs polished, or the carpet needs hoovered, maybe those windows could do with a clean………..and perhaps that veg was put on too early.

So, I’m still confined to barracks. I’ve not had my hair done 💇‍♀️ in a while and, although the nail technician 💅🏼 came to me, the previously toned legs now have the appearance of dried up asparagus 🎋; lean, knobbly and wrinkly. Not charcoaled but then not fab, not at all. Despite my obvious fall from power, despite the additional burden he’s carrying and the constant need for attention, I’m grateful he has managed to maintain the equilibrium in our lives and thankful that through it all somehow he still manages to love ❤️ me…………. 6085E18A-E861-4839-8899-49AA11489E79

Subverting the crystal maze. Chapter 14

The Job Centre staff were more affable; they speak my local dialect, they sounded closer(?) and most importantly they don’t have a crystal ball let alone a maze. The immediate advantage of not going through a call centre was having direct access to humans with real emotions and compassion. Their response felt real. When I was transferred to my local Job Centre, Anne Marie took my call. I won’t lie, it was challenging initially to disentangle what assistance I required from her, but at least we both spoke Swahili.

She quickly realised that what I needed was a home visit as opposed to a home assessment. (the difference was lost on me but apparently this was the main challenge to understanding back at DWP). Anne-Marie confirmed that I had in fact already been referred to the home visiting team, but the lady with the appropriate skills to visit me, was off for another two weeks. This was another of my lucky white heather moments. It was also quite obvious from Anne- Marie’s commiseratory tone that my previous febrile outburst with the DWP, had been communicated by some unseen red flag, to alert call takers that I had rabid tendencies.

Anne-Marie anticipated my frustration realising the appointment was some weeks away. She deftly averted another outburst by convincing me to leave it with her to allow her to amend that delay. Her tactics included a promise to call me back. I have to admit I was sceptical about this; even in a short space of time throughout this process I’d lost faith in basic human ability to keep promises. I felt vulnerable; I was uncertain, could I invest my trust in this individual given the faltering progress I’d made with this claim for ESA? Shame on me. Anne- Marie was not a Ben, she did more than her job required. Unable to contact the home visiting team personally she also emailed them about my plight hoping to awaken their sense of compassion and arrange an earlier visit. Not only had she done this but knowing she was not coming to work the following day, she had tasked a trusted colleague to contact me and confirm that the home visiting team had at least been in touch.

I received a telephone call from the home visiting team, unaware of Anne-Marie’s efforts in the background. I considered that in the absence of a call back from her she had forgotten about me. I was just so grateful someone was going to come and visit me and get this claim form organised. An hour later, a second call from the Job Centre, confirmed Anne-Marie was a woman of her word. Not only had her trusted colleague followed up on her request to check the home visiting team had taken action, she was making sure I was happy that something was finally in place. Lost faith was instantly restored. Not only did I receive a call to confirm the stand-in arrangements, a letter confirming the appointment arrived and a text message was pinged to my phone! Technology was alive and kicking at Universal Credit after all. At last, I had subverted the crystal maze.

On week 6, an officer arrived to take my claim, not assess my ability to be seen at home. He was demonstrably relieved that I had a form I completed earlier (saving him an hour) and he was elated that I was able to provide him with, not only my verifying documents but signed photocopies to take away. Owing to my preparations he spent 15 minutes on my visit. And I’m wondering what all the fuss was about.

All I had to do now was wait for a decision and payment……………oh and physio.

woman holding moon lamp — Photo by Oleg Magni on Pexels.com