grimaces gripes and plaudits

Easter Monday. Traditionally a British Bank Holiday. A day for outings to the seaside and sitting, smouldering in traffic jams on the drive home.

In the past I’d avoided the norm by taking a motor-cycle on Easter days, though this year was to be altogether different. The bike has gone now and anyway I was admitted to hospital in the late afternoon for total hip replacement surgery the very next morning.

I’m a 57 year old HGV Driver, part-time amateur blogger, photographer and Albaphile (I love Scotland). I have been struggling with osteo-arthritis in both hips, and the spine for several years now. Three weeks earlier I finally threw in the towel and ‘went sick’ from work, the aching, the stiffness and unpredictability of both joints finally defeating me as surgery drew near. Other than the ‘Arthur’ and diet controlled Diabetes my general health has always been good.

Replacement Eve had proved another restless night – nothing unique in that as I have become used to aching , especially in the buttocks. A real live pain in the backside. I’ve been working my way through an Alfred Hitchcock ‘boxed-set’ – a Christmas gift. At 6-00am. my other half and I were lying in bed watching ‘Psycho’! apt preparation for going ‘under’ the knife, albeit it in a hopefully less frenzied manner.

I’d chosen a hospital about six miles away and my Daughter was good enough to deliver me, with small suitcase on castors to the main entrance. My wife helped me strip out my necessaries and fill the inadequate locker beside my bed. One of four in a small side ward. When relatives had gone I made small talk with the other occupants. Also recent arrivals. Jim Knee and Bob Knee – not brothers, merely men having their knees replaced and I do not want to use real names. I’d already been bracketed in with the ‘knee-jobs’ several times. For some reason almost every medico I came across had assumed I was in their hospital for attention to the lower joint. If not quite hearing alarm bells, my mind was experiencing minor misgivings and a deternination to impress upon all concerned that my left hip was the target for tomorrow.

Jim and Bob had different stories. Jim was 84 years old, and had been struggling with arthritis for years. He was an agreeable, but curmudgeonly old chap and we talked long into the evening about the modern world and its many problems. I liked the cut of his jib. He’d frustrate though by saying things like ‘World War Two never did us any harm’ which I challenged of course, though in a gentle, emollient way, trying to prise some positivity from the likeable old grouch.

Bob was a different kettle of fish some twenty years younger. Apparently his knee’s demise was down to an old footballing injury. A claim he made with some pride. “I was told I’d the knee of a sixty year old when I was forty” he declared more than once. By that reckoning his knee was now as old as Jim’s. Both joints were well and truly knackered and as bullets were finally being bitten all round we shared a common empathy as the newly formed trio – locked into each others company got to know one another. All former football fans all we had common memories to cover.

The staff were friendly, and informal. We were given a tea-time meal but were starved from midnight. Luckily, I was to be the first into Theatre the following morning. I slept well, but was awake when a Nurse called me for a shower around six am.

Newly scrubbed up I had to don a surgical gown which tied around the rear. I managed as best I could. Somewhat pensively I awaited the trolley ride to surgery, and potential oblivion.

A member of the Surgeon’s team visited me at my bedside and again asked which KNEE was affected! I momentarily lost patience and snapped back threats of court action! He apologised. Not until I was on my trolley literally and metaphorically did I see Mr Royal – my Surgeon. He explained that re-surfacing of the joint was inadvisable now after new research data. The metal on metal procedure is proving unsatisfactory on femur heads smaller than fifty millimetres. My own head is 48mm. He produced a thick black marker drew an arrow on my left thigh, plus, as I discovered later, the word ‘HIP’ in large letters.

Soon we were off. I remember looking up at the ceilings of endless corridors as my trolley gathered pace. Wishing I had my film camera. A vertical outlook from a horizontal perspective would work well, as fluorescent lights sped by I mused. For in truth I was savouring the experience at this stage. I’d handed myself over to professionals and was now merely the point of their pay packet. I lifted my head to see a busy passageway of people who were moving aside to assist my progress.

Arriving finally, and transferred into the care of Anna, who introduced herself as  ’Tim the Anaesthetists Nurse’. Tim had already explained my method of transfer to an unconscious, unfeeling state was to be a ‘spinal anaesthetic’

I had electrodes attached to my chest and elsewhere and a ‘canula’ was inserted into my right hand, where drip feeds could enter my body if required. They sat me up and applied a very cold solution to my back. He prodded and poked my lower lumber region feeling for a suitable place. On an anxiety scale of one to five I was hovering around three and a half. Theatre staff were marvellous.

I felt a series of sharp pricks to my lower back. A highly unusual sensation soon followed which was momentarily unpleasant – a kind of ‘don’t go there’ warning from my central nervous system. I was told to lie on my back again as a welter of warmth began to creep up my legs. The Anaesthetist began to spray a very cold solution onto my left hand side, asking for feedback as to where I could feel the chill. As the sound of the spray soon became my only reason for knowing what was happening the numbness was clearly underway. A deep numbness, which would allow all manner of hacking, poking, dislocation and general abuse to go sailing over my head. Speaking of my head, I’d been given a mild sedative which made me feel woozy within minutes. I remember the team rolling me over onto my right hand side, some encouraging words and then I was in la-la-land. Half asleep.

I was happy there, I recall. A very pleasant dream ensued which I cannot remember in detail. I was in the recovery room within minutes, or so it seemed. In truth almost two hours had past. A pleasant male nurse talked about his horse-box , and his habit of jumping over fences on his favourite beast. Sitting astride horses has been out of the question for me for a long time and I doubt I shall start anytime soon. My canula was attached to two bags of liquid allowing drips of anti-biotics and I think, a saline solution to replace lost fluids.

Soon I was back in my bed in the small ward. People buzzed around for a while, then left me alone. For the first time in years I was lying on my back without aching….the ‘spinal’ had not yet worn off.

It was some several hours before it did so. By this time I was aware of an intense aching in the area of the left hip. I had an appetite though and was thirsty. A thirst which was slaked by water. As the others in the ward had by now gone to theatre themselves for their new knees I was alone, but happy to be so.

The rest of the day is a blur if I’m honest. I remember visitors of course, and I remember eating an evening meal. I was checked regularly for blood pressure and pulse etc. and assistance was there if needed. For a while it wasn’t.

The following day the Physiotherapists got me up on my feet. I was very keen not to do anything which may jeopardise the security of the new joint and my recovery. I was surprised at the ease with which I could walk with the support of a small ‘Zimmer’ frame. I took a handful of steps and was told to turn around. As I made my way on the return leg my head began to swim and I felt faint. I’d never really felt like this before but was determined to make it back to my bed. Apparently my blood pressure had dropped alarmingly – not unusually – and the effort of moving had found me out.

The Physio’s seemed pleased though, and just twenty four hours post op. I felt progress was real. The other guys in the ward were suffering more pain from their knee replacements. Up to now I’d only ached. I take care to use words correctly and to me, aching is painful but it’s not real pain. In my experience the acute pain does come with hips but it’s more evident after unplanned movement outside the arthritic comfort zone, if that’s not an oxymoron.

I think my pre-conceptions of this whole affair were proving fairly accurate. I had been dreading the need for a ‘catheter’ in fact my fear of this fairly simple procedure had been dominating my thoughts. Ergo, in a self-fulfilling prophecy my bladder filled and the conventional means of drainage had slipped into temporary limbo. I was bursting for a wee. Later that night an angel answered the call. She was gentle, and sympathetic and I felt little more than slight discomfort. I had to cough as the tube passed by my Prostate gland but once it was where it should be the relief was instant and the small bag by my bedside began to fill up. An invasive procedure, and an intimate one. So much so I had to ask the Nurse her name. Jan was skilled, and put me at my ease brilliantly.

The ‘knee men’ had morphine on tap via electronic pumps. I had my usual tablets, plus five hourly drams of liquid morphine if required. This is a controlled drug which requires careful dispensation. I also was given nightly injections of anti-blood clotting drugs to my stomach.

I was wheeled to the X-Ray Department and the results were good, the new hip was seated correctly.

I was hungry and eating well. The food was quite good at this stage. Wednesday night brought more visitors and once they had left the silence was punctuated by general groaning , and loud, unbridled flatulence from all occupants except myself. I couldn’t ’blow-off’. We now had full occupancy as an outgoing chap with a bad back – Victor had arrived. He insisted on introducing himself as ‘the extremely good looking Victor —– incredibly modest with a wooden leg who rides motor-cycles’ If I heard this patter once I heard it three dozen times over the next few days and it began to grate. He was one of those who enjoys the sound of their own voice. A charmer – inside his own head – fawning and flattering to Nurses, Cleaners and Doctors alike. Most of them seemed to like it but it was getting on my wick. Bob Knee and I often exchanged exasperated, rolling eyed glances as Vic launched yet again into his tired routine.

Sadly Jim Knee had now been moved to a different department. His face had become more and more contorted over the last few hours. As I lay opposite looking at the poor mans countenance, agony seemed etched upon it. He’d drift into sleep with his mouth agape, He was suffering very fast heart rate and had to go to the Coronary Care ward. I’d grown to like Jim, and hope he fared well. I enquired later in my stay as to his welfare but drew an indifferent blank.

Thursday came I walked a little further and began to exercise the operated leg. As the other one is also affected by arthritis I gave this a workout too and it was hard to tell which side was the more painful ! At least now though I know one of them is going to improve, hopefully in fairly short order.

I became aware of the heat generating from my wound and made the effort to see the ‘spectacular’ bruising which my room mates had told me of. Despite the techno-coloured signs of trauma I was still only aching. I’d noticed Bob Knee, and Vic were frequently asked to rate their ‘pain-score’ on a regular basis. I was not given the opportunity, and felt slightly cheated. Heroically, the scores were coming back at a regular five or six….admirable reserve and stoicism I thought after the wails and cries of anguish.

A new man in the bed opposite now. Len Knee. A Plumber in his seventies with an ‘oh, this is so bloody inconvenient’ attitude. He had not brought pyjamas in and sat up in bed, straggly grey chest hairs covered an equally wiry frame. Pre-op he’d wander around in underpants with long scrawny legs. Off putting if I’m honest, I hoped the Hospital might kit him out in municipal jim-jams. Eventually, they did.

Len was either ill informed or very stupid. Two hours after his knee replacement he attempted to get out of bed on his own and walk off for a wee. Anxious cries of ’What are you doing man’ from Vic came too late as Len dropped his operated knee over the side of the bed. The ensuing howl will haunt me for a long time.

Or so I thought. In fact I’ve almost forgotten it now. Against the odds, Len was to prove another stoic. He made good progress, but was still there on the day I left. Apparently he smokes like a chimney and will be ‘in the boozer’ almost as soon as he is discharged. He had a heart attack five years ago. Good luck to him.

I’d noticed by now how good my left leg was looking. In comparison to just a few days earlier it looked perfectly straight. The right leg, never quite as deformed by arthritis as the left was, in contrast still decidedly twisting outward. My left kneecap looked to be sited just as it should. I began to think I may one day once more stop a pig in a ginnel ! The knee does clunk and knock sometimes but I could only hope it is merely adjusting to new guidance ‘from above’.

Bob Knee was constantly nursing his swollen leg. His tales of football injuries past led to longer chats about the game I used to love. Vic seemed an expert on almost everything. We were passing the time talking and I was determined to remain pleasant and affable. As Thursday evening brought more welcome visits to the bedside from family I contemplated my discharge for the first time. I mean my release date, not the urine which was filling bags at a surprisingly regular rate.

As my wife and daughter left for home I tuned in my telly to watch Manchester City’s valiant, but vain efforts in Europe. I‘d relished the Hamburg game but once more the blues under achieved. It would be harder to take if I cared more. Deciding to stay awake and watch the final episode of ‘The Wire’ I had to fight sleep towards the end, and was becoming aware of two distinct problems. My swollen stomach had become more distended. I deduced ‘trapped wind’ I’m normally no stranger to gusty, gutsy flatulence and despite the unsocial implications feel it’s always best to let rip whenever possible, with the minimum of impact on others. Now, lying down my belly resembled a tightly stretched orb. It’s usually flat – if I do say so myself.

“Belly Ache” was the response from the Nurse on night-duty. It was 2-00am. I certainly couldn’t fault her diagnosis. The urge to break wind and my bodies refusal to do so was causing my stomach to ache. I’ve seldom used the word ‘belly’ myself. I think it rather a common word, and the preserve of oiks. My mother always termed the area ‘tummy’ and adulthood spawned ‘stomach’ as my abdominal reference.

I also drew the Nurse’s attention to my fluctuating, and hastening heartbeat. I was feeling palpitations and fluttering in my chest. A weird sensation completely new to me. As I regularly check my own pulse and know it to be consistent, and steady I was somewhat concerned. I mentioned my frequent self-monitoring to Ms.Nurse and she was incredulous.

“Why would anyone do that?” she asked.

“Because to the minimally informed ones pulse rate can be a guide to ones general cardio-vascular health” I replied. She seemed determined to argue, perhaps used to dealing with submissive types or the un-opinionated.

“No, everybody’s different” she continued to contest. I was determined not to lose my temper and felt decidedly uncombative at this point.

“I only do my own”

She waved me away somewhat dismissively, promising to ‘get a Doctor’ and call on a colleague to give me an Electro Cardiograph Test.

The Doctor didn’t turn up for several hours. I was in a Hospital after all. . As I lay there in the night, totally ignored by  the Nurse  my pulse seemed to calm down. The ECG had shown it to be highly irregular so my instincts and concern were vindicated.

The dawn chorus had come and gone when Doctor Maria arrived – a tall, thin young woman -she prescribed a laxative to ease my intestinal distress. She also ordered another ECG. By now the Nurse who ruled by night had presumably climbed back into her bed and the ward was staffed by the friendly, more approachable status quo.

I lay there for a long time. I waved away the Physiotherapists and their quest for movement. I felt low but worse was to come. A return visit from the lady Doc. Brought bad news as I saw it. Apparently she had detected a heart murmur. Although the second ECG was good, I may have to be transferred to the coronary ward myself, in the footsteps of Jim Knee – if only either of us could walk !

She said I’d need ’Echo’ tests and might require a 24 hour monitor attached to my chest. I’ve never had any heart problems before and suddenly arthritic hips seem to pale into insignificance in my troubled mind.

My visitors arrived early, in the afternoon. Grandaughter Emma was with my wife and Daughter this time. I’d had to stifle a tear as they appeared. A mixture of feeling sorry for myself, and desperation almost engulfed me but the stiff upper lip suddenly kicked in.

The conversation was somewhat doom laden. Luckily, the mood was to lift before they’d driven home…thanks to the appearance of a mystery man I’d not seen before, nor since. If I was the fanciful kind I’d say he was a heavenly messenger…but I’m not.

With a shaven head of gloss ebony, this African Doctor was about thirty years of age. I’ll call him Doctor Black.

He introduced himself incomprehensibly and began to examine me. He had a good listen via his stethoscope and explained how hearts works when the body is traumatised, or heavy blood loss occurs. Despite struggling to understand the man I felt re-assured. He said a murmur was undetectable but struggled for the right word to describe the ‘noise’ in my heart.

“Turbulence?” I offered. He picked it up and ran with it, explaining some of the intricacies of the organ in a way I could half-understand.

I was feeling much less fragile,, and a change in medication was to bring gastric relief. I had taken Co-Dydramol tablets into hospital with me. These had been fairly effective in keeping me mobile and still working over the last few years. For some reason -still a mystery – the Hospital had refused me these and instead prescribed ‘Co-Codamol’ a drug which is notorious for causing constipation.

I enquired twice about this decision but it took a third enquiry , in more demanding tone to elicit the facts. It emerged I had only been denied my tablets of choice because somebody thought ‘Co-Codamol’ preferable with no consultation at all. Persistence was rewarded and within twelve hours, during which laxatives had been administered (again at my third request!)I began to feel much better.

By now it was Friday. A day I had contemplated for possible early discharge but given my setbacks it was clear I’d be spending the weekend in hospital. As luck would have it the whole ward was moving to the other side of the huge complex and this had been planned for the following day (Saturday). Overnight my catheter was removed – not at all painful or unpleasant. I was now drinking copious amounts of water and it was passing through me normally now.

Bob Knee had gone home nursing his knee which was still painful and swollen. The ward move went well. My possessions were stashed in a larger, labelled locker and followed me as I was whisked along my way in a wheelchair by a fresh faced lass from Congleton.

I had a choice of bed . The new ward was much brighter, and more spacious. There were eight beds now, but occupancy was only fifty per cent. I was feeling stronger. Vic soon followed and plumped for the bed next to me once more. I was slightly gratified. We’d had one or two small differences of opinion and his unchanging routine with new people still irritated but he was a good egg. Vic encouraged me no end and regularly recognised the steady progress I was making with the exercises. My bowels were working well again and my pulse rate, though still rapid, had come down ten beats per minute. I’d learned by now that the heart works hard to overcome blood loss and trauma. It does whatever is necessary to restore and distribute the blood. It’s on the bodies side, and I’m fortunate to have what seems to be a fairly strong one (touchwood).

I’d learned from Doctor Maria whose word I now doubted, that I was ‘anaemic’ and my Haemoglobin tally was hovering around nine. It had been thirteen on admission, and this is towards the lower range of normal. Anything below eight warrants infusion of new blood. Twenty per cents of new hip recipients are anaemic post op.

Weekend brought several new visitors and I was pleased to see each one of them. I’d topped up my telly card and had now worked out how to use the internet on the bedside console. I was researching as I went: haemoglobin and heart murmurs uppermost in my mind. The hip meanwhile was only aching. Night time brought deeply uncomfortable nagging gyp to my wound area. I was managing about five hours sleep per night.

As a new week began the sun shining in through the many windows lent an optimistic air to the half full ward. A couple of new arrivals were rather taciturn and beyond rudimentary greetings I made no effort to socialise. I sensed they were apprehensive. I was feeling something of a veteran now in my sixth day. The food, which had seemed pretty good a few days ago was now unappetising and bland. I hoped Monday might bring discharge.

Len Knee was now opposite once more. He had made good progress. Annoyingly he received many phone calls. His ring tone comprised the William Tell overture relayed in electronic beeps. My own phone was always in silent mode , or at the very least ‘discreet’ I mentally censured the insensitivity of anyone who might not realise the constant repetition of Rossini’s opening bars could annoy other patients. And then there were the endless banal conversations. Always conducted in a half-shout. Len was beginning to get on my wick.

Doc Maria was a late night visitor. She drew the curtains around the bed after nine pm. Her milky complexion now looked flushed as though she had been crying and her cheeks were red. I wondered what was up for a moment and hoped she’d just come from an emotional encounter rather than she was anticipating one! It soon emerged her visit was merely to re-assure and I appreciated it very much.

Monday dawned and bloods were taken. My veins seldom give up their contents without a fight and the nurse – Judith, 50, a latecomer to the profession and a complete star apologised for digging around in my inner elbow.

“I know a heart murmur when I hear one” Doc Maria insisted. She was now accompanied by another young female Doctor. Mr Royal it seems has surrounded himself with attractive females. Doctor Young re-assured me that a ‘flow-murmur’ was nothing to worry about. I could now concur, having researched via Google. I quickly added a ‘little knowledge is a dangerous thing” I still maintain though that a little is better than none.

When the blood results came back I was crestfallen. The Haemoglobin count had fallen to just 8.2. This meant I could not go home. A blood transfusion might now be needed. A decision was was called for and Doctor Ahmed – yet another of Mr Royal’s team – a strikingly handsome Arab type. He decided either an upward movement in the count or a ‘couple of units of blood’ would speed me on my way as soon as possible. He was in decisive mode and I thanked him.

As Monday wore on, more admissions. Including a young man whose wife and two under fives lingered too long watching kids telly with the volume up. I again resented their insensitivity but did not complain. My Wife and daughter visited in the evening and we contemplated ’release’ I just needed my bone marrow to co-operate. Sue had brought some liver casserole in a flask, and some freshly squeezed orange juice. Info from the internet revealed vitamin C aids the absorption of iron. Sometimes a ‘little knowledge’ is only a good thing.

Another lack lustre breakfast of porridge without sugar, a piece of toast and a cup of tea saw Tuesday dawn. Vic had gone home the day before and my new next door neighbour was Jack Law. A rotund octogenarian from a rural Derbyshire village. He’d fallen in his back garden and lay helplessly for hours under a warm spring sun. His poor face was burnt and reddened. A fair skinned man he’d been baking in the heat and was rescued eventually by neighbours. He was in a lot of pain but we chatted. I tried to reassure this likeable old chap. He was a good egg was Jack and I hope his outcome is good. The staff rallied around him and were brilliant in their attention.

My veins were in full retreat as Judith attempted to get blood for the vital count. Had the haemoglobin risen? She set to the task early at my request to minimise the wait. Yesterday had seem interminable and if I was to go home on the eighth day I’d prefer to do so in daylight !

Several attempts in either arm, and at the back of each hand all drew a blank. Judith was apologetic but I brushed her concerns aside. She observed I had ’lousy’ veins, and I agreed I was indeed a miserable specimen of manhood.

Feeling like a pin cushion was one thing, but going home was quite another. I badly wanted out by now. Judith conceded defeat and said I’d have to wait for the ‘Phlebo Team’ – Phlebotomists who are expert at extracting blood from the stingiest stone. Only problem was they wouldn’t be around for some time, and results took up to three hours to come through.

Meanwhile another new face appeared on the scene. An anonymous nurse who did my ‘obs’ (observations) blood pressure and etc – which involves sticking a probe down an ear-hole and waiting for a subsequent bleep. Apparently she’d been on holiday and only half interestedly did I enquire “Where to?”

“ Turkey, how do you score your pain on a scale of nought to ten?”

“Blimey! The first time anyone has asked” I replied, as mentally I quickly rated my aching current bum. Not quite a piece of cake but tolerable with the odd grimace “Four” was my conservative response. Perhaps I sounded smug. There was no response beyond “four?”

She entered the details on my chart before wheeling away with her high-tech trolley and I wondered if I might merit a small prize for the lowest pain score of the week.

Soon she was replaced by Gordon. Ex-Army now a male Nurse. He’d been the first person I’d encountered on admission. A large man with hands like ham shanks. He carried himself stiffly, and erectly. A shaven head of above average size and a stare which might cause consternation in the easily spooked. I initially likened him to a lugubrious Lurch, but I was wrong.

Gordon was a Gentleman. Leaving aside his pre-occupation with matters football he wanted to help and was popular around the ward. Judith had enlisted him in the quest for my blood. He seemed confident but the usual inner elbow route drew a blank. I encouraged him to have one

final try at the back of my right hand. I felt this needle more than most but Bingo! The red stuff was flowing and he filled two vials which were quickly whisked away.

Remembering I needed only a slight upward movement to signal my returning home, I decided to think positive and once more surveyed my straight left leg. I did some exercises – they were now getting a little easier each time. Lifting the leg off the bed just three inches and holding for five seconds had been very tough just a few days ago. I needed to support the leg with my arm for the first couple of repetitions. Now it was getting easier. Of course my face would still contort with the effort and the resultant discomfort. It was also becoming obvious that the un-operated leg which I also exercised in this manner was not much better. In fact the gap has been closing all the time. Physio’s had issued a saucer sized orange disc into which I rest my heel. The flatness of the plastic plate allows it to glide smoothly over the bed cover when bringing the knee up to almost ninety degrees, and for outward rotation of the joint. Different kinds of discomfort from each leg but now one of them is improving almost daily !

With afternoon visiting in full swing I’d optimistically packed my case for the second time and sat quietly in my chair, disinterestedly watching day time T.V.

Come mid-afternoon and my results were back from the lab. The haemoglobin had risen to 8.5 all by itself. I was delightedly given the green light and thanked Sue’s liver and orange juice – convinced they had made the difference. I could go home !!

Having requested an ambulance I was told the Hospital had arranged a Taxi at their expense. Hardly ideal as I needed lots of room to avoid dislocating the new ceramic joint while the muscle wall was recovering its strength. The tight band of strong muscles adjoining the hip are all that retains the femur head in place. And after all mine had been sliced through barely a week before.

I was issued with a course of Ferrous Sulphate tablets to address the ‘iron’ deficiency and given painkillers to top up my supply. I wasn’t waiting long for my cab. I was wheeled off by part-time Nursing Assistant Rebecca, one of my favourites. A quiet unassuming girl in her early twenties who always looked calm, even serene. She’s looking for more hours I was told on our short trip to the exit and I hope she gets them.

The Toyota Avensis is a big saloon car but the front seat was woefully inadequate for my needs. I was forced to ‘back onto’ the rear seat and snake myself along it using elbows and being careful to keep the left leg slightly elevated but straight. As the driver clunked the door shut the handle just prodded my foot. The vehicle could have been made to measure but this was far from ideal. I didn’t care. Now I was horizontally ensconced nothing mattered except the six mile journey home. I had pre-warned Sue by ’phone. The cab driver was completely silent all the way and didn’t deserve his tip, which is why it was a small one. My wife greeted my arrival with a smile and I hobbled gingerly up the back path into my home of thirty three years. Never has it seemed so welcoming and never have I been so pleased to see it.

Home at last

Home at last, into the welcoming bosom of the family home, and my better half ‘tudor’ a nickname amongst several, arising from the moments of mockery I’ve come to rely on, and had even missed recently.

A single bed downstairs meant a little upheaval. Though the living room isn’t small this is an ex-council house and we don’t have voluminous space to play around with.

A plethora of ‘get well’ cards to greet me and a loving wife. Who could ask for more? Well, there were four cans of John Smith’s ’Smooth’ in the fridge and almost a week later three of them are still there! Surely some kind of endurance record.

I was somehow desperate for fried eggs. So Tudor knocked a couple up for me on wholemeal toast. Smeared with a little ketchup this was akin to a feast – a little of what you fancy etc. etc.

As luck might have it my Wife was made redundant from her job after 25 years

at the end of March and in the short term at least is happy to be home with me. Her misfortune is my bit of good luck perhaps? We don’t see it in those terms though – it’s just happenstance.

I was soon stripped down and interrogated. Not an unpleasant experience. I settle between the clean sheets for a lie down following the stresses of a twenty minute taxi ride. My now prime carer set about laundering everything I’d brought home from the hospital. A wise precaution.

Food took on a whole new meaning. The Hospital grub, though by no means bad had begun to become bland and tasteless. I needed to be careful what I ate too. As a borderline diet-controlled diabetic my blood sugar levels – always well controlled by diet these last three years since diagnosis had been all over the place. Breakfast’s had consisted of Porridge without sugar and slice of toast with the merest smear of Flora. Not something to look forward to with relish.

Back home I had a dollop of Blueberries to juice up my oats. Lunches would consist of Mackerel on granary toast, hearty soups, or even a Bacon, Lettuce & Tomato sandwich. I’m blessed with a wife whose evening dinners are superb. Chicken, Fish and Pork dishes, all genuinely home cooked with umpteen varieties of veg – just the thing to build up my Haemoglobin.

In return for such delights I regularly offer myself up naked for a scrub down with the rough side of a sponge. Feels like being pummelled by pumice as the other half gets busy washing me down. In truth I don’t mind this attention, surely it proves I’m loved. The notion of doing this to strangers though is one that leaves me a bit cold. A hand son caring job would not be for me.

Luckily we have toilets up and down stairs. Both have been modified courtesy of the NHS and the seats modified and raised. A framework surrounds each one with supporting handles with which I can lower myself down onto the er…pan. Panhandles if you like. I also have a ‘perching stool’ to aid washing, a board for my bath so I can sit astride it further down the line and allow Tudor to douche me. Another device raises my leather imitation antique winged-back armchair to a height of nineteen inches. I can’t sit on lower seats for a long time yet.

The body’s equilibrium is shaken by trauma such as surgery, and copious blood loss. Systems that have worked well can start to become less reliable. Plumbing is one such department. We’d all rather not contemplate our plumbing I suppose, much less other people’s but if you want warts and all then please read on.

My bowels eventually started to move of their own volition post op. I was given a sickly sweet orange tasting concoction which is an alleged stool softener. Since then I’ve not looked back save to judge my success. The Ferrous Sulphate tablets I have also been taking have, as promised turned my excrement black in colour, but there has so far been no return of the predicted ‘constipation’

Urinary arrangements are handled in-house. During the day I can make it to the loo in time but night time brings a specially shaped bottle – again provided by the NHS and designed to be almost spill-proof, similar to this one.

Disaster struck on the second night at home though. Around midnight, having bade my wife upstairs a few minutes earlier the need to wee-wee had me reaching for said bottle which I assumed to be empty. I got careless with my angles – little did I know she’d put some ‘dissy’ in the thing (I thought it hadn’t been fully emptied) and the contents soaked my jim -jams sheets and all towards the middle of the bed. It was flippin’ cold too mark my words. I didn’t have the heart, much less the temerity to knock on the ceiling with my crutch, instead merely stripped the bed and snuggled naked

into the dry bits. Cursing my inattention to a vital detail.

The following night brought more mild panic. In the small wee hours of the morning my need for a swift widdle struck again. Slightly bottle averse now I crutched it to the downstairs lav in bare feet – no time to struggle with elongated shoe horn and slippers as I was more than bursting. On entering the carpeted loo my foot recoiled at the wetness beneath. It seemed the hand washbasin had resented all the new found attention (it’s not use often) and had sprung a flipping leak!

I’m afraid I had no option now but to employ the Albert Steptoe technique of banging on the ceiling for help! Tudor appeared wearily, but sprang into action mopping up the mess. It never rains but it appears. A plumber was hastily arranged the next morning and makeshift repairs seem to be holding up. I hate leaks, and wet carpets – they take so long to dry out.

Domestic trauma should not deflect from the main purpose of this story. My heels had become very tender having spent so much time in bed recently. Tudor applied Sudocrem and this rapidly started to ease the tenderness. If neglected I could see how these could become pressure sores.

The left leg was sometimes tender at the back of the knee and calf. No signs of hard, nobbly bits though (ignoring my knees) as these are said to signify blood clots. These are treatable in the lower limb but if one gets much higher and into the lungs then it’s usually ‘Goodnight Vienna’ in the shape of a ‘Pulmonary Embolism’.

I’ve gleaned about One per cent of hip replacement patients die as a result of the operation. Of course many recipients are quite elderly and often somewhat frail. As I’m neither yet the stats might appear to be on my side – I’m touching wood as I touch type – I’m the touching wood type.

Nightly visits from the District Nurses occur at a surprisingly late hour. Around Nine or Ten pm. A pair of them working as a team knock on the door. One will syringe my stomach with an anti-clotting agent. Alternating sides each night. They are cheerful despite a huge work load. I’m really impressed with the support services so far.

We have settled into a routine now . I’m up early doors an d hobble around the kitchen to fix a breakfast and a brew. I’ll tread carefully on the tiled floor though, any wetness on those is lethal to my rubber ferrules which form the vase of the crutch. A fall at this stage could be a flipping disaster.

Mornings mean I’m on the interweb for an hour, under the stairs. I do my exercises three times a day to punctuate the sitting/lying down sessions. The bed’s handy ‘’cause I can have a kip or a lie down when I need it. I walk outside at least once a day for about forty metres. I’m anxious not to do too much too quickly.

We have taken to watching a boxed set of ‘24’ provided by our Son – who has been very attentive driving the 250 mile round trip three times in a fortnight to help us out with shopping etc. Daughter was also a star when I was in hospital. When I ponder the plight of those people who are ‘alone’ in the world I realise how lucky I am.

On my sixth night (Sunday) indoors last night’s Nurse took out fourteen of the twenty-eight wire staples which have been holding together the flesh on my left upper thigh. She said it might hurt, but it didn’t.

So far nothing has really ‘hurt’, though I can’t stress the discomfort and the aches too much. I’ve experienced nothing to put me off having my other hip done in due course. I’m going to limit further entries now to occasional updates as boxes are ticked and recovery continues. Another step along the way will be the removal of all the remaining ‘staples’ tonight.

Further tests will be done on the heart to confirm there is nothing to worry about. I’ve just had dates through for June.

It’s now a case of steady as I go and taking each day gently , pushing the boundaries a little each time with more exercise.

My Daughter is getting married in Derbyshire on the 28^th. May and pre-op. I was concerned I might have to be in a wheelchair or on crutches…now I’m confident I might need only a stick (a fiver from LIDL in Slick, gloss black )

Watch this space for updates and maybe the odd setback like I said I take nowt for granted. That’s why I can’t afford to spend too much time sat on my behind writing stuff like this.

Thanks for reading it thus far though, and if you are considering a hip replacement do not hesitate.