As Elton John might have said but I’m not sure I’d go as far as saying ‘better than I ever was’.  Give it a week.  Or two.  Possibly four.  Learning to be patient as well as ‘a patient’ is uncharted territory but having berated so many people on the subject over the years I will have to grit my teeth and at least give convalescence a chance.

Post-operation I was on an absurd high for about three days (Note to self: what in God’s name is in an anaesthetic?  Is it available on Amazon?) and within hours I was proof reading the homework of a Ghanaian nurse.  Drugs being what they are, there was a horrible crash back to Earth on day four which was spent in floods of tears, despite the efforts of pals who turned up with a bucket, a plastic jug, a filthy length of garden hose and the irresistibly tempting offer, declined, of an enema.

The Sunset Care Home was altogether more fun.  The check in questionnaire contained enquiries such as ‘Can you manage your own teeth?’.  ‘Usually.  When sober’.  There was a special form on resuscitation – did I want it?  ‘Certainly not’ I replied without hesitation,  an answer which seemed to surprise them despite the majority of inmates appearing to be there as  result of an ill-judged ‘Yes’ in earlier life.  Who turns down the chance of a swift exit after sixty?  Only the wildest of optimists I imagine.

On the down side there was no en suite fridge so the champagne had to be chilled in the garden.  One visitor arrived with a bottle of vodka, an ice bucket with ice, tonic, lemon and a knife.  Mention that girl in dispatches, Colonel.  Another one tripped on her way in (so stone cold sober) and broke a toe.  A third decided it was time to remove my stitches, worryingly called staples, shades of shenanigans in the stationery cupboard, and took me to the nearest pub for a little nerve calming  Rioja (for both of us) before whipping them out.  It’s a wonder I wasn’t expelled which even for me would have been a rather impressive addition to my CV.

Now back at home let me set you a task for the weekend.  (Obviously you too will already have binge-watched ‘The Crown’).  Try to go about your daily life without bending over, something presently forbidden for me.  Try putting on socks, or plugging anything into a low socket, picking up post, emptying the dishwasher.  The reader coming up with the longest list gets the staples and the extractor.  Something, like your health, to cherish.

 

I don’t know if it’s the time of year or the medication but I find myself in a maudlin mood, often standing still at the window,  mug of tea in hand going cold, watching the endless piles of sodden leaves whirling about on the lawn.  I realise it is the first year I haven’t worn a poppy or gone to a service to plant crosses for my grandfather and brother.  Isn’t it time to stop killing each other to resolve our differences?  Just a thought for Remembrance Day.

There are many downsides to the pain control – it makes your mouth and your eyes bone dry.  It makes you constantly tired, not just physically but weary in spirit.  Every action requires enormous effort and I know each one is eating into my daily ability to do anything, making me irrationally angry with time wasters and stairs and unnecessarily heavy doors.

My operation is on Thursday and given how long I’ve lived with unbearable pain I find myself absurdly nervous about replacing it with New Pain, one I don’t know how to pander to,  one I haven’t made deals with, one that may not leave me alone for minutes on end.  Stockholm syndrome. I will miss you Old Pain.  We’ve learned to rub along.

I’ve started packing my hospital case starting, (come on, it’s me) with the champagne and glasses.   No drinking out of tooth mugs on my watch.   An extension cord and adaptor.  Perfume.  Chocolates.  Clearly I have no intention of going with the suggested list of ‘comfortable slippers’ and a ‘warm dressing gown’.  As if!

The house is covered with Post It notes about heating, the dishwasher, the keys and the cat.  I’ve written and stamped the Christmas cards.  Ocado has a list of vegan food to be delivered at intervals.  I’m still undecided about whether I should go the extra mile and leave out my will, and the plot number in the Sussex graveyard.  Hardly a sign of confidence in the surgeon.

Now it’s just the waiting to get through.  I feel like Blackadder in the trenches, fiddling with bits of kit and snapping at Baldrick, eager to get it over with, reluctant to get going.  But no-one else in the regiment will be coming with me this time.  It’s a solo sortie into No Man’s Land.  Not, on reflection, the best of odds for coming back.

Bayonets ready?   There’s the whistle.  Let’s go.