Inflatable slippers keep you awake as well

So I had the operation - well, this is purely an assumption on my part because I had been asleep for a while, but someone must have done something because my lower back was bloody sore - and I was taken back to Side Room 3, where I had begun my surgical adventure the day before. I had a drip connected to my right hand and one of those nose clip thingies which I never realised before was to supply oxygen; and we used to watch Casualty – tut!

I was initially provided with a bottle to pee in but, worryingly, it was constructed of egg-box cardboard and the nurse told me to press the call button as soon as it had been used, otherwise... well, the consequences don’t bear thinking about. As if it wasn’t bad enough having to try and defy gravity by using the damn’ thing, while I was fumbling beneath the sheet with it, I accidentally pulled the drip needle from my right hand; for an instant, I did wonder where all the blood was coming from. So, fresh sheets, gown etc. I might have been forgiven for thinking it would be quite nice to be sponged down by a nurse; not so, although it might have been because there was another nurse there at the time.

She took the bottle (by this time, I had persuaded them to give me a decent plastic one – gravity still presented a problem, though) and, as she crossed the corridor, I heard her shout to her colleague “I’ve taken his bottle – thousand mil!” I wondered if this was a record for I could think of no reason for mentioning it other than the existence of some kind of competition.

Apart from the old feller further down the corridor shouting “Great Britain!” and “No, get back!” at the top of his voice, the buzzer at the nurse station going off every few minutes (this was immediately adjacent to Side Room 3), the nurse coming in to do “obs”, the raging storm and the inflatable slippers, it was very peaceful.

Inflatable slippers? Ah, yes, these are innovative devices which fit over your feet and are designed to prevent DVT by inflating and deflating constantly, very much like the armband on a blood pressure machine.

The best thing about my hospitalisation? Morphine.

Christmas and infection

Inevitable, wasn't it? Well, both of the above, of course. One happens at the same time every year and the other happens to me after an operation.

There is now officially no more room in my tablet box: antibiotics have been added to the Amlodipine, Ramipril, Paracetamol, Codeine Phosphate and Diclofenac. If I could only jump up and down, I would rattle. Still, it's apparently not too serious but I've got to go back to see the nurse to have the wound redressed on Christmas Eve and again on Monday. If only it was my birthday before then, I could go free on the bus! Anyway, with the first part of the heading in mind, I would like to take the opportunity to wish all of you a stupendous Christmas and New Year and desperately hope to be able to make the February meet to see a lot of you again. I've said this before, but you are a marvellous bunch of people who I have been privileged to know during the past few years. It's a great shame the internet wasn't around sooner. Love to all of you.

Confused, Salisbury

So there I was on Thursday 11^th December, finally, in hospital, full of apprehension because it would be the first time I would ever be confined in one overnight; it wasn’t so much the fear of undergoing surgery, more the indignities I could potentially suffer. I mean, your private functions go out the window, don’t they? No, don’t be daft, you know what I mean, I had my own side room with a shower and toilet - anyway, the window didn’t open wide enough.

I had received a letter instructing me to make my way to a certain ward at four o’clock but we were a little early, having arrived just after half-past three. We were shown into one of the ward bays (which are a pretty good size, more or less circular and contain four beds and a small seating area with a view of rolling countryside and Car Park 8). At a quarter to five, I was shown to my room by a very pleasant, rather portly black nurse (in case you were wondering, I mention her ethnicity because I would like you to imagine the way she moved, as if a hidden calypso was dictating her gait) who said “Could you walk this way?” I restrained myself; oh, all right, I didn’t. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I’m hoping to be able to soon.” She had the good grace to chuckle.

The last thing I expected was a room to myself with an en suite shower and toilet and a considerable amount of the aforementioned apprehension swiftly dissipated. We explored the room and I unpacked my nightie etc. Nobody had yet appeared to tell me what to expect but Sheila had to get home so she left at about a quarter past five and I was left twiddling my thumbs (as far as I was physically able to), wondering what I should or shouldn’t be doing. I fiddled with the overpriced Patientline (now in administration and taken over by Hospedia, I understand) telephone and TV (the radio service was free), read a bit of my book and pondered over the Telegraph crosswords; I finished those at about twenty past seven and, shortly after this – hurrah! - a nurse came in and took my blood pressure and temperature. I thought it would be nice to know the forthcoming routine so I interrupted her conveyor belt and asked if that was all that was going to happen for the rest of the night. “Yes,” she answered. Little liar.

I got into bed quite early, read a bit more and fell asleep unusually early for me, at about ten, but was awoken at midnight by the aforementioned nurse – the mendacious little minx - who visited again to do my “obs” (you do slip into the jargon quite quickly – “obs”, “meds”, “bedpan” etc.

There was no further interruption until twenty to four when the nurse came in to take my jug of water away (you are allowed fluids only up to two hours before surgery but I had been told earlier that I would be able to have a couple of sips to take my normal blood pressure medication). She obviously didn’t trust me and said, “I have to do this because you’re going to theatre in the morning.” This was the first I’d heard of it; it made good sense, though, as I was already there but nobody had confirmed when I was going until then. “I can have a little with my medication, though, can’t I?” “Oh, no.” “Oh, right.”

A little later (about half-past six), while I was having a wash and the nurse was changing the bedding, another nurse shouted through the door that I could have a couple of small sips of water in order to take my medication. I began to feel like those passengers at Terminal 5 on opening day, except I don’t suppose any of them had numb legs.

To be continued...

Shortly = 45 minutes

How crap is an almost four month interval between blogs? Utter, entire, total, complete, absolute, comprehensive, full-blown, thorough, unmitigated, wholesale, downright, and many other adjectives too numerous to mention (go on, check with Roget), that’s what.

So, with abject apologies (becoming increasingly all too common) and, as intimated to a mutual friend recently, here is the first since what we only just had time to refer to as summer. That last one recounted the medical position extant at that time. Anyway, things have moved on and I have now been given a date for the operation (Friday 12^th December) when the consultant will perform an L4 spinal decompression and partial discectomy; if you want to know where L4 is, you’ll have to look it up on a map (someone has told me it might be just off the M4).

Last Thursday, I had to go to a pre-admission clinic which I was led to believe would be a quick question-and-answer session but which turned into a marathon, kicked off by the orthopaedic receptionist who, when saying “Sister will see you shortly” omitted to explain what her version of “shortly” meant (see the heading). Anyway, suffice to say that the thoroughness of the staff at Salisbury District Hospital was admirably demonstrated by the number of tests I was subjected to: blood pressure (OK, but the new machine they had only acquired last week was acting up and it was a “best of three” calculation), MRSA test (swab up the nose), weight (best glossed over), *ahem* test (glucose levels, some present, as it turned out but subsequently acceptable), X-ray (the worst part of this was when I had to get dressed and realised that I couldn’t undo the knot I’d tied at the back of the gown and had to try and remove it over my head - try not to think about it), blood (results have proved fine, overnight service!), ECG (no problems) but removal of the ten adhesive contacts afterwards was like how it must feel being waxed. I had arrived at the hospital at 2.45pm and left at 5.15pm, arriving home a bare 10 minutes before Manchester City kicked off in their UEFA Cup game against Schalke 04; it was too late to cook so we had to send out for Chinese – shame!

Also, Sky+ came into its own as the dog had to be walked and horse fed, so the match was put on hold for a good 15 minutes – I turned my phone off to curtail any potential piss-taking: not necessary, as it turned out! I am currently going through a grump phase because of the imminent surgery, the earliness of the date of which has resulted from a cancellation and, if I’m honest, I’m a bit frightened. I attribute the cause of my current absence from anything other than limericks to this state of mind. Copout, perhaps. Sorry and all that. I really hope I can make the next meet but, in the meantime, please bear with me.

Hospital

You may remember me mentioning my two prolapsed discs. I have been undergoing hospital treatment to relieve their detrimental effect. One of the little sods (T4, I think the doc said) is buggering up my left leg, making it numb and weak (in the region of the knee), causing a number of recent falls (one down the stairs – good job I was only on the second step, the main casualty being the dog who I frightened to death as I knocked over - and fell on top of - the gate which prevents him going upstairs spreading gob and dirty footprints further round the house than he already does).

When he sees me heading downstairs now (backwards, of course), he rapidly vacates his bed before I'm halfway down. Anyway, the treatment recently involved my having something called a farominal root injection in the lower back. Cortisone is now sloshing around my nether regions and, coupled with the rattling of the numerous pain-killers (common or garden Paracetamol (Tesco), Calcium Phosphate and Diclofenac - both on prescription - I wish I hadn't read the leaflet in the Diclofenac box), I sound like a plastic bottle containing water and marbles when I walk (oh, haha!); hopefully, it will do its stuff in due course.

At the hospital, when I was called from the Clinical Radiology waiting area, a nurse took me to a changing room where she instructed me to take all my clothes off, except my pants (that's knickers to all you northern folk). I did wonder why I needed to remove my socks to have an injection in the back but I meekly complied (it's the uniform that does it, y'know) and put on the gown provided. Another nurse then came to take me into to the treatment room. "Doctor Bentley…", she began. "…does it gently?" I poetically suggested with lashings of optimism. "Ooh, I never thought of that before", she said (yeah, right), "he definitely does and he'll explain everything to put your mind at rest." And he did, very succinctly and with a highly commendable bedside manner.

In the end, I don't know why I'd been worried - the worst part of the whole process was one of the nurses having to put my socks back on for me while I was sat on a disabled toilet (all the changing cubicles were taken).

That His Dark Materials bloke...

Is a bit of a whizz when you think about it - IMHO, of course, to which I think I am entittled – and it was Mort whose entry in Favourite Things made me buy the trillilogy off eBay a while ago and I read it in double quick time - does that make six or one-and-a-half? Ho-hum. Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed it and also the resultant fillum 'Golden Compass' but am somewhat irritated to hear that production of 'The Subtle Knife' may be hampered by objections from various religious groups who seem to be contending that Philip Pullman is a heretic who was writing with blatantly obvious relish about the necessity for a war against and the eventual destruction of God. And here's me thinking it was a story.

Anyway, to tone things down a little, I should like to refer to another of Mr Pullman's literary offerings; he also wrote a quartet of novels about a character called Sally Lockhart. Now I am easily led (see the reference to Mort above) and, one afternoon, I chanced to have the opportunity to watch a BBC production of 'Ruby in the Smoke' (the first novel) starring Billy Piper (ahem, crosses legs) as our heroine (apparently, there is also a BBC production of the second novel 'Shadow in the North' which I haven't yet seen – strangely, it has not yet appeared on UK Drama or UK Drama +1, 2, 3 or 4). Billie wasn't bad as Sally but worth particular mention is Julie Walters, who played the thoroughly evil and disgusting Mrs Holland wonderfully.

I also thoroughly enjoyed this to the extent that I bought all four books in the series and read 'em all on holiday. And jolly exciting reading they made, an' all! Would anyone like to read them? I'd be happy to share/donate them; I didn't even realise Philip Pullman had written them until the credits rolled at the end of 'Ruby'.

You may think this was a pointless blog but at least it was a blog. Love to one and all and sorry I missed the meet.

Back in business

My blogging stats are even worse than Simon G's these days but not much seems worth chronicling. If I go on about my back being, er, back, it'll seem like I'm feeling sorry for myself and whingeing.

Well, all right, then, ever since I did a bit of bending in the garden about three weeks ago my back has been killing me – my own fault, I suppose – and the two most comfortable positions I can adopt at the moment are upright in my office chair and lying down. I've got another appointment with the rheumatologist in a couple of days but it is proving something of a logistical nightmare trying to figure out how I can get to Salisbury Hospital either in my office chair or lying down. Any ideas?

In other news, it is almost sad to relate that little of note occurred to mar the enjoyment of our recent holiday in France (at the same campsite), unlike last year when – as you may remember- it rained continuously and we were exposed to the menace of the oak processionary caterpillar. I am pleased to say that of that wretched multiped there was not a trace and, for me, the holiday was totally spot-free, even from those induced by the mosquito; I attribute that most satisfactory state of affairs to the quinine content of Schweppe's Tonic Water. Apparently, the appropriate authorities and other campsites had begun to take the threat of the OPC in Northern Europe much more seriously and the whole site had been chemically treated via helicopter earlier in the year (with, so far as I am aware, the loss of no clients at all), the exercise being part of an overall scheme to test various methods of controlling the problem. As an aircraft was used, I assume it must have been a pilot scheme.

A bientot!

Dreamland

I feel like Sandra Bullock. I'm sure I'm not the only man to have said that at one time or another in his life but I'm not talking about a desire to know her carnally or anything like that……ermmm…… well, anyway, for the purpose of this blog, I feel like her because, the other night, I saw the film "Premonition" in which she plays a character who has extraordinarily vivid and disturbing dreams that foresee her husband's death and the aftermath (the beforemath as well, actually) of it. It is a quite entertaining fillum. 

Recently, I, too, have been experiencing dreams (at last, the point!) which, although they have chronicled slightly less important issues than my husband's death (you know what I mean), have still induced a strong feeling of unease at the time. These are the ones I can remember:- - I lose a large encyclopedia which I borrowed from the library and which is due back that day - A train drives over my glasses and I have lost my spare pair - I arrive at my local pub and it has been demolished - I suddenly find myself in a totally unfamiliar location (possibly in forrin) wearing only swimming trunks - I wake up suddenly, thinking I have overslept and missed a very important appointment, but it is only 5.45 a.m. I realise this is not strictly speaking a dream but have no doubt it is the consequence of some unconscious thought processes occurring during sleep. Of course, I then can't get back to sleep. 

I'm a bit fed up feeling like Sandra Bullock now.

Legging it...

…or not.

This is not a new shiny I appreciate having, really.

I need it if I know I have to walk more than about 500 yards (i.e. to the pub). Note the go faster stripes on it (they don't work, by the way).

The MRI scan I had fascinatingly showed two prolapsed discs – they've got letters and numbers, you know – and are doing something or other to my sciatic nerve. One of them is responsible for my left leg being (1) partially numb and (2) weak, hence the requirement to employ the aid pictured here.

Also, apparently, I have a something or other shoulder - well, I can't help it if I can't remember what the nice shoulder specialist at the Shoulder Clinic (I kid you not) called it, can I? I'd had an anaesthetic injection in it last November and, until now, it has been marvellous - I've even been able to get dressed by myself.

It's pissing me off a bit but there are folk a bloody sight worse off than me, aren't there? At least I've still got my sanity. *wibble*

Ooh, look - a blog!

Ringing the changes

Today, we went shopping in Salisbury and it was a pleasant interlude. Try the warm home-made quiche in Poppy's Tea Shop with lashings of home-made coleslaw – mmm! Anyway, the main point of this blog (the second in two days – are you impressed?) is to tell you about my doorbell episode. Hence the title.

For about two weeks now, our front doorbell has not worked. I bought a new battery for the bell-push, having got the digital meter out and established the presence of insufficient voltage in the current one - see what I did there? It still didn't work.

During our perambulations, we happened upon Robert Dyas (I can never go past the damn shop) and I spotted a wireless doorbell on offer for 15 GBP instead of 30. You can even record and play your own messages or download music to the chime unit. I did toy with the idea of recording a shouted message along the lines of "open the fucking door, someone!" but thought that might upset the Salvation Army if they ever called, so I opted for the default Big Ben chime (in my opinion rather grandly referred to in the manual as the Westminster). This was the least offensive of the 8 pre-loaded tones available included among which is the Lambada and the Mexican Hat Dance. You would probably find people dancing on your front doorstep. Hmmm.

Well, the bell-push already had a nice CR2032 button battery installed but I had to nip over to the Tesco Express opposite to get a couple of LR14s (aka UM2 or C) for the chime unit. Before I did that, however, I was in the kitchen fiddling with the new bell-push. When I pressed it, the old doorbell rang.

Bugger.

We hadn't long eaten meat…

…when the dessert arrived.

Hahahahahaha, see what I did there?

Anyway, it was the n^th SimonG meet on Saturday (there appears to be some confusion over how many there have been) and Jenny very kindly offered me a sofa (no, it wasn't from her Mum's flat) for the weekend, so I could attend the Eaton Farm pub in Long Eaton properly refreshed; leaving the pub properly refreshed was naturally down to me! As it happened, Gottle ended up on the sofa and at the constant mercy of nocturnal feline interference. Luckily, the bedroom I occupied had a door that fastened! Hurrah!

Several hours earlier, I had taken the Cross Country train from Bournemouth and, having booked the ticket online before Christmas, benefited from: (1) an amazingly reasonable price (£26 return) and (2) a reserved seat – I commend this system to you all. There was even an electric socket for PDAs and laptops – what more could you ask for? Not a signal failure between Birmingham International and Birmingham New Street, that's for sure.

Being one of the most considerate people of our generation, I relinquished my seat 10 minutes before the scheduled arrival at New Street (14.43) with the intention of enabling someone who had hitherto been standing to sit, and waiting in the passage until we arrived. Within 3 minutes of arriving in the stifingly hot passage with a mass of humanity exuding body odours of varying richness, the announcement of the signal failure up ahead was, er, announced, which meant that we were being diverted and it would take at least another 25 minutes, advancing the arrival time to 15.12; my connection departed at 15.13.

When we arrived at New Street, it would be disingenuous of me to report that I ran to the main concourse; a person in my advanced degenerative condition could at best be described as hurrying (and that would be kind). As I limped towards approached the information board, the announcer told me that there had been a platform change and the 15.13 to Nottingham was now leaving from Platform 11a. I raced (oh, come on!) down the stairs and caught it with a minute to spare. In fact, had it left on time and not 3 minutes late, I would have missed it.

It was great to see members of the fabulous blogring again and to actually meet someone I hadn't met, i.e. Me (I've done all the jokes before so I'll leave it at that), who lives in Welshland and who had arrived at the pub an hour before Paul, Jenny and me!

Many thanks again to Jenny for organising the event, lifts to and from the station, and putting me and Gottle up for two nights at an extraordinarily competitive B&B rate. The mess Mediterranean (or Italian) Beef Casserole on Friday night was superb!

Ooh! I've just done a blog!

Letter to me

I'm not sure but I think Hutters put me up to this. This is a letter from me now to me at 13 years of age:

Dear Nigel, You will be called Lois in about 40 years time but that's not important right now. Right now, you must stop hanging around at school with the likes of Jock and Ken and the other wankers. It's easy for me to say now but you really have to learn to stand on your own two feet a lot sooner than you actually will. Just because Mum ran around after all of us and we never lifted a finger to help doesn't mean she liked doing it. Neither, I imagine, did she like the beatings from Dad after closing time while we cowered on the stairs. I don't suppose for a minute that this will stop you from only getting three O-levels and realising too late that you want to carry on in the sixth form but, because you will continue to act like a prick, the headmaster will say "no chance" and you will walk out of school smoking. Don't be too hasty in affairs of the heart and don’t think you must be in love with someone just because she lets you be intimate with her. Down that road could lie endless unhappiness. That will be narrowly averted, by the way. You will agree to accompany cousin Ruth to the Youth Employment Office whence you will be sent to an interview after which you will enjoy – with varying degrees of intensity – a moderately successful 37-year professional career, during the last eighteen months of which you will cope badly with the pressure of work. This unfortunate period will come to an end although various parts of you will start (and continue) to hurt a bit. The good news is that you will have a fantastic family of your own and make a lot of wonderful friends. Finally, the beginning of the year 2009 will herald the award to you of a free bus pass – use it wisely! Yours (mine) very sincerely, Lois