68 days in and I'm on my own in my flat - officially flying solo - my only extra technical assistance a perching stool for the kitchen and a bath board on order. The community OT referral never came through - despite being marked 'urgent' two weeks ago. Instead, we (my trusty solution orientated Physio and myself) cajoled a hospital ward OT to break the rules and bail me out with some equipment. Without this I would have come home with nothing. And 'nothing' would have meant no cooking (and thus poor nutrition), and no shower (enough said!).
S0, going solo - what does it mean? Ever tried to spend a few weeks on your own on crutches - forbidden to put any weight on your right leg? Well - on the upside - its great to be home - fabulous views of the sea from the bedroom window - shame that I can't get outside at all without assistance. My prison is pleasant but oh to run along the beach...
We often talk about the isolation of the elderly infirm - but seldom stop to think about others who might be stuck indoors. Thank goodness for my fabulous neighbours who are rallying around to ensure I get some fresh air, not to mention my pals who turn up regularly with their (or their parents') cars to take me on a wee outing.
Then there is the problem of food. Great - I can choose to eat whatever I want, whenever I want it. But cooking on one leg is tiring, frustrating and dangerous. Perched on the aptly named perching stool I can swing round and reach most of the kitchen (just as well I'm not rich - a large kitchen would be impossible). I can put things in a pot and stir it. I can eat out of the pot (yes I know - dreadful - but washing the dishes is a drag - literally). I have to put my leg up on the bench to prevent it swelling and hurting - which means I have to hold whatever vessel I'm eating out of. I also have to eat where I cook because I can't carry hot food out of the kitchen - nor hot drinks.
If I run out of something I cant just pop out and get it. And the supermarket is so stressful in a wheelchair that I seldom remember to get what I need. The oven is dirty and I can't clean it without a perilous lean off the stool - although abseil clips could solve that one.
A cup of tea in bed is impossible - unless someone buys me a teasmade (do they still make those?). But I can drink the orange juice out of the carton and no one will know. Cleaning the cat litter tray has me beat - but asking someone else to do it isn't that pleasant either. Hoovering is out of the question, although I did manage to sweep the kitchen floor with a small brush.
So I sit here on my couch, the place a mess because moving anything bigger than a cup is ridiculously difficult, enormously grateful to my relatives who took such good care of me over the last nine weeks - and ponder the case of the man allegedly left to die by a couple of ambulance men some weeks ago. Apparently his home was a dreadful mess - and they judged him for it. Turned out he was simply proud, had cripplng arthritus, and couldn't clean his own home. And here's me - with a temporary gammy leg - unable to clean. Impossible to imagine until it happens to you. Tomorrow I'm ordering in a cleaner that doesnt mind emptying out the cat litter!
S0, going solo - what does it mean? Ever tried to spend a few weeks on your own on crutches - forbidden to put any weight on your right leg? Well - on the upside - its great to be home - fabulous views of the sea from the bedroom window - shame that I can't get outside at all without assistance. My prison is pleasant but oh to run along the beach...
We often talk about the isolation of the elderly infirm - but seldom stop to think about others who might be stuck indoors. Thank goodness for my fabulous neighbours who are rallying around to ensure I get some fresh air, not to mention my pals who turn up regularly with their (or their parents') cars to take me on a wee outing.
Then there is the problem of food. Great - I can choose to eat whatever I want, whenever I want it. But cooking on one leg is tiring, frustrating and dangerous. Perched on the aptly named perching stool I can swing round and reach most of the kitchen (just as well I'm not rich - a large kitchen would be impossible). I can put things in a pot and stir it. I can eat out of the pot (yes I know - dreadful - but washing the dishes is a drag - literally). I have to put my leg up on the bench to prevent it swelling and hurting - which means I have to hold whatever vessel I'm eating out of. I also have to eat where I cook because I can't carry hot food out of the kitchen - nor hot drinks.
If I run out of something I cant just pop out and get it. And the supermarket is so stressful in a wheelchair that I seldom remember to get what I need. The oven is dirty and I can't clean it without a perilous lean off the stool - although abseil clips could solve that one.
A cup of tea in bed is impossible - unless someone buys me a teasmade (do they still make those?). But I can drink the orange juice out of the carton and no one will know. Cleaning the cat litter tray has me beat - but asking someone else to do it isn't that pleasant either. Hoovering is out of the question, although I did manage to sweep the kitchen floor with a small brush.
So I sit here on my couch, the place a mess because moving anything bigger than a cup is ridiculously difficult, enormously grateful to my relatives who took such good care of me over the last nine weeks - and ponder the case of the man allegedly left to die by a couple of ambulance men some weeks ago. Apparently his home was a dreadful mess - and they judged him for it. Turned out he was simply proud, had cripplng arthritus, and couldn't clean his own home. And here's me - with a temporary gammy leg - unable to clean. Impossible to imagine until it happens to you. Tomorrow I'm ordering in a cleaner that doesnt mind emptying out the cat litter!
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