A wee trip out

Its launch day. After months of preparation. Long days and late nights. Researching and writing and editing. Meetings and negotiations. Missing my physio sessions. Checking and cross checking. Shouting last minute instructions. Printing and publishing deadlines. Press releases and speeches. My whole focus since returning to work. Now just the conference to get through. The conference, however, is not in my home town. Its an hour's train ride away. I don't give it a second thought. I'll just get a taxi to the station. Hop on the train. Then hobble a couple of hundred metres to the conference centre. Need to leave home around 7.30 am. And return around 12 hours later.

Yeah... Whatever....

I was OK in the taxi. Early at the station so bought a coffee. Couldn't really carry it so drank it too fast, too hot. Boarded the train and sat, ironically, in the bike area. Plenty of leg room. Picked up my papers and started reading. Train left the station. Then the strangest of things. My hands started shaking. My heartbeat increased. I was dreadfully tired. I couldn't focus. I was afraid. But afraid of what? Leaving the city? The train? the conference? These things were part of my normal life blood. Nothing to worry about. Wasn't even speaking at the conference. Arriving was no better. Struggled out of the train. The crowds were too close and too rude. The distance to the exit seemed ridiculously far. Hobbling out in the heat of the city. Meeting a couple of colleagues. Facing the twenty steps up to the entrance of the concert hall. Lurching into the centre. Far too many stairs and not a lift in sight,

Telling the story once more a thousand times. To colleagues not seen for months. To strangers. To people I vaguely recognised and to apparent strangers who claimed they knew me. My voice started trembling. It was far too much. I sat in the back. But I had things to do. People to meet. Speakers to thank. Food to eat and later, wine to drink.

Back on the 6pm train my legs wobbled and my concentration faded. I couldn't catch my words. I could barely stagger to the waiting taxi to take me home. The conference was a success. My colleagues tired and happy. And I, seven months after being under a truck, was totally fucked.

Men with sticks

Picture the scene. A pavement just wide enough for one person. Person A, on crutches, is heading down it in a southerly direction. Person B, on sticks, is heading up it in a northerly direction. Each has a decision to make. To make contact? Or to sidle past? The distance is narrowing. Each person looks up. Eye contact is made. Both start smiling. Then wider grins. By the time they meet, these two strangers, with nothing in common but a pair of NHS sticks, are laughing out loud. They stop to chat. Sharing their grim tales. He's from the medical profession. South African. Ex rugby player. Hip problems. Her story is already well known.

The next day they meet on the bus. The following day its the beach. She tests his anti apartheid credentials. Remember the Springboks boycott in New Zealand? Tore the country apart. On the fourth day she accuses him of stalking her. And offers him a croissant. The spare one that she bought, rather greedily, to eat in the sun on the Promenade.

If this was Cosmo, this chance meeting of sticks would become a love story. But this is no glossy mag. And of course there is no love story. There is, however, a strange but burgeoning friendship between two people who, on paper at least, should never have met. And certainty never have spoken. Funny old things these sticks. It may be worth hanging on to them for just a bit longer.

Only Five Degrees

Apparently I now only need another five degrees of planter/dorsi movement and I'll be able to walk properly... Only five degrees? May as well be a hundred. My Physio thinks it is possible. My ankle is 'springy' rather than 'clunky'. For 'springy' read potential to improve. So now I have yet more exercises. Walking sideways like a crab and trying not to fall over. Walking with one foot immediately in front of the other and trying not to fall over. Learning the Taoist Walk (Tai Chi): an exercise in extreme concentration, patience and balance. And still all the old exercises too.

Work continues on my knee. Its still twinging and so still a constraint to progress. Current assessment is that I should be able to sort the knee issues within six weeks. If I keep at the physio and the gym. It hurts in the pool after 15 lengths of breaststroke. This is immensely frustrating. But with backstroke the pain kicks in immediately. Time for swimming lessons. Except of course there is no time. So much to do. So little time. And so much energy required. There's a self help manual to be written in this somewhere. I could make my fortune. Star on Oprah Winfrey. Write a column for the Guardian. But no time, of course, to sit down and script the sodding thing.

Big Girl's Blouse

The pain is back. And a weird exhaustion. Kind of physical, kind of mental. Like the day before you go down with a cold. Something's not quite right but it's not clear what. Feel the need to go out, though, for the sake of normality. Movies. Gigs. Dinners. Beer. The Department of Knitting. Doing it all and trying not to say no. Forking out for taxis at immense expense. But knowing that going out and being normal is now more tiring than it was a few weeks ago. Because I'm back at work. And the trouble with being back at work is that it takes all weekend to recover. This can't be right. Doesn't seem fair. But can't abuse the tax payer's generosity.

But the exhaustion is not just work. It's also a result of seven months of trying to recover. Every day some physio or exercise regime. Every day the same conversations with different people. Every week some clinic or other. And there's no let up. Not a single day. And this will go on and on and on. How anyone can keep this sort of momentum up I have no idea. I guess people just do. I guess I will too.

And then on top of all of this is the dawning realisation that actually, its always going to be hard. There will always be constraints. All the chat about a new life is actually correct.

There is no pain free way of dealing with these thoughts. And its not just the big things. Try finding a pair of shoes that fit when your right foot is swollen, the graft gets in the way and you have to wear hot and sweaty insoles that only seem to fit your horrid trainers. No more cutesy shoes for me, then. How to plan a holiday when you're scuppered from doing all the things you used to do. Even a long train journey seems an immense burden.

Emerging from all this are unconscious coping mechanisms. The new activities are fairly obvious. What is more surprising is the number of rather bright shirts appearing in my wardrobe. Women who don't like their figures often focus more on shoes and bags, or exquisite lingerie. But when shoes are out of the question, bags are a pain with crutches, and no fancy underwear can hide the scars, the only thing left is a pretty shirt. Compete with me on eBay at your peril. I take no prisoners in the pursuit of the perfect big girl's blouse.

Do not feed the animals

I don't know how people successfully manage to phase back to work over several weeks. Today I worked nine hours, with no lunch break and only two minutes of physio. I just could not get all the work done. Meeting after meeting. Sitting down on the floor beside my desk tweaking a rubber round my foot while drawing breath. No time for a swim. Too tired for the gym after work. I am supposed to do no more than seven and a half hours. And its only Monday.

On the good side, much of my pain has subsided. I don't go to the canteen, and rarely move from my desk. My colleagues deliver my lunch. And cakes, sweets and biscuits.

I seem to have more flexibility in my foot, but worryingly, have developed a slight rash on my skin graft. I imagine this might be some sort of contact dermatitis. Either that, or my right leg has finally woken up to the fact that there's a bit of left thigh on it and has started the process of rejection. God forbid....

I have started yoga again, managing four of the five Tibetan Rites. (The last one is clearly impossible - used to be my favourite too..) I'm astonished by my loss of flexibility and stamina but rather pleased that I can spin round, albeit very slowly and unsteadily. My balance has been badly affected, partly because I don't have enough muscle strength in my calves to hold myself up. So my latest exercise is to stand on my right leg, and balance for 30 seconds. I can manage about 5 seconds because I collapse in a heap. But I persevere.

The Tibetan Rites require the giving up of sugar. I'm not doing well. A scone, a muffin and a large piece of cake were inhaled at work instead of lunch. And two cups of very strong coffee. This is not good for my anxiety levels, nor, presumably, my general health. For the first time in years I'm putting on weight. I just can't do enough exercise to burn off calories. But how to resist the cakes? I could take up smoking, but going all the way down the stairs for a fag is more hassle than its worth. I could try willpower, but all of that is being spent on the physio. I'm not sodding superwoman. I could stop buying them, but that doesn't remove the freebies in the office.

Perhaps a DO NOT FEED THE ANIMALS should be pinned to my desk. Yes, that's it. Along with DO NOT TEASE tacked to my chair. And SEND HOME BEFORE BEHAVIOURAL PROBLEMS ARISE. That should do it. In nice big red letters. In Times New Roman. Security can pop up and down every so often to ensure compliance. And pink sheet me if I step out of line.

The Professor

The compensation claim is a long slow process. I have little to do with it but turn up for the odd appointment. It is one of these that brings me into contact with The Professor. This gentleman, from an earlier era, is to write my medical report that will go to the truck driver's insurance company. It is not appropriate for my own consultant to write the report - for obvious reasons. Thus neutral and expert advice is sought. My union is paying for this. The fee is well over £100.

First problem. How to get there. The private clinic is on a useful bus route. The bus drops me close to the entrance but on the wrong side of the road. There is no safe way to cross. The road is four lanes wide. It is too far to hobble with my crutches all the way to the lights. I spend several minutes waiting for a lull, the go for it. Safely on the other side I meet problem number two.

The clinic is at the top of a very steep hill. There is no courtesy vehicle. There is also only partial pavement. I am forced onto the road more than once. This is a place for cars and of course, their drivers. In sweltering heat I hobble up the hill. It takes around 15 minutes. Ridiculous. I mention the idea of a courtesy vehicle to the receptionist. And the danger of the road crossing. I meet another victim who also complains. I guess nothing will change. Us carless folk are strange creatures in this place.

I have around 25 minutes with The Professor. During this time he shows me no empathy, no sympathy. He is curt to the point of rudeness. He disagrees with my descriptions of my experiences. And in a couple of bullet points he wipes out my future. I am deeply shocked. No one had said any of this stuff to me before.

I will never walk properly on rough ground. So that's the end of hill walking then. Even the beach is going to prove difficult. I will never cycle up mountains again. If I dare to, I will suffer. I have had a 'devastating injury'. I should not have positive expectations. My previous life is over. He is less clear on arthritis. Its a possibility. And if it occurs it will hurt. My suggestions of other sports, such as sailing. also prove pointless. Skiing may be possible, he says. but he doubts I'll get ski boots to fit. He has no advice on footwear. He advises me to end my medication. Side effects he says. And with that, a few gentle twists of my ankle, and a couple of questions about pain and interests, I am ushered out.

As I wait for my taxi to work I am in tears. I've been living in a dream world. My working assumption is that as long as I do my physio, I'll get back to some level of normality. What have I been thinking? Such head in the sand behaviour! But there is no other way of doing the physio. It has to have a positive end. Otherwise, why get out of bed in the morning? Why go through the pain and hassle?

But I am also furious. Furious with The Professor. I paid, though my union membership, for that very expensive consultation. Messages such as these are always difficult to pass on. But there are ways and means of delivering them. Clearly The Professor's skills are technical rather than social. He may be a wizard with a hacksaw but a counsellor he is not.

At work, I weep a bit more. The next day too. But four days on I am back as an ostrich. I spend 2 hours at physio and a further 2 at the gym and pool. If I can get out from under a 32 tonne truck, The Professor should be no problem at all.