Buy Nothing Day

Today is Buy Nothing Day. Unfortunately I only heard about this after I bought (for £3.50) thorn proof gloves for another onslaught on the allotment. Is this allowed? Or should I have made do with a pair of old socks lined with cardboard toilet roll innards?

It followed a (all expenses paid) night out with an international delegation in a country hotel out of town. Where fine wine flowed with a view to increasing sustainable profits in the countries involved. And the Annual Chambers of Commerce Dinner in Glasgow earlier in the week. Where the 20 year old keynote speaker made millions from his gran's jam recipe - and where I had to wait 45 minutes for a taxi to for a one mile journey that I could easily have made on foot had I not been using a stick.

At both of these events I wore my trainers. Which made the formal dress code somewhat difficult. Not, I confess, as a protest to the gods of economic growth. I don't possess that sort of courage. (Nor of course would it be professional. I was at both events representing my employer. And I'm a stickler for doing the right thing. ) But because, one year after the truck thing, I still have to wear club footer orthotics. Which will only fit in my trainers.

One year in the same pair of shoes. I am a poster child for anti consumerism.. With a penchant for Ebay.... How could this have happened to a woman who couldn't get a past a shoe shop without frosting the window with misty eyed anticipation....

The first year anniversary of being covered by Disability Discrimination legislation passed relatively quietly. No one at work noticed. Until I told them, that is. One or two people sent texts. Considerate and thoughtful. I invited some pals to dinner. We drank fizz and celebrated. Sitting at a dinner table I am perfectly normal. Even funny at times. I can still cook. I can still entertain. As long, of course, that it doesn't involve walking more than a couple of blocks for a crucial missing ingredient.

One friend bought me a new ironing board. Ironing on the floor with a knackered leg is deeply uncomfortable. To be avoided at all costs. And not having access to a car or a pair of decent legs, prevented independent purchase. I am delighted with my acquisition. It has smiling pink dots. Hangs on the back of the laundry door with a certain chutzpas. These days its the simple pleasures that count. In the past it would have been a new tent. State of the art cycle panniers. A sleeping bag that would fold into one's palm. And now I am charmed by an ironing board. Jesus!

One year on I feel I should write down all the zen like things I have learnt. Profound lessons of the heart. How I have reformed because I'm lucky to be alive. But alas dear friends, life is not like that. I have not raised a million for charity. Nor put myself through some dreadful endurance test in some far flung corner of the world. I do not command audiences on how to be good. Or do motivational speeches in the corporate world. I've simply read a few good books, done a spot of gardening and continued relentlessly with my physio. And, in the last few days, reveled in the unexpected pleasure of a new ironing board... My life is almost complete.

Support Tights (and post op blues)

Six days after my operation. My foot hurts. I can't get to the Co-op because of the pain. But worse than this, I want to lie down all the time. Its a sort of verging-on-fainting crossed with low-blood-sugar/low-blood-pressure sort of horror. I scour the Internet. Seems this is a fairly normal post anesthetic experience. I don't remember it from last time. I lie on the couch. Fuming.

However, no time for self pity. Monday 9th November. Must be St Johns Plastic Surgery Clinic (a 45 minute drive). My aunt deposits me at the front door and hunts down a car park (with difficulty). In the outpatients clinic we are informed of a 45 minute delay - which becomes an hour. This gives us time to sample the rather good fruit scones from the little canteen. And herbal tea.

Finally, its my turn. The nurse has read my notes and comments on the near anniversary of my accident. I almost weep with gratitude. Its a small thing. But so important. She whips off my dressing. I am less grateful for this. The consultant thinks that he can reduce the graft to near 'normal'. Straight forward liposuction - repeated if necessary. Day Surgery and a general anesthetic. 1:100 risk of infection. 18 week waiting list which will reduce at new year.

Strangely - this is not music to my ears. Have extra funds been provided to reduce waiting times? Or it will it be done through efficiency gains and time and motion studies? I'm no expert but, given the choice (which I wont be of course) I'd rather wait longer and have more holistic care than being rammed through the system like some sort of inverse slaughterhouse. I decide to give them the benefit of the doubt. Reducing waiting times should be a good thing. I will embrace it with open arms.

And speaking of embracing, there's the small problem of support tights. Apparently I will have to wear the aforementioned horrors for 8 weeks after the operation. To keep the swelling down and ensure a good result. And to get used to this, I have to start practicing soon. Twenty minutes a day. Christ! I haven't decided on the colour yet, but I'm thinking blood red as a starter for ten. I could even jazz them up with some graffiti. Best suggestion wins the left support stocking - which of course - I will have absolutely no need for.

Tension Wires

On Wednesday morning my neighbour dropped me at the Day Surgery Unit at 7.15. The waiting room was surprisingly busy, surprisingly cold and bereft of mental simulation. The receptionist (also a nurse) had lost the list for Theatre 18. Being on Theatre 21 list meant by interest was purely theoretical. Why wasn't the list on a computer file somewhere? Why was she phoning other departments to ask them to fax it to her? Whatever happened to a health care service fit for the 21st century? Or is it simply that so many people need access to the list, that a computer file would be less manageable?

Around an hour later I meet my nurse and we do the usual checking and testing. Next - the anaesthetist who is under the impression I am having something done to my elbow. Having corrected her we discuss anaesthetic options. She decides on a general. Apparently I am fit and healthy. Then the minion of my consultant draws an arrow on my leg with a black felt pen. Minion, I guess, probably isn't fair - but I can't quite remember who he was. At this point I am second on the list. Then suddenly I am first. Whipped into a changing room. Gown, hat, slippers and some weird space blanket thing which is to be my dressing gown on the way to theatre. Onto the trolley and down the corridor at a brisk pace.

In the anaesthetic room (which is horribly small) the desultory conversation turns nasty over the Edinburgh Trams. As a protagonist for sustainable transport, clearly I am a supporter. The anaesthetist and one of her sidekicks clearly aren't. I am on my back and vulnerable. They wield the power. And the drugs. I panic. Not over the trams - which are outwith the control of a patient in the ERI about to have surgery, but at the mask - which appears too fast. I push it off and mumble something along the lines of 'no yet'. This has little effect. I am given a hand to hold. The anti-trams people win, and the next thing I know I'm in Recovery.

I move from Recovery to a ward without windows. There are more nurses in one place than the total I have seen in the last year. Well, I think they are nurses. Its very hard to tell. From cleaners to surgeons the uniform is the same. Which may be useful for cost savings. But it ain't great for patient confidence. They do have badges. But these cant be read from a distance.

At some point I get tea and a biscuit. Later a sandwich and a yogurt. Even cheese and biscuits. The food is fresh and good and the tea is horrible. Meant to bring my own. My blood pressure drops like a stone. I'm not allowed up. This, it turns out, is because I have had a sciatic nerve block. Which, for the uninformed - is in essence a dead leg. I don't remember agreeing to this. Which later becomes a problem. Because although I am ready for discharge. Have my GP letter, my drugs and wound dressing instructions, I am not allowed home until the block effect disappears. Which I am told in the afternoon, could take 24 hours.

I weep. I rant. I try persuasion. I do not want to stay the night. I was not prepared for this No one mentioned it. I have no stuff. No money. And there are no windows in this place. I have not had a wash. Eventually I am told I can only leave if I sign a self discharge form. Clearly I am not going to do this. I don't want it on my file. I give in. Ask to be moved to the other side of the 'ward'. Complain of the stifling heat. Am given a fan. And surprisingly, sleep for most of the night. In retrospect this tantrum was probably caused by stress. And lack of control. And the weird prison like environment - despite the general friendliness of the nurses. I dont want to be a prima donna... But still....

Around 3am I realise my block has vanished. I now understand the link between the block and pain. And that the block was probably a good thing. I sleep a bit more until we are woken at 6 so that the night shift can prepare the ward, patients and breakfasts before the day shift comes on. This seems a bit early to me - but I guess its the routine that works for the staff and the numbers of patients they need to process each day.

I take a handful of painkillers. Panadol. Dihydrocodeine, Ibuprofen. And hope for the best. Breakfast is stunning. There is juice, but only be chance. I am reminded I am lucky to have this - left over from yesterday. Juice is not normally available for breakfast. I eat bran flakes in misery and wash my face at the sink with no mirror. I hop on my crutches without permission and head for the bathroom. I do my teeth and ignore the shower. The instructions for keeping my wound dry meant that showering is far too much hassle. I discover several more patients down the corridor that have been as quiet as mice all night.

Around 10.30am I am rescued by an anesthetist friend and delivered home. I am intact, minus the tension wires that were removed, with a small neat scar with dissolving stitches. I have survived operation number 5.

Where are the wild things?

Monday night. Spent watching The Fabulous Mr Fox. With a friend. Overeating Minstrels. (Me - not her). And seeing the Jonz trailer for the first time. Noticed I keep getting my words mixed up. Indigestion all day Sunday. Stress probably. The forthcoming operation? Or the ten hour days at work? The stupidly arrogant nurses at the clinic last week? Or knackering my knee and having to reduce my physio for a couple of weeks.... Or simply a Scottish winter closing in....

But its not all doom and gloom. Swapped the guerrilla allotment for Lynn's mother's garden rather closer to home. A ten minute walk. With a shed. And a briar jungle. Sharing it with an old school friend. Clearing the brambles and tripping over stumps was a (failed) test for my foot. I haven't mastered rough ground yet. But the garden is cool. As are the 'new' neighbours. One with a handy machete. And another with a pretty cat and a penchant for wildflowers. And a sunny market garden wall for everyone. I hope Lynn's mother doesn't move. At least not for a couple of years.

I still carry my stick around. But I forgot to take it to the clinic last week. Which must be a good sign. Its more of a comfort blanket these days. But after the gardening, I needed it for sure. And after operation Number 5, its companion will be dragged out of the wardrobe and put back into service. 352 days in.

I'm planning some sort of survival anniversary on the 19th. Anyone for Where the Wild Things Are?