Moving Well

My mobility, it seems, is not just my business. In the last couple of weeks 'you're moving well' has become the opening gambit of friends, colleagues, strangers who have heard of me, shopkeepers in my high street, health professionals who know me, and a few others not in any of these categories.

On a couple of occasions, people have looked openly surprised. Smiling. A minor medical miracle strolling into a meeting room, standing watching a gig all night in The Caves, wandering round Scotmid nonchalantly, daring to cross the road against the lights, springing off the bus without hanging onto the guard rail, no longer sitting by the right hand aisle in the cinema....

What few see of course, are the clumsy orthotics, the daily grind of physio, the twice weekly biodex machine hammering me to hammer my quads, the visits to the psychologist, the (largely) hidden skin graft scars, the ongoing pain in my knee and ankle, meetings with lawyers, discussions with HR about sick pay, the angst of trying to do a full time job effectively with all this other rehab stuff, and the fatigued collapse at the end of the day from sheer bloody mindedness in making all this happen.

I am not cured. I cannot run. I can't yet attempt a Munroe. I'm still not back in the traffic on my bike. But I am far further on that anyone thought possible. Some would call this a miracle. Lucky. High quality NHS results. But actually this is now all down to physio and hard graft. My physiotherapist. Her assistant who operates the Biodex machine. And me. Collectively we are taking on the world. And winning. And if there's a moral to this story, its simply that.

Folks - if you are told to do your physio or related exercise, do it. Don't put it off for another day. Don't be frustrated by slow progress. Or lonely in your endeavours. Or angry about 'why me?' Or think someone else will do it for you. Just get on with it. Because the results are not just for you. They're for everyone else around you who is just itching for your success.

The Waiting List

Christmas and new year passed with snow, ice, champagne and not a single fall. A visit to a French ski field (without the skis of course) was a harsh lesson in 'look what I can't do (yet)'.

But it was also a victory in 'look where I can go now'. Walking on snow. Jumping into a moving gondola. Climbing up the icy steps to the restaurant. Not being run over by an errant snow boarder... Strolling to the next village.

Walking round Geneva for five hours, with its $500,000 watches and the International Red Cross Museum (what an extraordinary combination) was a lesson that lasted nearly a week. Ill nae do that again...

Safely back in Scotland, to my disappointment, there is no letter from St Johns. Ten weeks after the clinic appointment. I ring the waiting times manager and leave a message. Astonishingly, he rings me back. Polite, helpful and generous with his time.

It seems that, unusually, my plastic surgeon operates on Fridays. As Christmas and new year fell on Fridays, two operating days were lost. Then there was the snow. And emergencies. And he has to take some leave this year because he didn't get much last year. There are new HEAT targets, but its not clear which operations they apply to (presumably not cosmetic surgery to improve my ego and help me get a pair of boots on) . And suddenly Houston, we have a problem.

Would I consider going to the Golden Jubilee in Glasgow? I am reassured that I would still have the same consultant. Of course I say (ever helpful). Without asking where it actually is. Or how I am going to get to the other side of Glasgow for 7am. (Later I discover it is near the Erskine Bridge. Getting there will be one thing. Getting back post anesthetic will be something else indeed).

So. The waiting list manager knows who I am. He will speak to my consultant about the Golden Jubilee. But I do not have my appointment. Which means I cannot plan. Anything. Any time in February, March or April. No theatre tickets. No gigs. No holidays. No major work events. I am in a waiting list limbo. With an Erskine Bridge logistics puzzle. And a physio regime that suddenly requires gym equipment rather than a couple of ankle weights at home. This, it seems, is the nature of rehab. Just when you have mastered the exercise regime and the time and motion practices required to make it happen, a whole new thing has to be developed, learnt, and built into one's life. Is this manageable? Of course. I think of Haiti. And I crack on.