There are a number of things they don't tell you when you leave the hospital - like how to get washed properly when there is a high step into the shower, and how to sleep with a moonboot on without rubbing your heel red raw...
So, unbelievably, I still haven't had a shower since my accident - around 6 weeks. And the near future isn't looking too promising either. First was the problem of the cast. Couldn't get it wet. It is possible to buy a waterproof sleeve - but reports varied on whether it would work or not. And being a canny Scot, I wasn't keen to risk my cash. However, once the cast was swapped for the moonboot (easily removable) I thought I might be in with a chance. Until I stood in front of the shower - with my crutches.
My carer popped a plastic chair into the shower. Now all you have to do, she said encouragingly, is to hop backwards upwards (presumably naked) with your crutches into the seat... And then when you have finished, just launch forward (naked and wet) back out again. Needless to say - I am still washing myself at the sink every day, towels, soap and crutches asunder as I attempt to make myself respectable for my physio visits....
Going to bed (and then sleeping) requires the imagination of Heath Robinson and the patience and stillness of a meditating Tibetan monk. The ritual starts one hour in advance - with the little blue pill. Next stop the physio (see below), then the bathroom (per above), and 2 teaspoons of the dreaded senna liquid (don't ask). While in the bathroom my carer organises the bed - 2 pillows for the head, one for the right leg, and the final one for the edge of the moonboot - this has been cunningly devised as a crevasse for the heel to rest in. Under or beside the pillows for the head - the borrowed ipod, the sock for the good foot and the dressing gown (for night trips to the toilet), the phone (for emergencies), and a stash of food for the strange hunger pangs that come around midnight (tea biscuits, banana and yoghurt).
Once prepared - I hop in - remove my clothes (partly aided by a crutch), haul on a nightie (the first time I've worn one since age 12) and then lie down in the only position possible to keep my right leg raised, my heel pressure free, my donor site comfortable and my right hip (badly bruised) relatively pain free. Essentially this is on my back - in a position perfect for snoring although I guess only the cat will hear. If Im lucky - that's it until the porridge turns up around 9 hours later - courtesy of the ever patient Richard... Even sleeping requires a plan when you are in recuperation.
So, unbelievably, I still haven't had a shower since my accident - around 6 weeks. And the near future isn't looking too promising either. First was the problem of the cast. Couldn't get it wet. It is possible to buy a waterproof sleeve - but reports varied on whether it would work or not. And being a canny Scot, I wasn't keen to risk my cash. However, once the cast was swapped for the moonboot (easily removable) I thought I might be in with a chance. Until I stood in front of the shower - with my crutches.
My carer popped a plastic chair into the shower. Now all you have to do, she said encouragingly, is to hop backwards upwards (presumably naked) with your crutches into the seat... And then when you have finished, just launch forward (naked and wet) back out again. Needless to say - I am still washing myself at the sink every day, towels, soap and crutches asunder as I attempt to make myself respectable for my physio visits....
Going to bed (and then sleeping) requires the imagination of Heath Robinson and the patience and stillness of a meditating Tibetan monk. The ritual starts one hour in advance - with the little blue pill. Next stop the physio (see below), then the bathroom (per above), and 2 teaspoons of the dreaded senna liquid (don't ask). While in the bathroom my carer organises the bed - 2 pillows for the head, one for the right leg, and the final one for the edge of the moonboot - this has been cunningly devised as a crevasse for the heel to rest in. Under or beside the pillows for the head - the borrowed ipod, the sock for the good foot and the dressing gown (for night trips to the toilet), the phone (for emergencies), and a stash of food for the strange hunger pangs that come around midnight (tea biscuits, banana and yoghurt).
Once prepared - I hop in - remove my clothes (partly aided by a crutch), haul on a nightie (the first time I've worn one since age 12) and then lie down in the only position possible to keep my right leg raised, my heel pressure free, my donor site comfortable and my right hip (badly bruised) relatively pain free. Essentially this is on my back - in a position perfect for snoring although I guess only the cat will hear. If Im lucky - that's it until the porridge turns up around 9 hours later - courtesy of the ever patient Richard... Even sleeping requires a plan when you are in recuperation.
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