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.

Grounded

It was only a matter of time. Its a while since I've had a 'regression' and now here it is. Seems that a couple of days of work were simply too much for my ankle and foot to cope with. The distances in the office are considerably more than my living room - and its a fair old hike to the printer. My ankle complained almost immediately, as did my knee. My Physio prodded and poked and decided we should ease back on the exercises, boycott the gym and stop walking for non essential trips.

This is, of course, infuriating. As is the constant pain. The weather is fabulous. I need to get to my allotment. I have a huge work load to address. There's a chance to share a dinghy in our new 'neighbourly' sailing club. I want to try on wetsuits. I had finally found my independence. - getting the bus into town on my own. I had just started some cardio exercise. And now I'm essentially stuck at home. Getting fatter with each waking hour. With a new set of very subtle quad and knee exercises. Too close a proximity to the kitchen. And some rather baffled cats.

So, in a desperate act of normality, I book a flight to Barcelona for late August to visit my fabulous friends in Tarragona. I feel vaguely guilty about this flight. This was going to be my year of not flying. But I fear 18 hours on the train may be too much for a semi - cripple. (It remains to be seen whether the airline will charge me extra for the sticks. To prevent potential humiliation I forked out an extra £100 to avoid Ryanair...)

I listen to my Spanish lessons on the bus to Physio. I line up my Spanish books on the table. Beside my gardening books. I may even open them sometimes. I accept a few more couch surfers, and I wonder how long this whole recuperation lark is going to take. I read blogs of folk cycling the world and I wish it was me. I have a check of my stat counter and note that Boris has been doing searches on himself again. Surprisingly, this makes my day. There are no secrets on the Internet. Especially from people who have nowt to do all day but teach themselves Internet forensics. You have been warned....

A short walk in the Hindu Kush

The day my tiny sunflowers burst through the soil is my second half day in the office. I am supposed to be phasing in over six weeks. But I've no idea how to manage this. By chance, and through no one's fault, there are three 'lines of command' out of the office on my return. Two above me and one immediately below. And with my own absence this means there is a lot of catching up to do. Fast.

My quandary is personal. No one is insisting that I get everything done. But how to hobble out of the office without doing so? Should I stay longer and get involved? Or leave people to it? If I wasn't there they would be doing it on their own anyway. My diary is filling up faster than I can block out days off. But after four hours in the office I hit the wall. I can't even summon the energy for a swim. It took me 12 hours to recover from the second day. This is enormously frustrating - and surprising.

I have a colleague who works with 'dispassionate' enthusiasm. He does a brilliant job. But he doesn't take his work home in his head. He leaves on time unless there is a genuine crisis. This is something I must also master. But no one can tell me how to do this. In my recuperation period I have an enormous opportunity to learn - there'll never be a never chance. But already my friends are telling me they see and hear the 'old me' on the work front, a tendency to long hours and (over?) passionate enthusiasm.

And my half pay has kicked in. Every day out of the office is a loss of money. And because HR did not know exactly when I was coming back, this month's pay is already 'docked' more than it should have been had my hours been known. So the incentive is to work more hours than advised by OH to avoid the loss of salary. Even although I can afford the temporary loss and its too late this month anyway. God, the mind plays fearful tricks over money.

Meanwhile back at physio, there are yet more issues. This time 'mechanical'. So now I have a taped foot and a taped knee. And an end objective. Apparently it is normal for the physiotherapy to continue until the patient is back at their pre injury sporting standard. For me this is the ability to cycle up extremely high mountains. Eight hours on a bike at 4000m elevation. I guess I'll be going to physio a bit longer than I expected. Time for a short walk in the Hindu Kush - complements of the NHS.