The morning of Monday 23 Jan dawned and I was nowhere near ready to go to hospital. I rushed about stripping beds, getting clean bedding and towels out, preparing a heap of washing including all my throws and blankets for the cleaner to take away and then belting out to the dry cleaners to retrieve a mound of cushion covers. I had to line up the house for the local handy man and my friends to make up a load of IKEA furniture…
The weekend of 14-15 Jan saw me pretty slow and tired. Trying to get the energy together to clear space in the house to make sure I could get round without crashing into things was proving difficult. And I had run out of vitamin D3. But two days of being a zombie restored me just enough to google the names of the surgical team I had been told would be operating on me. I had not met any of them and was still unclear who…
Happily home on 30 December my home-helpy cleaner came and took over my life. After much tutting at my heaps of things I hadn't quite sorted out since spending more time in the Borders, he whipped through the house cleansing at ferocious speed and agreed to come back at the first lot of visitors to clear up after them.
On 31 Dec, friends came for a couple of days very kindly to keep me company and I realised I was…
On 28 December, I got a ridiculously early taxi to take me to the hospital in the Borders. I had received no paperwork from the hospital, so I had only phone instuctions to go on. Go to nuclear medicine at 7.30am, get injected with radioactive isotope, then come up for surgery. No idea what the surgical ward might be. Nothing. On arrival at just after 7am, clearly the entire hospital save A&E was asleep. Even that…
After frantically trying to get things ready at home for an surgical procedure I had not expected, including trying to arrange community transport and book day care for a few days over New Year, plus unpick all the New Year plans that had been dashed, I drove to London, swearing at all the lane-hogging nitwit drivers who sit in the middle and fast lanes and block the carriageway, fighting my way to the airport car park…
