Me, myself & the NHS

It’s been three weeks since I last had hip surgery; this third week is what's known as, the 'shit week'. My apologies for any unladylike language in this blog: this experience cannot be explained without the odd profanity. For those that have read my previous blogs, you'll know that I'm an old-hat at this now - I've had six operations to my hips and knees. I’m in a fair amount of pain and finding things generally crap (as expected); my range of movement is somewhat easier; the drugs are lowering in dose and my resemblance to a 'zombie-land' wife, is beginning to dissipate. As predicted, the usual wall climbing, unavoidable, tediously dry boredom has set in. I also know that it’ll be sticking around for the duration. Great! This recovery is long, tough and seemingly unforgiving. Your emotions are all over the place, due to the whole ‘goldfish bowl’ experience: it comes with being stuck indoors and doesn’t actually surprise me anymore. However, the pandemi...

I was about 5 months post op on my left hip when lockdown began. My local orthopaedic hospital closed its doors to non-urgent patients; whilst my surgeon and physio were only contactable by phone or email. Although I was still in pain, I do remember feeling relieved that I wasn't awaiting surgery.   The NHS had gone into crisis and elective surgeries were being cancelled left, right and centre. Having had two operations cancelled in 2019, I knew the heartache and uncertainty that followed in normal circumstances, never mind during a pandemic. In the months that followed, my symptoms worsened and I knew something was wrong. The hospital began contacting patients and my surgeon agreed to see me face-to-face.  When I arrived, the car park was half empty and the pay-stations were covered with ‘not in use’ signs. The entrances had staff taking temperatures, asking patients to use hand sanitiser and to wear the masks provided. Visitors weren’t allowed inside the hospital, but I rely...