Balancing on One Wet Thigh
All in all it was a very unusual visit to the hospital. I have spent, what seems like several years of my life waiting in hospital waiting rooms to be poked, prodded and variously interfered with in the name of medical science. All of these occasions share something in common, the rooms outside the actual Doctors lair are named very accurately, waiting rooms, rooms for waiting in. Hospitals thrive on making you wait...for interminable amounts of time...usually suffering a degree of low grade terror as you contemplate where they are going to stick the horse needle this time. This visit was markedly different, I'm fairly sure that they had clocked that I was on my own and my method of travel was remarkably like a geriatric crab and about as fast. Every time that I arrived somewhere I barely had time to sit down before some blasted health worker would hoick me out of my seat and send me off orienteering through the bowels of the hospital. This even applied to Helen.
After the nice Scottish doctor had applied the moon boot to my sadly abused foot and cast me forth upon the waters, I had to walk...for a given value of the word walk, lurch might be more appropriate...the 63 miles to the reception area...what, you don't believe me, just visit the Brunel building at Southmead Hospital, there are whole new civilisations being started at the far end by visitors and patients who can't find their way back out. Packs of ravenous geriatrics roam the corridors searching for tea and chocolate digestives, I kid you not the fucking place is enormous...anyhow I'm once again digressing, where were we, yes I remember, lurching slowly toward the reception area.
Now, the wee Scot's feller had told me that I could put some weight on my foot so I couldn't resist trying. I wasn't impressed, as I said in an earlier missive when asked to do the same thing by the radiologist, it was remarkably uncomfortable and I quickly gave up and resorted to the crutches. It took me most of the rest of the week to get to the reception area and I sank gratefully into a chair and put my foot up. I would rest here for an hour or so whilst waiting for Helen to return from Aldi, I even contemplated purchasing a sandwich from the shop. I rang Helen and she answered immediately;
"Give me a shout when you are outside", I said as I rummaged for the as yet unread book ready to settle down for a refreshing ten minute read before examining the contents of the shop.
"I'm here now, I've just pulled up"
What the actual fuck, I hauled myself to my feet once more and threw myself into the spinning maelstrom of the revolving doors, I'm fairly sure I went round twice and possibly met myself coming in before they spat me out onto the pavement where I located Helen and the new car, lurched over and fell into the front seat. I sort of expected that I would be plied with brandy as I tried to recover.
"How did you get on?", she asked.
"Oh fine, fine", I replied and we set off for home.
This is probably some sort of record, I wonder whether the revolving doors had somehow decanted me into a parallel dimension where waiting rooms don't actually exist. I had spent the entire visit to the hospital frantically trying my best to wait and not being allowed to. I was exhausted.
The first thing I did upon reaching the old homestead was head for the bath, my foot was a wasteland of dried skin to the point that I had no sensation on the bottom of my foot whatsoever.You can actually see that my entire heel is basically coming away. I was on the cusp of shedding my skin like some sort of lizard.
You have no idea how nice it is to have a bath and actually have all your appendages in the water. Formerly Horris..the cast, he's fading into distant memory now...would have to be encased in a waterproof cover and dangled over the side of the bath.
Mind you getting into the bath is slightly fraught, the system I am currently employing is to put a common or garden kitchen chair in the bathroom and sit on this whilst divesting myself of my clothes. Taking off the moon boot is sort of odd since it leaves the ankle exposed to the elements and as you can see from the picture above it's not seen elements for some time.
It was bliss of ginormous proportions to lower my foot into the bath, it didn't take me long before I started picking. I am the kind of person who cannot leave a scab alone and blisters do not remain
unpopped for long so my scabby foot was a smorgasbord of delight. The only problem being that the skin pretty much peeled off in one go which is slightly less satisfying. Though these bits were sublime...what, well yes, I suppose it is a bit disgusting...but I mean, look at it that skin has to be several millimeters thick.
Ocean suggested that I should either deep fry it or feed it to the dog but it was just consigned to the bin. Whilst removing copious quantities of dead skin I did manage to uncover an errant stitch on one of the scars that had to be removed...this was also a cause for deep satisfaction.
There is a huge lake of worry climbing out of a bath when you've just had a wee Scot's fellow tell you in no uncertain terms that you are not to stand on your foot without the magic boot on. The other thing is that with the boot on I couldn't put any weight on the blasted foot so God knows what it would be like if I slipped off the side of the bath and landed on it unencumbered as it were. It's my left foot and in our bath the left side is in the outside lane, so to speak, so the dodgy foot is leading the way. So...ah, apologies, it would appear that 'so' is taking over from 'however'... you hang the dodgy foot over the side of the bath and lever yourself up until you are balanced on your left thigh, which is damp and slippery, as is the side of the bath, this causes a certain amount of concern, a light sheen of sweat may be seen bedewing the furrowed brow.
You then, gingerly...now there's a word that literally makes no sense, I mean am I moving in a slightly orange way or with a delicate piquancy that betrays a soupcon of heat, who knows...where was I, oh yes getting out of a bath. So whilst balancing on one wet thigh you prop yourself up very lightly on your horrifically scarred foot whilst swinging the other leg out of the bath. Once the good foot is on the floor you breathe a massive sigh of relief and do some swift towel work to remove the surfeit of bath water from the old bod.
I'm afraid that from here on in its all pretty standard stuff, shave, dress, hobble back downstairs, do some work for what's left of the afternoon. Eat tea, watch some more forgettable dirge on TV, go to sleep...go to sleep, that would be nice, apart from the fact that sleeping no longer appears to form part of my life. But that is a story for another day, all I can say is;
"Come back Horris all is forgiven."
Cheers
Charlie
After the nice Scottish doctor had applied the moon boot to my sadly abused foot and cast me forth upon the waters, I had to walk...for a given value of the word walk, lurch might be more appropriate...the 63 miles to the reception area...what, you don't believe me, just visit the Brunel building at Southmead Hospital, there are whole new civilisations being started at the far end by visitors and patients who can't find their way back out. Packs of ravenous geriatrics roam the corridors searching for tea and chocolate digestives, I kid you not the fucking place is enormous...anyhow I'm once again digressing, where were we, yes I remember, lurching slowly toward the reception area.
Now, the wee Scot's feller had told me that I could put some weight on my foot so I couldn't resist trying. I wasn't impressed, as I said in an earlier missive when asked to do the same thing by the radiologist, it was remarkably uncomfortable and I quickly gave up and resorted to the crutches. It took me most of the rest of the week to get to the reception area and I sank gratefully into a chair and put my foot up. I would rest here for an hour or so whilst waiting for Helen to return from Aldi, I even contemplated purchasing a sandwich from the shop. I rang Helen and she answered immediately;
"Give me a shout when you are outside", I said as I rummaged for the as yet unread book ready to settle down for a refreshing ten minute read before examining the contents of the shop.
"I'm here now, I've just pulled up"
What the actual fuck, I hauled myself to my feet once more and threw myself into the spinning maelstrom of the revolving doors, I'm fairly sure I went round twice and possibly met myself coming in before they spat me out onto the pavement where I located Helen and the new car, lurched over and fell into the front seat. I sort of expected that I would be plied with brandy as I tried to recover.
"How did you get on?", she asked.
"Oh fine, fine", I replied and we set off for home.
This is probably some sort of record, I wonder whether the revolving doors had somehow decanted me into a parallel dimension where waiting rooms don't actually exist. I had spent the entire visit to the hospital frantically trying my best to wait and not being allowed to. I was exhausted.
You have no idea how nice it is to have a bath and actually have all your appendages in the water. Formerly Horris..the cast, he's fading into distant memory now...would have to be encased in a waterproof cover and dangled over the side of the bath.
Mind you getting into the bath is slightly fraught, the system I am currently employing is to put a common or garden kitchen chair in the bathroom and sit on this whilst divesting myself of my clothes. Taking off the moon boot is sort of odd since it leaves the ankle exposed to the elements and as you can see from the picture above it's not seen elements for some time.
It was bliss of ginormous proportions to lower my foot into the bath, it didn't take me long before I started picking. I am the kind of person who cannot leave a scab alone and blisters do not remain
Ocean suggested that I should either deep fry it or feed it to the dog but it was just consigned to the bin. Whilst removing copious quantities of dead skin I did manage to uncover an errant stitch on one of the scars that had to be removed...this was also a cause for deep satisfaction.
There is a huge lake of worry climbing out of a bath when you've just had a wee Scot's fellow tell you in no uncertain terms that you are not to stand on your foot without the magic boot on. The other thing is that with the boot on I couldn't put any weight on the blasted foot so God knows what it would be like if I slipped off the side of the bath and landed on it unencumbered as it were. It's my left foot and in our bath the left side is in the outside lane, so to speak, so the dodgy foot is leading the way. So...ah, apologies, it would appear that 'so' is taking over from 'however'... you hang the dodgy foot over the side of the bath and lever yourself up until you are balanced on your left thigh, which is damp and slippery, as is the side of the bath, this causes a certain amount of concern, a light sheen of sweat may be seen bedewing the furrowed brow.
You then, gingerly...now there's a word that literally makes no sense, I mean am I moving in a slightly orange way or with a delicate piquancy that betrays a soupcon of heat, who knows...where was I, oh yes getting out of a bath. So whilst balancing on one wet thigh you prop yourself up very lightly on your horrifically scarred foot whilst swinging the other leg out of the bath. Once the good foot is on the floor you breathe a massive sigh of relief and do some swift towel work to remove the surfeit of bath water from the old bod.
I'm afraid that from here on in its all pretty standard stuff, shave, dress, hobble back downstairs, do some work for what's left of the afternoon. Eat tea, watch some more forgettable dirge on TV, go to sleep...go to sleep, that would be nice, apart from the fact that sleeping no longer appears to form part of my life. But that is a story for another day, all I can say is;
"Come back Horris all is forgiven."
Cheers
Charlie
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