It has been an interesting experience seeing my normally very healthy and well out together husband have something more than a sprain, go wrong with his body and him navigating the NHS services and having 'real' treatment. Being the one in the waiting room, sitting in the chair. I of course did this for my dad often and we used to go to clinic together. But this isn't hi, this is him. He was tense, a little worries, a bit sad I think, he thought he was the picture of health, apart from the binge drinking and the slight lack of exercise but overall, strong, fit, vegetarian. And now his body isn't behaving as it should and he needs more monitoring and it's interesting to witness, how he, the successful non worrier, the all will be well man, take this change. In his stride in many ways, but interesting that he is kinda worried. A nurse said he's been a brave boy and he was by far the youngest person sitting in the waiting room for his eye to be injected. Unusual at his age they said. I tried not to keep comparing to myself, inwardly I did, but this wasn't about me and so I just did my best to empathise and check he was ok. And we both knew we were grateful that the NHS had come up trumps again, working at it's very best, speed of treatment, kindness and efficient action. His sight may recover, it now hopefully won't get worse. He described experiences I've been through and I smiled gently and heard him. Only once did I hear him worry out-loud about if something went wrong with his other eye. Only once did he voice fear over something that might not happen. He's human after all.
The tables turned, me finding the right ward, asking 'do you need anything.' half knowing that question involves more than a simple answer. Sitting, seeing your friend put on a brave face, watch her tell a nurse she's well when she's just confided she is in pain. And then, saying the things, doing the bits, offering to get stuff, move stuff, help with sheets. And then watching her fall asleep, grimace on her usually joyful face. And sneaking off, knowing how annoying it is if you've fallen asleep to be woken but taking a small parcel of guilt with you that you haven't said goodbye.
I tried to judge what would be useful to say, I decided on a reminder that this will change and the pain won't last forever, while still acutely aware my pain hasn't gone yet and it's one hell of a long journey. Those, seemingly statutory 6 weeks until, spreading into the longer, perhaps more subtle things that never leave you. the scar, the discomfort, the worry, they memory of no memory and the fear of it all having to happen again.
I walked out of the familiar smell of the ward, same wherever you go and into the air of London and the tube, home to my safe place and my man. Knowing she can't and knowing she isn't even sure if she wants to be home yet while definitely not wanting to be where she is either.
I am feeling sad, I crave security and I have so much of it but at the same time it feels like dry sand in my hand.
I have so much and yet I have this feeling of mild fear that I am trying not to let get out of control. The fragility of all I do have, I am trying not to worry, trying to see the possibilities but keep coming back to the dull ache of 'but what if'
So many times in my life I've had to face adversity. I am tired of it. I want interesting but not peril. I want fun not fear.
For once I am taking my own advice and I think partly why this is possible is due to the level of support I feel from the colleagues around me. I am doing a proper phased return, And today I knew I would have been able to stay longer but I also knew that would mean I would be in pain all evening. So I went home when I had planned.
I am proud of myself for doing this. I am grateful that I can and that I have a sensible sense of myself and what I should be doing.
I know I say it each time - I say
next time I'll take off all the time I need and do a proper phased return. And then I just find ways that that won't fit, or work, and I try and do too much too quickly. I think that because actually every time it's worked out fine in the end. No accidents, no relapses and no long term damage I must tell myself it will be ok.
This time I'm making a compromise with myself. This time I'll do some of what I probably shouldn't and some of what I should. My new work are being fantastic. And I've asked for and been sent the first week plan and it looks super chilled, with me not needing to teach much at all.
It is 7 weeks tomorrow. The pain in my neck remains and is mostly a very slight pain that I am conscious of most when I think about it or do something like lift a heavy pot, fill the kettle, garden, empty the bottom draw of the dishwasher. If I hold my head up for hours then I feel the relief when I rest it. The fizz happens less, but is still there. My hands don't feel the same and neither feels like they should.
I haven't driven yet but I am ready to try. Stupidly though I'm nervous to interrupt my husband to see if he will take us to a big carpark so I can have a go. I'm mainly worried that although I know I haven't lost any movement or strength in my legs that somehow when I press the pedals it won't feel right. I'd lost a bit of parking confidence last year and I really don't want to lose anymore.
So here we go again, another post surgery return to work. Another part of the recovery cycle.
Then 2 hospital appointments in September - and I suspect and MRI no one has booked in yet!
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