Next two weeks will be torture
Greetings from the sick bay... and let me tell you now, I make a dreadful patient.
Last Thursday I went into the Vic for one of those routine mid life operations I’m told are quite normal, except I have absolutely no patience with being ill.
It was a day surgery procedure, but I ended up staying the night. I got no sleep at all and spent the night pacing the corridors much to the bemusement of the ward’s excellent staff.
Once home, I have to stick to a strict routine to ensure everything mends in the right way... except I haven’t got time for all that.
The current Mrs Mitchell has turned into Florence Nightingale for the duration and spends as much time handing out instructions, as dealing with my impatience to get well in no time at all.
I’m currently away from work for three weeks whilst everything heals up, and I can’t think of anything worse.
Three days post op and I’m looking at my body, stapled up like an old cardboard box wondering how long I’m going to have to stay like this. The boredom has already set in and I just want everything that’s bruised to be back the way it was immediately so I can get back to normal.
This next two weeks are going to be torture...yet the professionals quite rightly say I need two weeks to recover.
Of course I thought I knew better and believed I’d be back at my desk in a matter of 48 hours.
The thing here is that while the Vic has done a splendid job of ripping bits out over the years, the last major job was nearly 40 years ago when was a teenager I fought back in a few days. I remember only too well getting out of bed on Ward 7 only to be scooped up off the floor 20 seconds later and piled back into bed.
So here I am, stapled and bruised and looking very 56. I once knew a lady who never seemed happy unless there was something wrong with her.
It seemed half the fun was getting ill... the other half telling all her friends the grisly details. Some people get quite competitive.
I’m due back at work after the Bank Holiday. It seems years away.