Blogfromthebarn

There's mischief afoot .....................................................

There is a tiny nerve that takes messages from your toes and rushes them to your brain for processing. That's in your foot, in my left foot apparently the nerve is some 14 times bigger than it should be, this means one thing and one thing only PAIN!!!!

There is a school of thought (informed medical opinion) that attributes this condition (Morton's Neuroma by name) to my fondness for toe-deforming Oliver Sweeney footwear or possibly cheap cycling shoes but whatever the cause the diagnosis was clear, slice, dice and hobble for a fortnight.

I've gone through repeated consultancy sessions, an MRI (and that's a lot less fun if you've ever watched an episode of House) and protracted negotiations with BUPA insurance (known to medical professionals apparently as, those bloody idiots) So with a song on my lips it was off to the deepest Hampshire countryside for the scheduled operation.

Going without food or water on the morning following Sophie's birthday lunch was an inspired idea, after all nobody ever got a hangover from eating prodigious amounts of chili washed down by prodigiouser amounts of alcohol. Arrived at the crack of lark rise I was shown to my lovely room, nothing to do but surreptitiously twitter and read the hospital mission statement. I'd just finished the bit about how strongly they felt about maintaining my dignity when my Angel of Mercy returned with a skimpy arse-exposing backless gown and my lovely surgical stockings. The hobble to the operating theatre in my one-size-doesn't-really-fit-all fluffy slippers was a little surreal as the nursing, cleaning and indeed catering staff gathered and tried to stifle barely concealed gasps of lust (or, just possibly, the effort of wresting with the conflicting emotions of hysterical laughter, tinged with pity) inspired by my shamble through their brightly lit corridors.

Once in the killing zone, all was affable efficiency, only my second time under anesthetic but still very disturbing to a recumbent control freak to wake and find out just how much can happen to you in 30 minutes under the gas, with no record in ones consciousness, it's so quick to take one out of the world and so disorientating to come around and find oneself plugged back into the matrix and all apparently (superficially) normal.

This may explain my lifelong avoidance (mostly:) of recreational drugs, I can't think of anything less likely to make me feel good than a horse tranquilizer. I'm writing this now having been fed and watered and waiting for the physio to come and teach me the joy of crutch-based mobility. Then it's home for a few days recuperation, fortunately I've a comprehensive admin, legal, financial and editorial to-do list so it's a week of mac-based work ahead.

Likely posts might include:

• I'm so bored
• Off come the bandages Yeuuuch!
• How does a two-shower a day man cope with an ablution ban?
• on-line shopping, even more addictive when it's the only option?

and last but by no means least,

• Oh my (insert your chosen deity or profanity here) look at that scar !

An endorsement, which may well be retracted if convalescence proves traumatic, Spire park hospital and staff.

posted by Stuffy @ 3:42 pm