So, it's time for an update. I have now had my new hip joint for more than 6 weeks. This particular, important landmark passed last Friday. Everyone who has had a hip replacement knows that 6 weeks is a time when most patients are pretty much back to a normal life. They can drive, they can go to work (if office-based) and they can resume sexual relations. Yippee! Please try not to think of a 10-year-old Anakin Skywalker, though.
Well I am driving, and tomorrow I venture further from the house than I have in months, with a trip to London with a view to getting back onto the hamster wheel of a 9 to 5 job. I can't wait to get back to work, actually. I am once more at a point of despair with sitting in the house watching daytime TV and playing pointless games on the internet. I want to interact with people and engage myself in something worthwhile. I feel slightly bad that I haven't been able to make more of my time off, but my motivation levels for such things have been quite low with everything that's gone on. Luckily, I have remained motivated to do the physio and get out and about whilst the weather was reasonably good.
I had an appointment with the physio a couple of weeks ago and he seemed happy with my progress. He manipulated my leg in some alarming and uncomfortable ways, but I now realise that my range of movement is so much better than it has been for my whole adult life, if not longer. He told me to try some more exercises and to do my existing ballet-style ones standing on the operated leg. This has caused some minor pain and discomfort, but it is making the leg stronger and stronger. I can now get about without any walking aid, although I take one stick with me for longer walks just to be safe. I can walk a mile quite comfortable now, and even broke into a trot at the weekend. My stance is straighter and I stand taller than I ever have. No longer can I say my height is 6'1" or 6'2" depending on which leg I stand on. The limp is much less pronounced and will hopefully be completely gone by the time 3 months is up....around Christmas time.
Within a week or two I hope to be able to start cycling on an exercise bike and then I can really concentrate on the most important part of all of this...losing the excess flab. I still take far too many medications and most of them are linked to my size. When I get down to a decent weight the blood pressure should normalise, the hiatus hernia should ease off and the risk of atrial fibrillation returning should diminish significantly. I can't wait. Further down the line, I am hoping I can get to a decent enough level of fitness to allow me to cycle long distance. Who knows, I might even start thinking about doing some charity bike rides. Who's up for John O'Groats to Land's End?
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Wednesday, 30 September 2009
Theatre of Dreams
Today I went back to the hospital for the first time since discharge to have the 32 staples removed from the very long wound that runs from halfway up my thigh up and around into my right buttock. It stung a bit, but not terribly. My wife held my hand and promised me a lollipop if I was good whilst the nurse picked the staples out with a vicious-looking metal implement.
The good news is that I am on my feet and walking around, although with the aid of a pair of sturdy walking sticks. Every day I see a little bit of improvement in mobility and feel like I'm moving towards my goals. It is frustrating at times, and I do feel down at times, but am trying to think positively. Like I said before, this is a chance to start afresh and make up for lost time and lost quality of life.
The operation itself and the stay in hospital was an experience that will live with me for a long time. I've had ops on my leg before, but when I was 10 years old, and the memories of that have faded a lot.
I was admitted the day before the operation. My wife drove me up to Middlesbrough and made sure I got safely chekced in, then I spent the whole day sat next to or on my bed reading. I took two new books to read and finished one of them in one sitting, only taking the odd break to complete admission questionnaires, speak to my visiting family or have meals. One of the registrars came and drew a large black arrow on the lower part of my right leg with permanent marker. I made sure to have a biscuit and cup of tea from the late trolley round. It was likely to be the last food I would have for a while.
I didn't sleep much that night. Hospitals aren't the most conducive of environments as it is, with the groans, shouts and snoring coming from the other beds, on top of which I had a brain full of hopes and fears sloshing around like clothes in a washing machine. I went through a few cycles of spin that night.
On the morning of the op I was told I was second on the list to go in theatre so had to get up early, get showered and don the hospital gown and paper underpants. The chap in the next bed to me was called down at 8.00am, so I tried to relax and started reading the second book I'd brought. I couldn't get into it, and to be fair I shouldn't have chosen a philosophy book to read.
Finally, at 10am on Friday 18th ,2009, the porters arrived to take me to theatre. After they checked I was the right body, I laid on my bed and the wheeled me down a maze of narrow corridors, through dozens of doors, into a lift, and along some more corridors. As we moved along I watched the ceiling tiles and flourescent lights pass over me. Finally we arrived in the theatre preparation area where I was again ID checked before being deposited in a small ward area, where I was transferred to an operating gurney and where a jovial male nurse went through yet more checklists. The anaesthetist nurse came to see me, telling me I was going to have some of the stuff that killed Michael Jackson (very sensitive, mate) on top of a spinal injection and would probably sleep through the whole thing. Then the surgeon, resplendent in his dark green scrubs, made an appearance and asked if I had any last requests. I croaked out a rather pathetic: "just make me better" and watched him disappear back into the theatre with a smile on his face. The jovial nurse assured me I was in good hands, and that this chap was "one of the boys".
Before long I was wheeled into the anaesthetic room where the nurse I had seen before was joined by the senior chap and they set about prepping me for the op. I had a canular put into my hand and some antibiotics and sedative were pumped in. Then came the fun part. I sat up on the edge of the bed and had a stingy little injection in my back to numb the area. Then the big needle came. I didn't see it, but bloody well felt it. Even with the local I could feel the pushing and some significant pain as they tried to find the gap in my spine they needed to get the needle into. After what seemed like an absolute eternity and some more discomfort they announced that it was done and I laid flat on my back again, waiting for the feeling in my legs to start going.
Gradually my legs started to feel really strange. There was a lot of tingling and pins and needles, and a general feeling of heaviness. A catheter was then pushed into my bladder, which I didn't feel thankfully. After a few minutes, the aneasthetist took a can of spray and applied some to my belly to show me how cold it felt, before applying some to my right leg. I felt the first freezing blast, but not a thing of the second, until they moved it up to level with my navel. I was officially paralysed from the waist down, and was ready to be operated on.
A few moments later I was in the theatre, surrounded by the bright lights and dark green of sheets and clothing on the surgery team that busied themselves around me. I was rolled onto my left side and a screen was placed at my chest level so I wouldn't be able to see anything. The anaesthetist then told me I was getting another sedative pumped into me, and the next thing I knew I was waking up from a quite bizarre dream to a loud wooshing sound, like a hair dryer. It took me a second or two to realise I was on my back this time. Initially I thought I had woken in the middle of the operation and was hearing a drill or saw, but someone whispered to me that it was all over, and a moment later I was whisked out of the operating theatre and into the recovery room where a nurse took some observations and checked I was OK.
So that was that, I thought. The old hip was gone. The horrible, mis-shapen ball joint had been cut out and I had a new metal and ceramic prosthesis inside me. I still couldn't feel a thing, other than a feeling of slight wooziness after the sedatives. I drifted in and out of consciousness for maybe half an hour before I took the journey back up to the ward, along the many corridors and through the many doors once again.
In the ward I was wheeled back to my space and hooked up to the oxygen line. I was hooked up to a lot of things, as it happened. I had a drain taking excess blood from the wound, a catheter from my bladder, a drip with a patient-controlled morphine machine, a blood pressure cuff on my arm and an oxygen saturation device on my finger. Even if I'd been able to get up, I doubt I would have got very far. I thought about watching Derren Brown's "glue you to the sofa" experiment on TV that night, but didn't see the point.
My wife visited me in the late afternoon and looked relieved that I was OK. I wasn't much company, but it was good to see her. I ate very little that day, managing just a couple of sandwiches at around tea time. My appetite was conspicuous by its absence. Sensation was gradually returning to my legs, with pins and needles heralding the resumption of nerve function. Sensation meant pain, so I was glad to have the morphine button to hand. I could only have 1mg every 5 minutes, so there was no chance of OD.
The surgeon came and talked to me for a few moments in the early evening and told me it had gone very well. It had only taken 90 minutes, which was pretty fast for a case like mine.
That night I didn't sleep a wink. The old man opposite was obviously in a lot of distress with a bladder infection or something and shouted out delerious ramblings every few minutes. I laid there and watched the hours creep slowly by, wishing I could get enough morphine in me to at least knock me out. The old man got more and more desperate as the hours passed, fighting old battles from the war and even pleading for death at one point.
The first day following surgery was the most painful. Sensation was fully back in place now, and even the morphine just took the edge of the pain. As well as the pain from my stretched and carved-open leg, I had a lot of pain in my lower back from the angle and position I was laid in. I was in for a nasty shock, though, when the nurses came and told me I had to get up. They don't mess about or indulge you these days: they get you up and moving as soon as they can.
Just sitting upright was agony. Moving my legs round was blindingly painful. When I finally managed to stand up and grasp the zimmer frame I felt somewhat light-headed, and as the nurses helped me shuffle round to the chair beside my bed, I was suddenly dreaming again. I woke up a second later wondering where the hell I was, with a glass of water at my mouth and the voices of worried nurses calling my name. I had fainted - luckily just as I was taking my seat, or I could have ended up back in theatre having the hip fixed again.
They got me back into bed and left me alone for the rest of the day. It was decided that I wouldn't undergo any physio that day. My only other movement was to the X-ray department, which involved a painful slide across to another trolley. My parents visited me in the evening, faces unable to hide their concern. Again, I wasn't very talkative. I ate lightly, still unable to stomach much more than a few mouthfuls of any food.
The next day I felt better. The old fella had been moved out of the ward to a side room so I managed to get some sleep. The physio team appeared in the middle of the morning and managed to get me up and about without me falling over on them. I was able to shuffle towards the door of the ward and back to the bed, my cathter bag and blood-filled drain bottle hanging from the frame, and was pleased with my progress.
That night I found myself crying like a girl whilst watching the X-Factor on TV. Something about one of the contestants (an autistic man from Stockton) touched me, and in my heightened emotional state it just broke the dam and opened the floodgates. I think I cried for a lot of things that night. I cried in joy and in pain and regret and hope. I cried for all the crap that has happened over the last few years. I cried for my Gran who died only 2 months ago. It was a watershed, if you will.
I got home on the Wednesday evening - five days after the op. Bit by bit I gained my independence, having the catheter and drain removed and being able to go to tbe bathroom by myself were big steps. I was discharged with the doctors' blessings when I was walking by myself with the aid of the two thick walking sticks supplied by the physio team and could manage to ascend and descend the stairs, which hadn't been as problematic as I anticipated. It was just a case of taking them one at a time with the good leg on the way up and the bad leg on the way down.
Progress is slow but sure...I can't wait to get to the magic 6 week mark when I should be pretty much able to function normally. I see the surgeon again in early December, and then should be able to get back to working and earning money. Until then, I have to stay disciplined: keep up the exercises and try not to eat too much rubbish when I feel down or bored. Most importantly, I can't let frustration take over and try to do too much at once. The last thing I need is an unscheduled trip to hospital and a return to square one.
I'll keep this updated with my progress.
The good news is that I am on my feet and walking around, although with the aid of a pair of sturdy walking sticks. Every day I see a little bit of improvement in mobility and feel like I'm moving towards my goals. It is frustrating at times, and I do feel down at times, but am trying to think positively. Like I said before, this is a chance to start afresh and make up for lost time and lost quality of life.
The operation itself and the stay in hospital was an experience that will live with me for a long time. I've had ops on my leg before, but when I was 10 years old, and the memories of that have faded a lot.
I was admitted the day before the operation. My wife drove me up to Middlesbrough and made sure I got safely chekced in, then I spent the whole day sat next to or on my bed reading. I took two new books to read and finished one of them in one sitting, only taking the odd break to complete admission questionnaires, speak to my visiting family or have meals. One of the registrars came and drew a large black arrow on the lower part of my right leg with permanent marker. I made sure to have a biscuit and cup of tea from the late trolley round. It was likely to be the last food I would have for a while.
I didn't sleep much that night. Hospitals aren't the most conducive of environments as it is, with the groans, shouts and snoring coming from the other beds, on top of which I had a brain full of hopes and fears sloshing around like clothes in a washing machine. I went through a few cycles of spin that night.
On the morning of the op I was told I was second on the list to go in theatre so had to get up early, get showered and don the hospital gown and paper underpants. The chap in the next bed to me was called down at 8.00am, so I tried to relax and started reading the second book I'd brought. I couldn't get into it, and to be fair I shouldn't have chosen a philosophy book to read.
Finally, at 10am on Friday 18th ,2009, the porters arrived to take me to theatre. After they checked I was the right body, I laid on my bed and the wheeled me down a maze of narrow corridors, through dozens of doors, into a lift, and along some more corridors. As we moved along I watched the ceiling tiles and flourescent lights pass over me. Finally we arrived in the theatre preparation area where I was again ID checked before being deposited in a small ward area, where I was transferred to an operating gurney and where a jovial male nurse went through yet more checklists. The anaesthetist nurse came to see me, telling me I was going to have some of the stuff that killed Michael Jackson (very sensitive, mate) on top of a spinal injection and would probably sleep through the whole thing. Then the surgeon, resplendent in his dark green scrubs, made an appearance and asked if I had any last requests. I croaked out a rather pathetic: "just make me better" and watched him disappear back into the theatre with a smile on his face. The jovial nurse assured me I was in good hands, and that this chap was "one of the boys".
Before long I was wheeled into the anaesthetic room where the nurse I had seen before was joined by the senior chap and they set about prepping me for the op. I had a canular put into my hand and some antibiotics and sedative were pumped in. Then came the fun part. I sat up on the edge of the bed and had a stingy little injection in my back to numb the area. Then the big needle came. I didn't see it, but bloody well felt it. Even with the local I could feel the pushing and some significant pain as they tried to find the gap in my spine they needed to get the needle into. After what seemed like an absolute eternity and some more discomfort they announced that it was done and I laid flat on my back again, waiting for the feeling in my legs to start going.
Gradually my legs started to feel really strange. There was a lot of tingling and pins and needles, and a general feeling of heaviness. A catheter was then pushed into my bladder, which I didn't feel thankfully. After a few minutes, the aneasthetist took a can of spray and applied some to my belly to show me how cold it felt, before applying some to my right leg. I felt the first freezing blast, but not a thing of the second, until they moved it up to level with my navel. I was officially paralysed from the waist down, and was ready to be operated on.
A few moments later I was in the theatre, surrounded by the bright lights and dark green of sheets and clothing on the surgery team that busied themselves around me. I was rolled onto my left side and a screen was placed at my chest level so I wouldn't be able to see anything. The anaesthetist then told me I was getting another sedative pumped into me, and the next thing I knew I was waking up from a quite bizarre dream to a loud wooshing sound, like a hair dryer. It took me a second or two to realise I was on my back this time. Initially I thought I had woken in the middle of the operation and was hearing a drill or saw, but someone whispered to me that it was all over, and a moment later I was whisked out of the operating theatre and into the recovery room where a nurse took some observations and checked I was OK.
So that was that, I thought. The old hip was gone. The horrible, mis-shapen ball joint had been cut out and I had a new metal and ceramic prosthesis inside me. I still couldn't feel a thing, other than a feeling of slight wooziness after the sedatives. I drifted in and out of consciousness for maybe half an hour before I took the journey back up to the ward, along the many corridors and through the many doors once again.
In the ward I was wheeled back to my space and hooked up to the oxygen line. I was hooked up to a lot of things, as it happened. I had a drain taking excess blood from the wound, a catheter from my bladder, a drip with a patient-controlled morphine machine, a blood pressure cuff on my arm and an oxygen saturation device on my finger. Even if I'd been able to get up, I doubt I would have got very far. I thought about watching Derren Brown's "glue you to the sofa" experiment on TV that night, but didn't see the point.
My wife visited me in the late afternoon and looked relieved that I was OK. I wasn't much company, but it was good to see her. I ate very little that day, managing just a couple of sandwiches at around tea time. My appetite was conspicuous by its absence. Sensation was gradually returning to my legs, with pins and needles heralding the resumption of nerve function. Sensation meant pain, so I was glad to have the morphine button to hand. I could only have 1mg every 5 minutes, so there was no chance of OD.
The surgeon came and talked to me for a few moments in the early evening and told me it had gone very well. It had only taken 90 minutes, which was pretty fast for a case like mine.
That night I didn't sleep a wink. The old man opposite was obviously in a lot of distress with a bladder infection or something and shouted out delerious ramblings every few minutes. I laid there and watched the hours creep slowly by, wishing I could get enough morphine in me to at least knock me out. The old man got more and more desperate as the hours passed, fighting old battles from the war and even pleading for death at one point.
The first day following surgery was the most painful. Sensation was fully back in place now, and even the morphine just took the edge of the pain. As well as the pain from my stretched and carved-open leg, I had a lot of pain in my lower back from the angle and position I was laid in. I was in for a nasty shock, though, when the nurses came and told me I had to get up. They don't mess about or indulge you these days: they get you up and moving as soon as they can.
Just sitting upright was agony. Moving my legs round was blindingly painful. When I finally managed to stand up and grasp the zimmer frame I felt somewhat light-headed, and as the nurses helped me shuffle round to the chair beside my bed, I was suddenly dreaming again. I woke up a second later wondering where the hell I was, with a glass of water at my mouth and the voices of worried nurses calling my name. I had fainted - luckily just as I was taking my seat, or I could have ended up back in theatre having the hip fixed again.
They got me back into bed and left me alone for the rest of the day. It was decided that I wouldn't undergo any physio that day. My only other movement was to the X-ray department, which involved a painful slide across to another trolley. My parents visited me in the evening, faces unable to hide their concern. Again, I wasn't very talkative. I ate lightly, still unable to stomach much more than a few mouthfuls of any food.
The next day I felt better. The old fella had been moved out of the ward to a side room so I managed to get some sleep. The physio team appeared in the middle of the morning and managed to get me up and about without me falling over on them. I was able to shuffle towards the door of the ward and back to the bed, my cathter bag and blood-filled drain bottle hanging from the frame, and was pleased with my progress.
That night I found myself crying like a girl whilst watching the X-Factor on TV. Something about one of the contestants (an autistic man from Stockton) touched me, and in my heightened emotional state it just broke the dam and opened the floodgates. I think I cried for a lot of things that night. I cried in joy and in pain and regret and hope. I cried for all the crap that has happened over the last few years. I cried for my Gran who died only 2 months ago. It was a watershed, if you will.
I got home on the Wednesday evening - five days after the op. Bit by bit I gained my independence, having the catheter and drain removed and being able to go to tbe bathroom by myself were big steps. I was discharged with the doctors' blessings when I was walking by myself with the aid of the two thick walking sticks supplied by the physio team and could manage to ascend and descend the stairs, which hadn't been as problematic as I anticipated. It was just a case of taking them one at a time with the good leg on the way up and the bad leg on the way down.
Progress is slow but sure...I can't wait to get to the magic 6 week mark when I should be pretty much able to function normally. I see the surgeon again in early December, and then should be able to get back to working and earning money. Until then, I have to stay disciplined: keep up the exercises and try not to eat too much rubbish when I feel down or bored. Most importantly, I can't let frustration take over and try to do too much at once. The last thing I need is an unscheduled trip to hospital and a return to square one.
I'll keep this updated with my progress.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
End of an era...start of a life
Well, Friday is the day I have been waiting for for most of my adult life, maybe even longer than that. I am going into hospital in Middlesbrough to have a total hip replacement operation.
I am both very excited and starting to get somewhat nervous. I am nervous because of the operation, naturally. I will probably be having the procedure performed under epidural and sedation rather than the full general anasthetic. I know that this is safer and is better for recovery, but I am worried about being too awake during the op. I really don't fancy hearing and seeing what is going on.
I am excited because this marks something of a watershed in my life. It is a definite punctuation mark: a threshold between the old life of pain and poor mobility and a new life of possibilities and potential. I can put a lot of the shit that has happened to me well and firmly into the past. I will no longer have the excuses that I have used for not being able to lose weight...and I don't want them, to be honest. Yeah, I've had some crappy luck with the illnesses I've endured, all starting with the Perthes disease that struck over 30 years ago, but I could have probably handled it better, if I'm honest.
For far too long I have let my health problems define me and hold me back. I have felt sorry for myself and have let the gloomy, grey clouds of depression shadow my life. If everything works as I hope it will with this op, I will have been given a second chance at life. Not many people get this kind of chance, and for that I should be grateful. For that reason I should take the chance with both hands and make amends for the failures and excuses of the last 20 years. I owe it to myself and especially to my family.
I fully intend to become fitter and healthier than I've ever been by taking up $cycling seriously. This will help me mentally as well, and in tandem I intend to focus on my professional future, decide what I want to do, where I want to go and not allow myself to be deviated.
If this sounds corny, then corn me up. It's for me as much as anything. It's a cathartic pep talk I am using to convince myself that this is going to end up transforming my life. Positive thinking. Positive vibes.
I'll see you on the other side.
I am both very excited and starting to get somewhat nervous. I am nervous because of the operation, naturally. I will probably be having the procedure performed under epidural and sedation rather than the full general anasthetic. I know that this is safer and is better for recovery, but I am worried about being too awake during the op. I really don't fancy hearing and seeing what is going on.
I am excited because this marks something of a watershed in my life. It is a definite punctuation mark: a threshold between the old life of pain and poor mobility and a new life of possibilities and potential. I can put a lot of the shit that has happened to me well and firmly into the past. I will no longer have the excuses that I have used for not being able to lose weight...and I don't want them, to be honest. Yeah, I've had some crappy luck with the illnesses I've endured, all starting with the Perthes disease that struck over 30 years ago, but I could have probably handled it better, if I'm honest.
For far too long I have let my health problems define me and hold me back. I have felt sorry for myself and have let the gloomy, grey clouds of depression shadow my life. If everything works as I hope it will with this op, I will have been given a second chance at life. Not many people get this kind of chance, and for that I should be grateful. For that reason I should take the chance with both hands and make amends for the failures and excuses of the last 20 years. I owe it to myself and especially to my family.
I fully intend to become fitter and healthier than I've ever been by taking up $cycling seriously. This will help me mentally as well, and in tandem I intend to focus on my professional future, decide what I want to do, where I want to go and not allow myself to be deviated.
If this sounds corny, then corn me up. It's for me as much as anything. It's a cathartic pep talk I am using to convince myself that this is going to end up transforming my life. Positive thinking. Positive vibes.
I'll see you on the other side.
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Am I cursed? I'm a pain in the neck, for sure...
I'm starting to wonder if I am cursed.
I had a car crash on Sunday morning. I stopped a bit sharply at a set of traffic lights on the TV roundabout here in Doha and a mini-bus that was a bit close to me and going too fast smashed into my rear end. It bloody hurt and now I am suffering from quite painful whiplash in the neck and back, especially the neck. I have a neck brace on and am really struggling to function at all. I am off work for the forseeable future. At least another week.
Oh man. Have I really done enough bad shit to deserve this? I could descend into self-piry again very easily. It is seriously tempting. But I won't. I can't.
I had a car crash on Sunday morning. I stopped a bit sharply at a set of traffic lights on the TV roundabout here in Doha and a mini-bus that was a bit close to me and going too fast smashed into my rear end. It bloody hurt and now I am suffering from quite painful whiplash in the neck and back, especially the neck. I have a neck brace on and am really struggling to function at all. I am off work for the forseeable future. At least another week.
Oh man. Have I really done enough bad shit to deserve this? I could descend into self-piry again very easily. It is seriously tempting. But I won't. I can't.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
The agony and the er...agony
You are not going to believe this...whoever you are.
I'm back in Qatar. Got here eventually, like. Got the thyroid issue under something like control. Just needed regular blood tests and access to a specialist. That proved to be hard in itself, but we go there in the end...kind of.
This was to pale into insignificance.
The job has been great. It really has. I'm enjoying it and seem to be doing well. People - important people - seem impressed with what I am doing. The days have been flying by. The weeks have actually, and I've already been here nearly 3 months, including a week's break in the UK which seems like a dream now.
Still, nothing comes easy, and nothing goes right or smoothly for too long in my life.
My hip has come back to haunt me, basically. The decision to put off the op might not have been so wise after all. We shall see. Basically the joint has deteriorated really rapidly since I came here and I am now walking with a crutch and pretty much in constant pain. Last night I barely slept a wink because of the pain. The worst bit is that I can't take anything to help because I am still taking steroids for the thyroid problem, although I should be off the within a month. Problem is, I am worried that this will impact on my ability to work, let alone function within normal bounds. It's already a struggle to get about and do stuff I have taken for granted for years. Even going shopping now is a bloody pain. Literally.
Luckily for me, I've made a good impression, and the company I work for said they will keep a position open for me, whether here in Doha or elsewhere. When I was back in the UK I went back to see the hip doctor and asked to go back on the waiting list for the op. I am now due to have it in August and I don't think it will be getting put off this time. After that, I need 2 or 3 months to recover. If a company I've only worked for for 3 months is willing to keep my employed after that I must be onto a good thing.
So fingers crossed I can make it to August. I just wish I could manage my pain better and find some way to sleep.
I'm back in Qatar. Got here eventually, like. Got the thyroid issue under something like control. Just needed regular blood tests and access to a specialist. That proved to be hard in itself, but we go there in the end...kind of.
This was to pale into insignificance.
The job has been great. It really has. I'm enjoying it and seem to be doing well. People - important people - seem impressed with what I am doing. The days have been flying by. The weeks have actually, and I've already been here nearly 3 months, including a week's break in the UK which seems like a dream now.
Still, nothing comes easy, and nothing goes right or smoothly for too long in my life.
My hip has come back to haunt me, basically. The decision to put off the op might not have been so wise after all. We shall see. Basically the joint has deteriorated really rapidly since I came here and I am now walking with a crutch and pretty much in constant pain. Last night I barely slept a wink because of the pain. The worst bit is that I can't take anything to help because I am still taking steroids for the thyroid problem, although I should be off the within a month. Problem is, I am worried that this will impact on my ability to work, let alone function within normal bounds. It's already a struggle to get about and do stuff I have taken for granted for years. Even going shopping now is a bloody pain. Literally.
Luckily for me, I've made a good impression, and the company I work for said they will keep a position open for me, whether here in Doha or elsewhere. When I was back in the UK I went back to see the hip doctor and asked to go back on the waiting list for the op. I am now due to have it in August and I don't think it will be getting put off this time. After that, I need 2 or 3 months to recover. If a company I've only worked for for 3 months is willing to keep my employed after that I must be onto a good thing.
So fingers crossed I can make it to August. I just wish I could manage my pain better and find some way to sleep.
Tuesday, 10 March 2009
What to do...
I'm seriously, seriously bored. I am bored with sitting at home looking at the internet. I am bored of watching cackling women and property porn on daytime TV. I am bored with having no money.
I have been off work now since the middle of January. The last time I posted, the USA thing had fallen through due to health reasons; namely my hip. Since then I have found work but lost it again with all the uncertaintly surrounding my situation.
Ultimately I cancelled the hip operation and decided to go as long as possible on it. This would allow to me get a job and make some money. I just couldn't afford any more time off.
I thought about going overseas again where I could earn some nice tax-free money and clear all the (still mounting) debts. I approached a company who had previously offered me a job and eventually got an offer. Everything was set for me to go back to Qatar on 2nd March. The flights were booked and my case was packed. It still is.
I ended up in hospital. I had been feeling rotten for a while, and was getting worse. On the Saturday I went to the Out Of Hours GP service pleading for some kind of help and was admitted to the hospital. It turns out I have got hyperthyroidism, and the levels of thyroid juice showing in the blood were the highest one particular doctor had seen.
So I was told to stay at home and have been going through numerous tests to etablish which type of thyroid disease I have and what treatment I need. In the maantime I am taking dozens of tablets a day, including beta-blockers and steroids to combat all possible angles until we know for sure.
Luckily the job is still there. They are waiting for me. I just hope I don't have to make them wait too much longer. I have now lost 3 jobs since last November due to health reasons. The money is running out. The rent is overdue. The wolf and the three little pigs are at the door. I just can't keep borrowing from people, and now I have resorted to putting in a claim for Incapacity Benefit or whatever they all it now. It's shaming, but I know it shouldn't be.
Where did it all go wrong? What did I do to deserve all this crap? I have seriously thought about some bad things recently, but have to keep going for the kids and for my wife. I don't know how many more times they can tolerate me letting them down. I don't want much, I just want us to be comfortable. Is that too much to ask?
I have been off work now since the middle of January. The last time I posted, the USA thing had fallen through due to health reasons; namely my hip. Since then I have found work but lost it again with all the uncertaintly surrounding my situation.
Ultimately I cancelled the hip operation and decided to go as long as possible on it. This would allow to me get a job and make some money. I just couldn't afford any more time off.
I thought about going overseas again where I could earn some nice tax-free money and clear all the (still mounting) debts. I approached a company who had previously offered me a job and eventually got an offer. Everything was set for me to go back to Qatar on 2nd March. The flights were booked and my case was packed. It still is.
I ended up in hospital. I had been feeling rotten for a while, and was getting worse. On the Saturday I went to the Out Of Hours GP service pleading for some kind of help and was admitted to the hospital. It turns out I have got hyperthyroidism, and the levels of thyroid juice showing in the blood were the highest one particular doctor had seen.
So I was told to stay at home and have been going through numerous tests to etablish which type of thyroid disease I have and what treatment I need. In the maantime I am taking dozens of tablets a day, including beta-blockers and steroids to combat all possible angles until we know for sure.
Luckily the job is still there. They are waiting for me. I just hope I don't have to make them wait too much longer. I have now lost 3 jobs since last November due to health reasons. The money is running out. The rent is overdue. The wolf and the three little pigs are at the door. I just can't keep borrowing from people, and now I have resorted to putting in a claim for Incapacity Benefit or whatever they all it now. It's shaming, but I know it shouldn't be.
Where did it all go wrong? What did I do to deserve all this crap? I have seriously thought about some bad things recently, but have to keep going for the kids and for my wife. I don't know how many more times they can tolerate me letting them down. I don't want much, I just want us to be comfortable. Is that too much to ask?
Saturday, 6 December 2008
It's the Most Wonderful Time
of the year.
Yeah. Christmas. I like it - well, the family side of things and the looks on the kids' faces on the morning of the 25th, not the the shallow orgy of consumerism - and am looking forward to it.
Still, things have been a bit all over the place in the last month or two. I finally had my cathter ablation on 23rd October in Middlesbrough, under the care of the wonderful staff at the James Cook University hospital. It's still early days, but things are looking good in respect of having my atrial fibrillation problem fixed. Fingers crossed.
A couple of weeks after my procedure I lost my job. I was told it was because of the lack of work, but have a sneaking suspicion they were just looking for an excuse after a couple of weeks on the sick following the op. I was philosphical about it because there were other (exciting) irons in the fire.
The biggest, most exciting iron was the chance of a job in the USA, in New York. I got a call completely out of the blue from this company a day or two before my ablation, and picked up the conversations with them afterwards. I talked it through with the family and they were keen on the idea. I went through numerous telephone interviews with numerous big cheeses and things progressed slowly but surely towards a point where an outline offer was made and I looked at places to live. I was then invited to New York for a five-day trip to meet the people and see the place, so I took the plane over the atlantic, buried my hatred of flying as deep as I could and spent 5 whirlwind days seeing New York City and Long Island, meeting some lovely people, eating far too much amazing food. I flew back with a firm offer in my hand and a dream of something great in my mind - a fresh start - a great opportunity.
Of course, being the man I am - a worrying, doubting, paranoid android - I soon started having a few doubts a few days after I got home. They were the usual doubts about the enormity of moving to a new country and all that stuff, but on top of these doubts were my paranoid feelings that something would go wrong. There was some detail that would get in the way.
I should have realised what it would be. I can't believe that I didn't consider it more seriously. I suppose, if I was to make an excuse, I woud say that I have lived with this thing for so long that I have just accepted it as a part of me. I knew that this day would come, but it has always been away in the future.
But everything changed when I went to see an orthapeadic surgeon on Friday.
It was one of a long line of appoitnements I have had with specialists like him over the years. I had something called Perthes disease as a child whcih is basically a degenerative disease of the hip joint. Since about the age of 3 I have had problems with my right hip following the disease, which pretty much wrecked the joint and ruined the femur head, transforming it from a nice roud ball into something resembling a bit of dog-chewed toblerone. I had an operation at the age of 10 to correct the twisting to the leg caused by the poor shape, and then reached adulthood with my right leg more than an inch shorter than my left. I got used to it; I adapted to it; I developed a limp, but I was still pretty active well into my 20s. I even played football (not very well, I admit).
Then, in my mid-20s, I was told by a specialist to stop playing football, as it wasn't good for the joint. Who was I to argue? There wasn't any other exercise that I particuarly enjoyed, so I became pretty sedentary, but didn't cut down the eating to match my reduced activity - and within a couple of years became a fat bugger. By my early 30s I was knocking on 20 stone (280lbs). I really should have learned to love swimming or cycling, but just didn't and couldn't. I tried Weight Watchers, I tried hypnosis, I tried Atkins, I tried exercise regimes - all have ultimately failed, and I have stayed at around 20 stone for a while.
This has probably been worse for the hip than playing football, but at my regular visits to the orthapeadic surgeon, I was told that nothing was really changing and that I should keep going as long as possible until the hip was at the point of failure and the need for a replacement was overwhelming.
In the last year the pain has been getting worse, that's for sure, but it would come and go, and I had x-rays in the middle of last year that apparently showed little change. I took to using a walking stick for the bad times and took pain killers to help me sleep. Although there was a sneaking feeling in the back of my mind, I was surprised to hear the specialist say these words to me on Friday:
"It's time to give you a new hip."
Ah. That's the American Dream on the back-burner then, eh? Recovery time of 3 months? No driving for 6 weeks? I would also have to lose a substantial amount of weight before the op...
Still, the silver lining of this cloud is that I can now get it over with and get back to an almost normal existence. I will be able to function and have a good quality of life with a new hip. The timing is just rotten, though, especially when I've been out of work for a month. I am hoping the people in the US will wait for me. I hope they will understand. I feel a tad foolish for failing to see this as an issue before now, but I'm also glad that I wonn't go out to America and risk a catastrophic collapse of the hip and not be able to get it sorted.
Yet another thing is sent to try me, but I've got bored of feeling sorry for myself. I'm gonna get on with it.
Yeah. Christmas. I like it - well, the family side of things and the looks on the kids' faces on the morning of the 25th, not the the shallow orgy of consumerism - and am looking forward to it.
Still, things have been a bit all over the place in the last month or two. I finally had my cathter ablation on 23rd October in Middlesbrough, under the care of the wonderful staff at the James Cook University hospital. It's still early days, but things are looking good in respect of having my atrial fibrillation problem fixed. Fingers crossed.
A couple of weeks after my procedure I lost my job. I was told it was because of the lack of work, but have a sneaking suspicion they were just looking for an excuse after a couple of weeks on the sick following the op. I was philosphical about it because there were other (exciting) irons in the fire.
The biggest, most exciting iron was the chance of a job in the USA, in New York. I got a call completely out of the blue from this company a day or two before my ablation, and picked up the conversations with them afterwards. I talked it through with the family and they were keen on the idea. I went through numerous telephone interviews with numerous big cheeses and things progressed slowly but surely towards a point where an outline offer was made and I looked at places to live. I was then invited to New York for a five-day trip to meet the people and see the place, so I took the plane over the atlantic, buried my hatred of flying as deep as I could and spent 5 whirlwind days seeing New York City and Long Island, meeting some lovely people, eating far too much amazing food. I flew back with a firm offer in my hand and a dream of something great in my mind - a fresh start - a great opportunity.
Of course, being the man I am - a worrying, doubting, paranoid android - I soon started having a few doubts a few days after I got home. They were the usual doubts about the enormity of moving to a new country and all that stuff, but on top of these doubts were my paranoid feelings that something would go wrong. There was some detail that would get in the way.
I should have realised what it would be. I can't believe that I didn't consider it more seriously. I suppose, if I was to make an excuse, I woud say that I have lived with this thing for so long that I have just accepted it as a part of me. I knew that this day would come, but it has always been away in the future.
But everything changed when I went to see an orthapeadic surgeon on Friday.
It was one of a long line of appoitnements I have had with specialists like him over the years. I had something called Perthes disease as a child whcih is basically a degenerative disease of the hip joint. Since about the age of 3 I have had problems with my right hip following the disease, which pretty much wrecked the joint and ruined the femur head, transforming it from a nice roud ball into something resembling a bit of dog-chewed toblerone. I had an operation at the age of 10 to correct the twisting to the leg caused by the poor shape, and then reached adulthood with my right leg more than an inch shorter than my left. I got used to it; I adapted to it; I developed a limp, but I was still pretty active well into my 20s. I even played football (not very well, I admit).
Then, in my mid-20s, I was told by a specialist to stop playing football, as it wasn't good for the joint. Who was I to argue? There wasn't any other exercise that I particuarly enjoyed, so I became pretty sedentary, but didn't cut down the eating to match my reduced activity - and within a couple of years became a fat bugger. By my early 30s I was knocking on 20 stone (280lbs). I really should have learned to love swimming or cycling, but just didn't and couldn't. I tried Weight Watchers, I tried hypnosis, I tried Atkins, I tried exercise regimes - all have ultimately failed, and I have stayed at around 20 stone for a while.
This has probably been worse for the hip than playing football, but at my regular visits to the orthapeadic surgeon, I was told that nothing was really changing and that I should keep going as long as possible until the hip was at the point of failure and the need for a replacement was overwhelming.
In the last year the pain has been getting worse, that's for sure, but it would come and go, and I had x-rays in the middle of last year that apparently showed little change. I took to using a walking stick for the bad times and took pain killers to help me sleep. Although there was a sneaking feeling in the back of my mind, I was surprised to hear the specialist say these words to me on Friday:
"It's time to give you a new hip."
Ah. That's the American Dream on the back-burner then, eh? Recovery time of 3 months? No driving for 6 weeks? I would also have to lose a substantial amount of weight before the op...
Still, the silver lining of this cloud is that I can now get it over with and get back to an almost normal existence. I will be able to function and have a good quality of life with a new hip. The timing is just rotten, though, especially when I've been out of work for a month. I am hoping the people in the US will wait for me. I hope they will understand. I feel a tad foolish for failing to see this as an issue before now, but I'm also glad that I wonn't go out to America and risk a catastrophic collapse of the hip and not be able to get it sorted.
Yet another thing is sent to try me, but I've got bored of feeling sorry for myself. I'm gonna get on with it.
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