The Final Week

Making the Connections

Back on the bench again.  Monday/Tuesday December 12^th/13^th

I have a charming new room-mate, Leonardo. I can’t quite work out what he’s here for; I think it’s an intensive programme of physiotherapy to try and get some of his nerves and muscles reconnecting properly, so at least the poor chap has no harsh pain or post-operative wounds. He has brought a television, but unlike my previous room-mate, Leonardo is not over-addicted to glitzy game-shows and shopping channels, he does however like to keep it playing quietly in the background, well into the night but maybe he’ll switch off earlier tonight.

This final week is the build-up to being discharged as more-or-less independent. I asked the therapist whether I would be continuing with physio at my local hospital when I returned to Le Marche. But no, Friday will be the end of the enforced exercise and from next weekend onwards it will be up to me to get out and go walking. That’s quite a daunting prospect when you remember that I’ve only be allowed to walk unaccompanied for the past four days, and today was only the second time I’ve attempted a flight of stairs. But it is amazing just how fast the body learns. Suddenly the nerves appear to wake up as if to say Oh, that’s what you want me to do, is it? The best example is lying flat on my back and raising my left (operated) leg. Until yesterday afternoon that was impossible. The therapist would slip her hand under my heel and take the weight, but it didn’t matter how much effort I put into supporting my leg, it would fall back to the bench the moment she relaxed her hand. I have spent a lot of time lying on the bench, trying to raise that leg, but nothing that I twitched or tweaked had any effect. Then yesterday I managed to slow the rate at which the leg descended, and then – with a great deal of effort – managed to raise the leg again, all the way up to the 45 degree angle. This morning, it was all logged into the memory of my nervous system and I lay on the bench, happily raising and lowering either leg with impunity.

When I look back over the past three years since I first started limping, I feel a huge relief that is further reinforced by the experience of improved mobility each time I walk down the corridor. I can feel my balance improving every time. I have been so blessed by the way the operation and after-care have been handled.

Lambeth Palace

A surprise email.

I am eking out the last few hours of internet access as I have only a very small balance on the dongle in my netbook (laptop.) I logged on this morning to find an email from the Archbishop of Canterbury’s official residence, Lambeth Palace. I had received a formal acknowledgement to a letter I wrote 3 weeks ago, but never expected an individual reply from such a busy office. I had written to thank Rowan Williams and his colleagues for their positive support of the “Occupy” movement at St Paul’s Cathedral – a movement that has received terrible and inaccurate press coverage from most of the British media. I firmly believe that we are on the cusp of something that is every bit as revolutionary as everything that happened across the Arab world through the summer, and is perhaps as significant as the fall of the Berlin Wall. I have never been a Socialist because I always believed that Capitalism offered a more efficient system of social and commercial organisation, but we have now seen that when any political system – Left or Right –  becomes self-serving, it is the 99% of the population who suffer. I continue to follow developments keenly on the internet and hope that I can find some way to make a positive contribution as the changes progress. It’s all about communication – and that is my forte. If you want to get a glimpse of the scale of debate that is going on behind the scenes, you might well be surprised at the involvement of not only the protesters and the Church, but also Hector Sants, CEO of the Financial Services Authority and Ken Costa, former Vice-Chairman of UBS Investment Bank and Chairman of Lazard International. None of this appears to have been reported in the press but you can check it out at http://occupylsx.org/?p=2204

Back in the exercise room for my afternoon session and the girls crank it up again. No sooner was I revelling in the ability to raise my operated leg off the bench than the new exercise involves not merely raising the leg but then holding it at 45 degrees for a count of five and then lowering slowly and gently. I grunt and groan, but persevere. I can’t believe how tiring it is, nor how uncomfortable the hospital bed is, when I collapse on it, exhausted. I dream of sleeping horizontally across my double bed when I get back to Caldarola on Saturday.

Definitely lop-sided

Wednesday December 14^th

The doctor did his rounds of the exercise room this morning and decided that my legs are definitely different lengths, and after months/years of compensating for the limp caused by my worn-out hip, this is now creating something of a problem. They fiddled around with various cork insoles in my right shoe, and when I started walking I could feel quite a difference. In time, my body will adjust naturally, but while the hip is settling down, I’ll wear an insole in my right shoe to help me to rebalance.

I still can’t get used to how tiring all of this. One hour of physio and gentle walking and I am totally drained. I went out like a light this afternoon – and that’s not because of a heavy lunch! In fact the food has been pretty poor this week. I am leaving more and more on my plate because it’s just not worth eating something which is completely tasteless – carrot broth with mushy pasta, meatloaf with overcooked cauliflower, and yet another baked apple – I’ve been served an average of 8 or 9 plain baked apples each week. Of course, the upside is that all my shirts have expanded comfortably, but what a way to spend the traditionally lavish run-up to Christmas….!

Stairs again

Thursday December 15^th

Fabiola continues to show no mercy.

I try to kid myself that the exercises get easier. Maybe they do, but just as one routine becomes less painful, a new one is introduced that finds resistance somewhere else. After a particularly gruelling session we set off for the walk round the block, stopping at the top of a daunting flight of stairs. Ok, off you go, says Fabiola, and I search in vain for a handrail. There is none. I am at the top of a marble staircase with only my crutches. Fabiola encourages me to use whatever method I find most manageable. I put both crutches on the first step down and feel dangerously unstable. I try keeping my crutches on the top step and gingerly move one foot down a step. Nothing feels very safe, but after a step or two, and a dangerous wobble on the first landing, I start to get the hang of it.

What soon becomes clear is that there are so many things that the body has to learn and re-learn, and that I simply must not put everything at risk by trying to learn new tricks too quickly. I am, after all, an old dog, and you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks.

That colour doesn’t suit you…

My room-mate’s wife

I hope she doesn’t turn up tonight, because I have such a problem keeping a straight face. I am still trying to understand Italian marital relationships after the dining room episodes of cutting up food and spoon-feeding. Last night Leonardo’s wife arrived with three carrier bags of new clothes. She decided that he had to have the appropriate clothes to wear in the exercise room, and whereas most people have track-suit bottoms and some sort of tee-shirt, my room-mate was to be kitted out with what the Americans call leisure suits. Furthermore she decided his pyjamas needed replacing and he needed a casual jacket.

By the time she had opened the bags and boxes and spread her purchases on the bed, I could see that he would have been well-equipped for a 3-week Saga cruise. Then the humiliation started in earnest as he was forced to try on the various outfits and stand there, deeply embarrassed while I tried to keep a straight face and avoid catching the eye of his adult son who was also trying to avoid revealing his amusement. My favourite was the purple and pink plush outfit – but my mirth was swiftly overwhelmed by my grief for my room-mate, unable to argue with his wife’s effervescent enthusiasm.

Then she marched him off to the bathroom to give him a shower. Yes, shower him! He has some restricted movement – which is why he’s here for treatment at the clinic – but nothing very much and is perfectly capable of caring for himself. I wept silently as I heard him complaining at the shampoo and shower gel that were lavished all over him. 24 hours later, the bathroom still has a lingering scent of body-wash, overlaid with the Gucci cologne she bought for him.

I thought I had seen it all: pampered husbands being spoon-fed at dinner, washed, dried and preened, then finally dressed up like favourite dolls in awful, garish outfits, but it was the breakfast routine that really got me. The hospital orderlies come round with the choice of hot drinks and packets of biscuits or rusks with jam. Leonardo always chooses rusks and sits expectantly while the girls spread a paper napkin, unwrap the packets of rusks and take the lids off the portions of jam.

One last session

Friday December 16^th

At 5.30 this morning the vampires stuck a needle in my arm and took their samples; at 6.00 they pushed a pill in my mouth and at 7.00 I decided I wanted to get wet and get clean. Showering is still a bit of a performance – there’s a hand-shower in the corner of the bathroom, and a stool,  but no curtains so no matter how careful one is, the water sprays pretty much everywhere. But it’s hot, and wet, and feels wonderful – even if the bathroom does end up flooded. [The cleaners took care of that before anyone slipped and had an accident.]

Nothing was going to stop the therapists upping the pressure for the final sessions. Fabiola tried new ways to bend back my left leg, and found new positions for me to lie before ordering me to move my disobedient limb. Lying on my stomach, straining to get it to rise, until she gently encouraged it and, amazingly, the nerves reconnected and started a twitch that became a nudge and the foot lifted just a fraction. A couple of attempts more, and my leg started to obey, but I felt the sweat breaking out on my forehead as I struggled to comply.

They have given me a list of exercises to work on in the coming weeks, and told me to make my follow-up appointment with Dr Passotti, the surgeon, as soon as I can – bearing in mind the Christmas breaks. The clinic doctor tried to persuade me to stay on for a further week, just to strengthen the hip and buttock muscles a bit more, but I fought my corner because I just cannot face another lone weekend here at the clinic. I have a suspicion that as the patient numbers decline for Christmas, his true motive is to ensure he has enough work to keep the therapists busy. Either way, it’s all agreed now, and I will be discharged sometime after 10 tomorrow morning.

…and in conclusion.

I have been very lucky. I have had intensive physiotherapy for more than three weeks and I could quite easily stride out from here with no more support than a normal walking stick. But if I did that, I think the nurses would kidnap me and lock me back behind the raised sides of my hospital bed, as they did on the day I arrived. They have a very strict routine, but all the evidence is that it works very effectively. I’ve kept in touch with my sister in Birmingham and exchanged notes on the speed of my recovery (she had her hip done in February.) Based on what she tells me of her expereicne, I am confident that this wonderfully extravagant process of intensive therapy is extremely beneficial.

I’ll miss the staff; the little nurse who christened me Santa Claus, the nurses who keep trying out a few words of English, the strange mix of other men and their dominant, fussy wives, and Lisa – the ex ballet-dancer turned journalist, fighting back from the brink of death after her car crash this summer to get back to presenting news stories on Italian television’s Channel 7.

Lots of stories, lots of experiences… and for me – it’s probably the start of a completely new lease of life.

Thanks to all of you who’ve expressed your pleasure in reading this blog; it’s kept me sane, amused and entertained. Since I now have the url www.bob-harvey.blogspot.com this site will live on with other stories of my continuing adventures. Just click “follow” to be updated automatically.