Wednesday 29 February 2012

A Big Trip Out - The Audition

I have something to confess. Don't think bad of me, it was Katie's decision - we have a cleaner. I won't go into the details, that would be a blog all of its own. But I have to admit it so I can relate this tale.

Kristina is from the Ukraine. Since the office has been at the house we have had a regular routine. She doesn't really like having the people at home while she cleans so I keep out of her way.

She opens the front door and shouts up to me [do you own accent here - it's fun] "Hello Daaaniel."

"Hi Kristina."

"How are you?"

"Good. You?"

"Fine."

She then goes about her business like a whirling dervish. When she reaches the office I move, and when the office is free again: "Daaaniel, you can go back to office now." I do as I am told.

We don't have much more to say than this, we're both busy. But then when I first injured my knee and she saw me with my foot up she came in and looked aghast at my situation, put a hand on a hip: "Daaaniel, what have you done?" It was sympathetic and she had an empathetic look on her face but I felt, as I explained, that I had been naughty.

The leg got better, time passed, then I had the operation. Hand on hip, look on face: "Daaaniel..."

So today when she was here and I had to go out for an audition, well she wasn't happy.

"Daaaniel. Where you going?"

"I've got a meeting."

"You go with sticks?" She pointed at my crutches. "Like this?" She gestured at my whole being.

"Yes. [Pause] Sorry." I'm was pleading now to be allowed to leave. She turned back to her dusting, tutting loudly.

I hobbled out, got to the bus stop, got to the audition, went in to the audition and spent 95% of the time explaining about my knee. I am beginning to sympathise with pregnant women who everyone wants to talk to. The audition went ok and then I got the bus home.

As I was sitting on the bus a couple of women got on and stood near me. Near enough for me to hear their conversation as we approached my stop.

"I fekking hate it round here." She was Irish, let's call her Sinead. She was early 50s. Her friend was Russian, let's call her The Friend.

"No, I don't like either."

"It's a shitehole. I told them I don't want to come round here. It stinks."

The bus got to my stop and I got off, the ladies got off behind me and continued their tirade against the area where I live. After a few more steps I could contain myself no longer and so I stopped and turned.

"I'm sorry ladies, I couldn't help overhearing you. Do you mind me asking? As you hate it around here so much, where do you live that is so lovely that in comparison this is a, what did you call it?, a shitehole."

Sinead's chin hit the floor: "Don't you use your filty language at me."

"I'm quoting you."

The Friend "Pervert." Sinead "Get out the way. We've got business here."

I was gobsmacked. I stood and watched as they crossed the road, not using the perfectly good crossing but going ten yards after it, and went in to the church.

I shook my head and looked down at my aching knee. We'd had a big day out, a nice audition in which I had not been too crap, and now we were nearly home and a foul mouthed Russian had called me a pervert.

My knee looked back up at me: "Ok, it happened, can we stop standing around in disgust and get home?" The knee was feeling swollen and a little painful so I did as he had asked.

Tuesday 28 February 2012

The Pithy Elbow - A slight tangent

Being unable to get downstairs in the night to visit the toilet has been a major inconvenience, for Katie. I am enjoying the concept of the potty and have now found a method which makes the process easy, almost fun. She on the other hand is having problems sleeping while someone else is weeing in the bed.

Her response to this, even though she knows it is necessary, has been to pass a pithy comment at some point during the process, sometimes while I am waiting for it to begin, or maybe during the flow, and sometimes at the end.

Nothing nasty but enough to take the edge off my fun.

"Come on, push it out." or

"Tinkle tinkle little star." and so it goes.

It got to the point where my ability to go was being hampered because I was waiting for the comment to air, before I could get on with business. Eventually I had to say something.

"Katie, I appreciate that it is not conducive to a good night's sleep to have someone weeing in your bed. I know that. But I can do it all much quicker and more efficiently if I am not dreading your pithy comment at some point."

"Oh." She was a little taken aback. "Well it's not much fun waking up to hear the splash of urine disturb the quiet night air." She was a little defensive.

"I know and as soon as I can walk again the potty will go." I tried to hide my regret. "Ok? But please stop it with the pithy comments."

She nodded agreement.

Phew. I'd seen a problem, I'd addressed it and thus avoided a potential cold war.

Nightime came after the discussion and at about 2am the urge to pee arrived. Creeping up on me unnoticed until it became urgent. Aware of our earlier discussion I attempted to do it in silence.

I slowly picked up the potty, got into position and started. All good. No comment from Katie, although I could tell from her breathing that she was awake. I thought she was probably struggling hard not to say anything but appreciated her effort.

All done, the potty went back under the bed and I lay back, feeling much more comfortable. Just as I was congratulating her, in my head, for not saying anything, she slowly but deliberately nudged me with her elbow. It wasn't a shove, but was more than a brush.

That elbow spoke volumes.

"I heard you wee." it said "but I kept quiet. I don't like you weeing in the bed, but I am adult enough to realise it is required. I am the better the person and we both know it."

In the morning, as I delivered the coffee, I had to say something.

"Thanks for keeping quiet during the wee. Was the pithy elbow really necessary?"

She smiled and supped her coffee. The Pithy Elbow was born and now rules over me.

Sunday 26 February 2012

The Daily Routine

I've now fallen into a pattern of behaviour, pretty soon, this will become a habit.

Every morning I wake up, thanks to a coffee brought to me by Katie, ah coffee in bed, the best moment of the day. Then I roll up my pyjama leg and see how the swelling is. I take a picture, Katie has a look too. We are waiting for the arrow to disappear. We have discussed getting it tattooed on as a permanent reminder but I don't kneed that just yet.

Then I do some exercises. Straight leg lift, straightening the leg, bending the leg as far as possible, and then lying on my front lifting the lower half of the leg as far as possible. All 20 reps.

I slowly make my way downstairs, yesterday, Saturday 25th was the first time since the op that I have done it without the crutches.

Once down I start making breakfast and Katie's sandwich for work. By the time I'm done, she is showered and dressed and we eat together at the breakfast bar. She doesn't like me calling it that but I can't think what else to call it. The window looks south-east so we always get the sun coming up over the nieghbours' houses' gardens. It's lovely.

We have a long established routine for our breakfasts so I don't have to think about it: Monday - cereal, Tuesday and Thursday - porridge, Wednesday - fruit buns, Friday - crumpets.

Normally we'd chat at the breakfast bar, but my leg aches when I still on a stool without it raised so I finish my coffee on the sofa, while she gets ready to, and then, leaves for work.

My work day begins and is punctuated by exercises, icing and raising the leg. I'm lucky that my job allows this without interrupting either. My figures are up on last January and February so far in spite of the operation and in a more difficult climate so I'm quite pleased.

Added to the bed exercises I also do a ten minute walk every couple of hours. This is up and down the house, and out round the table in the back garden. I've also started to doing squats against the wall.

The most painful moment is at the end of heel hanging, when I have to try and bend the knee again. It's like anything you do with your body. If you leave a limb or muscle in an extreme or extended position for any length of time and then try to move, it hurts. I always take it slowly as I raise the knee again but it's always painful.

And so the days will go by. It's already two weeks since the operation. For a 40 week recovery period that means I am 5% of the way through. 1/20th of my recovery already done. I'm not enjoying it as such, but I am looking forward to the challenges ahead.

Saturday 25 February 2012

Second Full Week

To cheer myself up I ordered a couple of CDs and a book on Amazon. The book, I listen to the wind that obliterates my traces, has still not arrived but the two CDs have. Ke$ha and Avril Lavigne's latest offerings. I know I should have outgrown this type of music but for some reason I haven't. As soon as they arrive I put them on and instantly feel better about the world. The nine months ahead does not seem that long. The peculiar thing about songs like theirs is that they make me want to have a really short haircut.

I can't explain it, but while I am listening to them I imagine myself going down to the barbers and getting a number 1 all over.

The same day that I went to see Mr Knee was pancake day. Katie brought home the ingredients, it is her second favourite day of the year. Her first is bonfire night. When that comes round I will almost be back to full fitness, if all goes well.

I always make the pancakes, she always produces the fillings. She's a traditional two savoury followed by two sweet type of person. So we have ham and cheese first, times two. Then she has sugar and lemon juice. I like sugar and cinnamon. Hmmm. Always on this day, I say to her as we finish the last one; "We should have pancakes everyday." She smiles and starts washing up.

The week is building up to my trip to the physio hydro pool. Jimmy has done his duty already this week so I ask another friend Paul. As he arrives and I fall into the front seat I think about the fact that both he and Jimmy are only friends because of playing football together. I then do a mental check of all my closest friends and without football and the playing of it, none of them would have survived. It saddens me a little that my life is so blinkered but gives me a further incentive to get playing again.

Paul has to be back early so has to drop me at the hospital about an hour before my appointment. I'm not too bothered and I sit at the front of the hospital watching people come and go. After about thirty minutes I realised that everyone I have seen would fall into what you might call 'character actor' territory. Not a single really good looking person. I become obsessed with this and try to search out, unsuccessfully, some lookers. I myself fall into the norm, I'm no looker and I formulate a theory that the genes of good looking people must just make them less likely to get ill. They have symmetrical faces, and all is good for them.

Time passes quickly and I have to hurry along to the pool.

The pool is about 20 foot, by 20 foot, the water comes up to just above my waist, and is warm like a bath. There is something slightly weird about standing there with two other patients as we listen to the physio. It's like we are old mates having a bath together.

One of the others had a knee op a few months ago and this is his last pool session. I'd seen him walking in earlier and he was still limping heavily. The other broke his ankle in January.

Jake, the physio, standing in for Helen who is ill, takes us through a very mild warm up. Some bending and lifting of legs. Standing on toes etc.

Then he gives us each an exercise to do for two minutes. I start with a buoyancy aid on my left ankle. The aim is to bend my leg backwards from the knee and let the aid lift it up and for me to push it down. This is followed by using a buoyancy noodle under my left foot which lifts the leg forwards, bending again at the knee, and then me pushing down. The third exercise is squats, and this if followed by going up and down the stairs into and out of the pool. I can't do this last one coming down, the knee feels weak and insecure.

When we're done we come back into a group for what I refer to as the ministry of funny walks. No one laughs.

Jake gives us various exaggerated walking styles to do back and forth across the pool. The final one is walking backwards "carefully. I'll tell you when you're at the side." Knee injury bloke is the quickest and bangs into the stairs. Jake apologises "Sorry, I was thinking about something else." We all walk backwards a lot slower after that. The patient physio trust has gone.

After the walks, Jake calls time and as we are getting out he issues a warning. "It goes without saying that you should not try any of these exercises at home, unless you have your own pool as it would be dangerous."

"As dangerous as walking backwards into the stairs?" Asks knee op. We all chuckle, Jake goes red.

 I am knackered. I feel more tired after that half an hour than I normally would after a full footy match. It takes me fully twenty minutes to get dressed. I'm drained and my knee is killing me. I've stopped taking the painkillers and right now I am regretting it.

As I wait in reception for Katie to pick me I get surrounded by sick people. One poor old chap is in a wheelchair, with his wife and son. They're walking, not in the wheelchair. He looks like death as his wife tries to feed him a sandwich. Every now and then his left leg starts shaking with pain. She rubs it, which makes it worse and debris falls out his mouth. On the other side an even older Indian lady is left in a chair whilst her son goes to get his car. She is mumbling to herself. I feel depressed for myself, sorry for them, and ready to give up as I see what awaits us all.

The old chap holds out his hand, and his son holds it for a moment. It seems to calm everyone down. Just that small touch, bringing them together.

And then they're gone and Katie's here. I'm glad to get out of there. I don't speak on the journey. I just think about death. It's been a daily obsession for a few years now, but to confront it at such close quarters was too much.

Back to Mr Knee

Just 11 days after the operation I was back at the hospital for my first visit to Mr Knee, followed by my first physio session.

Katie was at work so my good friend Jimmy gave me a lift. He had a great route, thanks to a building job he'd done a few years ago which was on the same route. Little had he known at the time how handy that would be.

As always I arrived early, I'd given Jimmy a false time because although he is a good friend he is from Cyprus and drives very safely. His route made my fears ridiculous.

I sat in the waiting room right in front of the sign which reads Patients will be seen in appointment order, not arrival order. Jimmy must have been laughing.

In came the Spanish bloke who had been first on the list on op day. I saw his hair and realised that his top of the head bun was indeed a fashion decision not an operative caution. Hey I'm no fashionista and don't have enough hair for buns so who am I to judge. Then in came Lumley-lite. It was then that I understood that what Mr Knee was doing was recreating operation day.

Spanish bun went in first. He hadn't come out when I was called in and I lay down, trousers off, in the cubicle next to him. I heard Mr Knee come in and tut as soon as he saw Spanish-bun's knee. Oh dear, I thought. As it turned out Mr Bun had not been doing his exercises, had not been doing the 10 10 10 , and had generally not lost any of the swelling. Mr Knee gave him a right good telling off.

Whilst this was going on Nurse Joan entered my cubicle to take out my staples. When they tell you they have stapled you rather than used stitches, for some reason I never imagined actual staples, but when she took off my plasters there they were, industrial staples from a staple gun. She had an office staple remover and started pulling them out. I winced in pain.

"I can't stop," she said in a friendly but firm tone "if I stop we'll never get it done."

To take my mind of it I told her that I was taking a picture of my knee every day and that at the end of my rehabilitation I was going to put them together in an animation of recovery.

She looked at me with pity.

"I would tell you to get out more, but your knee probably won't let you."

Mr Knee bounded in and stroked my leg for a bit. They all do this. They treat your leg like a project that they and you are working on, not like it is part of your body.

He told me straighten it, bend it and lift it.

"Looks good."

"Better than Spanish-bun?"

"Oh yes. He's a very naughty boy."

Then he did something that I wasn't ready for and nearly fainted. He sat on my foot, with my leg bent at 90 degress, clasped his fingers together at the back of my knee and pulled. I was expecting my leg to come off at the knee joint but..

"Rock solid." He declared. "Didn't move a millimetre."

"Don't do that again please."

"What?" He did it again with an evil chuckle. "This? Hey, that joint is stronger than its ever been."

He stroked my leg again, almost absentmindedly, and thought for a moment. "Ok, let's see you again in four weeks. Keep up the 10 10 10. Good work." and then he was gone.

I got dressed and made my way over to physio.

Clodagh came to get me and I hobbled after her to another cubicle.

"Trousers off, on the bed." This was after a series of questions about what I'd done to injure my leg (some bastard fouled me) and what my aims were in my recovery (to play football again as soon as possible). She started stroking my leg and I began to wonder if this is the first thing they teach you at medical school.

She got a special ruler out that bends in the middle. At school I would have known the name but not now. She told me to bend my leg as far as possible. I managed about 90 degrees, she measured it and noted it. She did the same on the good side. It seems a lot of this is about getting your leg as good as the other one. Then we did the same with straightening. She took a deep intake of breath.

"Ok, we need to get that bend up to 90 degrees. I'm going to book you in for the pool."

This is serious I thought. She booked me two pool sessions and then back with her after them and I made my way out.

No Jimmy to pick me up, he had an audition as a dictator's double, and the dictator for a play in Bath. I ordered a cab. It cost £15, and I began to wonder how I was going to afford to recover.

This had been my first big day out since the op and when I got back I was knackered. It made the walk to the co-op seem like just that. I lay on the sofa and fell asleep, dreaming about people stroking my leg like a Bond villain stroking his cat. I awoke with a start to find Katie sitting on the sofa, stroking my leg.

Thursday 23 February 2012

The Second Weekend

Katie had to go away for work on the second weekend. Well that's what she said. It may be that she was sick of me talking about my knee, and tired of my middle of the night bedside urination. Either way, I was home alone, still on crutches, unable to drive and no one to help me if I fell over.

As she left she said, "Oh, sorry, I forgot to get the bread. Bye."

I sat and looked around me. Suddenly the house felt very big, I felt very small and my leg totally useless. I decided that the trip for bread should be done early while I still had energy. I had not left the house since the operation so it was all very exciting.

I wanted to get back for Football Focus at 12.30, so left at 11.15, thinking that would leave me plenty of time. Oh I could not have been more wrong.

Under normal circumstances, the Co-Op is about a ten minute walk. On crutches, in pain, with a rapidly swelling knee, it took over 40 minutes. I had taken my radio with me, and at one point Radio 4 switched to the Shipping Forecast. I can't remember which region they were talking about but I do remember them saying about a storm "moving slower, losing its identity". They were talking about me.

At one point I saw ahead of me a woman on crutches. I thought about high fiving her, but quickly realised we'd both fall over. Instead I thought I'd give her a friendly smile. She looked at me like I had farted on her breakfast. So much for crutch solidarity.

The journey there had been awful and long but it was a breeze compared to the one back. At one point I just stopped, hoisted my leg up and considered getting a cab. I realised that in cab terms I was only 2 minutes from home so abandoned the idea. All through the trip, I had been trying to do the walking properly, just using the crutches to take the weight, but I was in too much pain now and was bored of the whole adventure. I started just swinging away proper crutch style. Much quicker, less stable and very tiring on my arms.

That did get me home for Footy Focus but I was so tired I fell asleep as soon as I sat down. I woke up at about 5. So much for my afternoon of sport. I've never been to Everest but I doubt that more effort is required to get to the summit than I expended getting to the Co-op. And so the weekend went. When you are doing stuff on crutches everything takes ages, and is ridiculously tiring.

When Katie arrived home on the Monday evening I greeted her like she'd been away for 3 years, not 3 days. I think she was touched that I had missed her so much. I hoped she'd never go away again.

A Week of Work

I'm lucky that my office is at home and all I need is a computer, a phone, a piece of paper and a pen. This meant I could stay home, do everything I needed to do for work and also fit in my various exercises.

The one problem to be ready for was if I was on the walk around the house and the phone went. I had to convince myself that I could get to the phone without hurrying. Hurrying when you're on crutches is dangerous. I found this out on day 1.

I was really excited when I  saw Katie appear in the front window on her bike and was suddenly determined to open the door for her. I'm chivalrous like that. Stupid.

I jumped up grabbed my crutches and set off without steadying myself, my left leg whacked into the crutch and I went flying. As I was in mid air, I just managed to get my right leg under me and to land on it, my left was all over the place and it felt like the surgery had exploded. I didn't want Katie to know how stupid I was so hid the pain, opened the door and smiled.

Once she was in I went back to the sofa and tried to assess the damage. It felt bad. I tried some movement but everything hurt. I was convinced I had undone the surgery. I breathed slowly and told myself to calm down. Katie was busy getting dinner ready but I was in despair.

In the end I convinced myself it was ok, but the extra pain only subsided after bed time.

As each day passed the exercises improved and I was starting to move the weight from my crutches to my leg. By the end of the week, I couldn't walk without them, but could hobble.

The only major excitement of the first week was a shower. You're meant to keep the wound dry for the first 12 days. I didn't have my first shower till the Tuesday evening. That was five days after my previous shower. Urrrghhh, I hear you cry but luckily, when you don't move about much, you don't really sweat, so you don't really smell. I'm lucky too, that I am generally not a smelly person. If I wear my boxer shorts, by accident, for two days running, they still smell clean. I kid you not. I've smelt them in this situation to try and work out if they are clean or not. Nada, zilch.

So I wasn't smelly.

How to keep the wounds dry? Cling film, it says it the leaflet. On the first shower I used a bit too much, enough to wrap a small cow, but boy was my leg dry. Over the next few days my technique improved such that by Friday, I was using hardly any and still keeping it dry.

It's a bit nuts how strange situations force you to learn new, and totally useless skills but if you ever need anything wrapping in a rain storm with not much cling film, let me know.

The First Few Days After the Operation

When you leave the hospital they give you loads of bits of paper. On first arriving at home I dumped them at the front desk without reading them. It's the table by our front door.

The first night was painful. I could only lie on my back, and I never sleep on my back. Every now and then I tried a side position but was in too much pain. The worst thing about the pain was that whilst it hurt, it hurt even more to move. Knowing that a return to lying on my back would bring a little relief, I had to bite my lip and force myself to move through pain.

Then, at about 5am, came that little feeling when you realise you need a wee. It was dark, I lent over the edge of the bed and started fishing around for the potty. Much noise and grumbling and Katie woke up. Phase one, failed.

When I found the potty, I decided the best thing to do was to stand up, painful, hold potty with one hand, and lean against the wall while doing my business. And so we waited for it to start. I could hear Katie's breathing getting heavier as we both waited. Strangely, any attempt to push, sent shock waves down my leg. Eventually a trickle. I utilised the opening of hostilities to push. Agony in my leg, but flow got stronger.

Oh this is fun.

Not as much fun as trying to put a potty back on the floor, when you can't bend one of your legs. I just about managed to get it on the floor, spilling none, honest, I think, and slid it under the bed.

I fell back in to the bed, surrounded by the smell of wee and went to sleep.

The next day I had to go downstairs in the morning on my bum. I didn't feel strong enough to try the high-wire act that is going downstairs on crutches.

I positioned myself on the sofa, lots of sport, all day, and didn't move except for the occasional 10 10 10. If Mr Knee is reading this, I did it every hour, religiously. If he isn't, I probably did it three times during the day. The heel hanging, where you rest your heel on a chair, while sitting on another chair, and let gravity pull the knee down, was a new level of pain.

I managed a couple of walks around the ground floor. Up round the table, back to the back door, and back again. For about ten minutes. Every now and then my left foot hit the crutch and I nearly went flying.

This was my routine on Sunday too. My ice pack is a Sainsburys Basics Mixed Veg. Very good.

After just the weekend, the swelling had gone down noticeably. I couldn't straighten the leg fully but it wasn't a million miles off.

Just before Katie went to work on the Monday morning she found the papers at the front desk.

"What's all this?"

"No idea." She opened them to reveal a really handy list of exercises. She gave me a look, turned and left.

I was on the sofa, leg up, heel hanging, my office set up around me. Ok, can I get through a day's work?

Tuesday 21 February 2012

Post Op - 10th Feb - About 5pm, I think

Lumley-lite was suddenly sitting opposite me and talking to me from across the room. I realised I was now in a chair and somehow I was dressed. I didn't remember dressing or moving. How did I do that?

"You look pale."

If that's your best chat up line you can forget it luv, is what I didn't say. "I'm a pasty chap anyway."

"You do look pale." Maybe she hadn't heard.

I shouted: "I'm a pasty person."

Mr Patel looked round. I realised he thought I must have been trying to speak Gujarati because I was shouting.

"You do look pale."

I gave in. "Yep, I guess I look pale. It must be something to do with having had my knee taken apart and reconstructed, and not having eaten since yesterday, and being dehydrated too."

"Oh well. Least said soonest mended."

I decided either I was going nuts or she was. I closed my eyes for what seemed like a nano-second.

"Wake up Daniel, your wife is here."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Katie. She looked worried and I saw her mouth the words you look pale. Jesus Christ, alright already, I'm pale.

Somehow I stood up and was given a masterclass in how to use crutches. Fortunately I had experience from the three times my leg had collapsed. The nurse was now telling me loads of stuff, and for some reason I thought I knew it all already so stopped her and I hobbled along behind Katie.

We got to the lift for the car park and stood waiting. The silence seemed to be a little too long so I filled it. "Do I look pale?" She nodded. I tried out my I'm in agony and on the verge of tears face. It worked and she touched my arm in silent support. The lift came, I hobbled in.

I was actually feeling better than I expected and the drive was not too bad as I ran through what had happened since she had dropped me off in the morning.

Getting out the car at home was difficult, my leg wouldn't bend, but the Nissan Micra does not really accommodate anything other than small agile people. We managed it just and I collapsed onto the sofa.

"Are you going to sleep down here for the first night?"

"No, the nurse and physio said there was no need. They explained how to go up stairs with crutches. Good leg to heaven apparently. I think that means the same as best foot forward."

"What if you need the loo in the night?" Our bathroom is downstairs.

We both knew this moment was coming. I wanted a potty, just for number 1s, I could hold in solids till the morning, but a 2am trip down the stairs on crutches would only end one way.

There was silence. I'd practised it earlier and I knew now was the time to bring it back but with all guns blazing. I did the face of pain, the face of tears are just about to come, the face of please give in, I love you more than anything else in the world and all I want is to wee in the bed. I held the look.

It was a Mexican stand-off. Who would blink first? She did.

"Ok. But the minute you are walking again the potty goes."

"I love you. [pause] You do know you'll have to carry it down each morning?"

The Operation - 10th Feb 2012 [Part 3]

Ten months late, £60,000 over budget and now single, Tom was just about find out what was the worst that could happen. Over the course of an hour Homes under the Hammer had proved itself to be good clean fun. A couple of estate agents turned up and pronounced that Tom's work was not quite what they expected and then they both valued the house a long way under what Tom needed just to break even. Tom wasn't smiling down the bottle anymore. He decided that as he had lost so much at auction that there must be another mug out there so he was going to auction his house too.

The room was packed, Tom had cellotaped a smile on his face, and his home was next under the hammer. Would there be someone in the room stupider than Tom. The camera zoomed in on the auctioneer, "Will anyone start me Daniel?"

My brain went a little numb whilst I realised the nurse was calling me. I didn't want to go, I needed to know what the worst was for Tom.

"Daniel!" She called again. I couldn't hold out any longer, there was only me and the Indian chap there and he really didn't look like a Daniel. At that moment another nurse was talking to him. Unfortunately his sons/translators had already left.

"Where are your sons Mr Patel?" He pointed at his knee. "Have you signed the consent form?" She did the international sign for 'bring me the bill' hoping that he would know she was talking about his medical consent form. He was still pointing at his knee, she started talking louder because that turns English into Gujurati.

"Daniel?" Nurse number one was right in front of me.

"Yes. Sorry. I wanted to know what happened to Tom."

"He's not called Tom, he's called Mitesh." I didn't argue, I just followed her. Surely this was it. She pushed open some double doors and I entered a modern, clean and bright operating theatre.

My first thought was that the bed looked really narrow. I wasn't expecting a king size but this looked tiny. I managed to squeeze on and lay back just as the head anesthetist approached.

When people talk to you and you're lying down they seem really strange. His head seemed massive but he was calm and friendly. He even said "Mr Knee will take good care of you, he's very good." I felt reassured, but it is not as though he would say anything else. Whilst he was talking he was messing about with my hand. I knew he was sticking a needle in it but if I didn't look it didn't hurt.

"What job do you do?"

"I'm an actors agent."

"Oooh, we could get on telly everyone."

I made a lame joke about auditioning for Casualty and we had no chance for a second take. As I finished the joke, Aisha put a mask over my face, "It's oxygen." It smelt plastic.

Three hours later I woke up with a hamstring, cut from my own leg, strapped through my knee where the ACL used to be. It hurt a bit, I felt incredibly sleepy, I just couldn't open my eyes for more than a second and then a physio came through the curtain and started talking to me. I have no idea what she said. She could have asked me for my bank account details and I may have given them to her, I just don't know. In the literature it says not to sign any important documents after being under anesthetic, now I know why.

At some point later, it could have been a minute or five hours, Mr Knee turned up.

"Hi Daniel. That went well."

"Did it?"

"Yep. Best hamstrings I've ever seen. Superb."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. Now remember, 10 10 10. Okay?" He went to leave.

"What?" He came back.

"10 10 10 . 10 minutes ice, 10 minutes heel hanging, 10 minutes walking with crutches. The rest of every hour is your own." He flicked his surgeons thumbs up, gave me a dazzling smile and swept out repeating his mantra; "10 10 10".

I repeated it again in my head, over and over. Then suddenly I couldn't remember what the third ten was for. I fell asleep.

The Operation - 10th Feb 2012 [Part 2]

I sat there again. Breakfast telly had been replaced by Homes Under the Hammer, a programme which until that moment I didn't know existed but which now seemed really interesting.

Everyone else had also returned from their little trips. I had just decided I should try to talk to someone when my name was called again. 'Here we go. It's showtime.' I thought.

I followed Aisha into the cubicle, way too small and ill-equipped for major surgery. The room I mean, not Aisha.

"My name's Aisha." She said, pointing at her badge, as though that proved she was Aisha. I'd have believed her anyway. She had a stethoscope. "I'm part of the anesthetic team." It takes a whole team to put me to sleep. She then went on to explain in rather too much technical detail how they put you to sleep, keep you asleep, and make sure you wake up again at the end.

Apparently they use a mixture of things, none of which I understood at the time, nor can I remember now but she was friendly, seemed to know what she was talking about and only had to look at her notes once to remember my name. Not bad.

And so it was back to the male waiting zone. I wondered what would happen if I tried to go into the female waiting zone.

As I sat down, Scottish bloke returned too.

"Every time they call your fucking name you think that's the one. It's like waiting on death row."

A slight exaggeration I thought, but he was 6' 3" and a large unit, as they say, so I just nodded and smiled. I think I smiled, it may have looked like a grimace.

Tom in Warrington had been made redundant and so decided to buy a ruin, do it up and try to sell it. He'd never done any building work before, he was going to try and do it himself. He looked at the camera, right down the bottle as we say; "What's the worse that can happen?"

I realised that bun-hair had gone. He'd been wearing a similar sock to me, and I'd spied an arrow on the other shin. I put 2 and 2 together, and decided he was first on the list not Lumley-lite. Ok, I calculated, he's been gone at least ten minutes, it takes an hour or so to do the business, come on then Tom in Warrington, let's see what is the worst that can happen.

As things go, a lot can wrong when you haven't got a clue what you're doing. At the auction, Tom, who had missed out on two previous properties, went nuts and decided he had to win on number three. The result was that he overpaid by £40,000 and now his renovation fund was £40,000 short.

Scottish bloke got called, and never returned. I hope he wasn't actually headed for the electric chair even though I have a problem with people who swear in front of people they don't know. Not that I am saying it is a capital offence.

Homes under the Hammer has the annoying habit of continually recapping the story so far every ten minutes. Maybe they assume that as the majority of their viewers are old, that they must have Alzheimers. I don't and so the fifth time I heard Tom ask what the worst was that could happen, I imagined pushing his head through his crumbling front door and cracking him with a lump hammer. "Is that the worst that can happen Tom?"

Monday 20 February 2012

The Operation - 10th Feb 2012 [Part 1]

I had to be at the hospital at 7.30am. I'd been told I was second on the list.

I'm always early but I was a little disappointed to walk into the reception of the Treatment Centre at 7.10am and not find anyone there to take my details.

I sat in the comfortable chairs, alone. I've not had an operation since I had my appendix removed in 1973 so I was a little nervous but not overly concerned. I needed the operation, I wanted the operation because I wanted to play football again. Plain and simple. This was my only motivation.

In walked a woman in her 60s. "Ah. Welcome to the torture centre." She was what Joanna Lumley would be like if she was a normal person. It looked like she'd just been shopping. She sat three chairs down from me. Not too near, but not too far. Wouldn't want to be rude.

Others started arriving, and still no nurse to check us in. Some were limping, one had a massive cast on his hand, others seemed perfectly healthy. I looked healthy, I wasn't limping, if you didn't know I had no ACL in my left knee you would have thought I was fine.

Eventually, at about 7.29am, the nurse came in and took our names.

A minute or so later Joanna Lumley-lite was taken through. As I was second on the list I assumed I'd be sitting here for a while but just then my name was called and I went through to the changing area.

"Go in there, change into these gowns, this one opens at the back, first, this, opens at the front, second. Put this sock on your healthy leg."

I closed the door and slowly started undressing. I couldn't seem to fit everything into the two plastic bags she'd given me. I started again, refolded, swore a bit, refolded, sat down and tried to calm myself, refolded and finally squeezed everything in.

I opened the door and stood in the corridor holding my two plastic bags, dressed in fading hospital gowns. Usefully they are covered with the repeating message - For Hospital Use Only. Phew, without that I may have tried to nick them and use them for office wear.

Nurse Molly came to collect me. I felt like a refugee from planet healthy. I followed her to the lockers and tried to shove my bulging plastic bags into a space which was obviously too small. She watched. She's seen this a thousand times. She waited. I shoved. She watched.

"There's bigger lockers over there."

"Oh, thanks."

I followed her again to the Male Waiting Area. It was a screened off zone, with a large flat screen tv tuned to BBC Breakfast, I programme I never watch, but for which I was now grateful. With me in the male waiting area was an Indian man, aged 60ish, with two friends, not in gowns. These turned out to be his interpreters. There was a Scottish fellow reading the Sun, and a Spanish looking bloke reading the FT. He had long hair which had been tied on to the top of his head like a bun. I hoped this was a surgical necessity rather than a fashion choice.

Scottish bloke was called and I nicked his Sun for a bit. Then I was called. "This is quick, I thought." I followed a teenager in surgical gowns into a small cubicle.

"Hi. I'm Nikesh, one of Dr Knee's surgical team. I'm going to explain what's going to happen and talk to you about the possible risks and about what you'll need to do after the operation."

"I'm worried that you might operate on the wrong knee."

"Ha ha ha, so are we." This didn't reassure me. I had thought of putting a cross on one knee and a tick on the other but I thought they might think the tick meant that knee was ok rather than that it was the one to operate on. It was the only thing I was worried about. "Don't worry. I've got this." He took an indelible marker pen out of his pocket. He patted his knee, "Put your foot up here."

I lifted my foot and watched in wonder as he draw a massive arrow on my left shin, pointing up at the offending knee. I felt reassured.

"Even with this we don't start till everyone in the room agrees it is the right knee."

"Left knee." I'm panicked again.

"Yes, left knee. By right knee, I meant the correct knee."

"Do you think the use of the word right instead of correct could be banned? Just for today. Just in case."

He chuckled. "Don't worry. Even once we go into the knee, we look around first before doing anything to make sure the injury is actually there. So even in the totally unlikely event that we go into the wrong knee, we won't do anything."

"Ok. Can I borrow your pen." He handed it over, and I coloured in the arrow he'd drawn, made it bigger, bolder and, in my mind, better.

"Nice work. Ok so do you know what the operation involves?"

"Yes." He ignored me and described what I already knew.

First they take a little bit of hamstring, God he explained, has given us some spare parts, and then they drill a tunnel in the fibia, and one in the femur and pull the hamstring through, wrap it round a few times, making sure it is going where the ACL should be. This becomes a scaffold on which knew ligament will grow. Simple. I found out afterwards that ACL reconstruction was first discussed as long ago as 1845. There is a good look at the history of the operation here: http://www.maitrise-orthop.com/corpusmaitri/orthopaedic/87_colombet/colombetus.shtml

Nikesh then went through the various things that could go wrong. All of them had an "infinitesimally small chance" of happening but he was obliged to tell me. It didn't matter what he said, I was going to have the operation so I stopped listening, sorry Nikesh.

When he'd finished he asked if I had any questions.

"Which knee is it?"

He looked down at the arrow. "The left?" He added the query in his voice as a joke so I replied likewise; "Right."

He took me back to the male waiting area.

Sunday 19 February 2012

The Nine Months Only Begin After the Operation [Part 3]

And so the waiting began again. How long would I have to wait for the operation? Justin's guesstimate was "between 1 and 3 months". That would, at worst put the operation at the end of April. I hunkered down.

Once it was agreed that I needed the op I had to go to the admissions department. In there I was asked to fill in a form to confirm I was fit for operating on. "Are you overweight?" No. Lots of questions like that to which I made sure I gave the 'best' answers.

The admissions lady, Catherine, entered everything into the computer and then told me I would get a letter soon with a date.

"Do you get many cancellations because I am available at short notice if you do?"

"Oh, I forgot to ask if you were available at short notice. That's good. I've just started a new system to make sure we use people like you."

"I'm sorry. My knowledge of history is not so good but the NHS has been going for over 60 years, and here, now in 2012, you've just started a system to utilise people who are available at short notice?"

"Yes, I'm excited about it. We often get cancellations and I've never got anyone to fill them."

At this point I expected her to open up some amazing new system on her so-new-it-still-smelt-like-the-box computer, but no. She stood up, opened her drawer and took out a marker pen. She walked over to her white board and wrote the heading: SHORT NOTICE. Underneath she wrote my name, then Dr Knee, then ACL R. The R standing for reconstruction.

She turned to me and smiled. It was a smile that said "I have just invented sliced toast." I got up, thanked her and left.

At home, I knew I couldn't start phoning up to get my op moved forward until I had a date from which to move it forward. I emailed admissions and asked when I would get a date.

"You'll get a letter soon."

I was so close now. My leg exercises were coming on a pace. Each element was now up to 40 repetitions, my wife's pilates ring was taking a bashing but I didn't care. I wanted my leg as strong as possible pre-op. I managed to get my GP to book me four sessions with a physio to show me proper exercises, I was taking this seriously. The first of these was set for the 10th of February. I was too excited.

On Wednesday 1st February I got pencilled for a commercial. It was for Cadbury's and it was me or another bloke who would get it. 50% chance is good for this sort of thing so I was quite excited about that too. It was due to film on the 22nd February, so I thought that would be a nice bonus before the operation.

On Monday 6th February my mobile rang. No one really calls me on it so I was surprised at first and the number was 'withheld'. Normally that means it is someone trying to sell me a new gas supplier so I answered it without enthusiasm.

"Is that Daniel?"

"Yes." Using my first name will not make me change my gas supplier. Nice try mate. I nearly hung up.

"This is Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. We've had a cancellation. Are you able to come in on the 10th February for your operation?"

I couldn't comprehend what she'd said at first. Suddenly it seemed she was speaking Swahili.

"What?" She repeated it and I said yes.

I put the phone down and sighed, a deep, earth moving sigh.

"There goes the Cadbury's job." Life is weird. I'd been waiting for this call for 6 months and now I wasn't even happy. I kicked myself out of it and punched the air. Yes I was happy. Forget Cadbury's, there'll always be the sausage ad.

I rang my wife. She was more excited than me.

"Well done. Good hassling."

"I hadn't even started hassling them yet."

"Yes but there must be a note on your file saying you're a hassler. Get him through quickly, he'll make your life a misery."

"Is that what you think?'

"Yes. I mean, no, not what I think. It's what I think about them." She convinced me, I hung up and looked at my diary.

I noticed that I had a pre-op meeting scheduled for the 9th Feb, phew that was lucky. It was with a physio and she seemed surprised that my operation was so soon.

"My wife thinks it's because it says on my file that I'm a hassler so I should be got through quickly."

She looked at my file, smiled, closed it, and started explained the procedure.

I cycled home, thinking all the way that this was last my cycle for a while. I really enjoyed it. The journey takes me through Hyde Park. It was a cold, sunny day and I felt that I was the luckiest person alive.

The Nine Months Only Begin After the Operation [Part 2]

With the appointment so far off I decided it was time to take some positive action. It had worked with the MRI, to a small degree, when I had managed to get a cancellation,  and have it a month earlier than original scheduled.

I called the knee specialist's office and explained that I was always available and if someone cancelled I could be there in an hour.

"Really, but I thought you had a serious injury which was damaging all aspects of your life."

"Yes, but I can still cycle."

"Oh okay."

"I don't want to annoy you by ringing every day but I am going to ring every day until I get a cancellation."

She hung up.

I rang the next day. "Hi, it's Daniel here, I've got an appointment in late February. Just checking if you have any cancellations?"

"No sorry, nothing today."

This went on for a couple of days, then.

"Hi, it's Daniel here."

"Yes, I know. Nothing yet."

Later that day, a cancellation came in. Appointment with the specialist on the 24th January. Wow, that's another month saved I thought. If this carries on I'll be starting my recovery before I even got injured.

About this time I remembered something else my friend who'd had the op had said.

"You need to build up the leg. Get the muscles strong before the op so your recovery is that much quicker." I started a series of home made exercises utilising some weights tied in a sock around my ankle and my wife's pilates ring.

"Where's my pilates ring?"

"It's in my office. I'm using it to build up my leg."

"Do you know what you're doing?"

"No. But it feels good to be doing something."

I showed her, she winced, and left the room tutting. "If your break my pilates ring the ACL op will be pointless."

She can be scary but I carried on with the exercises.

I was doing them about 5 times a day by the time I had my appointment. I was excited and a little nervous. It was like a first date, we were going to do something special together, me and Mr Knee. (Not his real name.) Why are some doctors called mister?

A young chap called my name and I entered the knee specialist area. The young chap introduced himself: "Hi, I'm Justin, Mr Knee's assistant." I tried to, but I don't think I did, hide my disappoint.

Again it was kit off, knee manipulation, then he went out to look at the MRI.

"Yep, it's torn alright." It was then finally, six months fully after the attack on my knee that I heard the words I had been waiting for. "The only solution is an operation."

I think most people, at this point, enquire about other options. Not me.

"Yes, you're right, when can I have it. Give it to me, I'll have it now if you've got a knife."

"I'll just get Mr Knee and see if he agrees." Oh.

Mr Knee could be heard outside my curtained area popping his head into various consultations. He was like a pop star spreading his fame around the room so that when he came through my curtain I nearly fainted.

"So what have we got here?" I couldn't speak. At last here was the man who was going to fix me. He wiggled my knee and then did a funny thing which made it click really loudly.

"Did you hear that?"

"My knee's shot, not my hearing."

"Ho, ho, we've got a comedian here Justin." Justin laughed as though Mr Knee had just finished the best joke of all time. Justin was like a snooker audience to Mr Knee's John Virgo.

"Well, it will need an operation. Are you okay with that?"

"Absolutely."

"It's not often we operate on someone your age, but we'll give it a go."

As he said this I thought he meant someone as young as me but when I was relaying the meeting to my wife I realised he meant someone so ancient. I'm 47. She laughed, at me, not with me I think, but I didn't care, I was going under the knife.

Bring it on!

The Nine Months Only Begin After the Operation [Part 1]

When I first got the injury someone told me about their knee injury. Actually every single person had a story about 'their' knee injury. When you get a knee injury, everyone you meet is an expert.

"It's the end of your football days"

"Just do some yoga, it'll be fine."

These two cover the two extremes but one friend had had his ACL repaired thirteen years ago. He had lots to say about it, but the only thing I heard was; "It's nine months recovery from when you have the op." When Nemanja Vidic, the Manchester United centre half ruptured his cruciate ligament in early December 2011, the reports suggested he'd be out till late 2012. And this was someone with access to the best medical attention prawn sandwiches can buy.

I gulped and realised very quickly that my first battle would be to get the operation done as soon as possible.

I had my MRI, it clearly, or so I thought, showed a torn ACL and so now I was on the waiting list?  I haven't got private medical insurance so this was not the case but I was pleasantly surprised to get an appointment on the 5th of January with a knee surgeon at the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.

All over Christmas all I could think of was the appointment. I could enjoy my turkey. Actually I didn't have turkey. My wife doesn't like turkey. Her family don't like turkey. I love turkey and the one time of year you're meant to have it, I didn't. Normally this would put me in a sulk till Easter but I consoled myself with the fact that I had my appointment and 15 crunchie bars.

January the 5th came and I cycled down to the hospital. Yes, I cycled. The annoying thing about not having an ACL is that you can cycle all day long. I could cycle to Paris and back but I can't play 1 minute of football. The thing I love doing more than anything else. More than absolutely anything.

The surgeon came out and rather than ushering me into his little room, looked at me and said: "You need an x-ray." You what? Why have you waited till now to tell me this. I've had since December to get an x-ray.

I said this in my head of course and wandered off to the x-ray department. I was not happy and expected a six hour wait for the x-ray.

Amazingly, 30 minutes later I was back with the surgeon, the x-ray on his computer.

Since the injury, I had told the story about 50 times so when he asked me what had happened it was like telling my favourite tale. All the stuff about how I knew instantly that it was an ACL tear but no one believed me. I felt I was finally at the point where I was going to go onto the waiting list.

"Remove your trousers and shoes."

I did it in the other order, it's easier. I was wondering why he is going to do all the knee manipulation when we have the MRI? He asked me what I did for a living. I told him I was an actor and how this injury was limiting my work. For some reason, I explained, lots of my acting jobs rely on me running and stuff.

If you're interested you can look here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a17P3HtAKB0 and see me in action. With the injury I would not have got this job.

I lay back as he wiggled my knee. We were talking about football again when he asked:

"What roles do you play?"

I thought he was still talking football. "Centre half, normally..."

"No, what acting roles?"

"Oh. Bits and bobs. Adverts mainly. You may have seen me in the Richmond sausage advert."

He ignored me.

"Put on your shoes and trousers."

Why does he keep saying them in the wrong order? I thought.

I got dressed and joined him at his desk.

"You will need to see the specialist knee surgeon."

"What? I thought that was you." He didn't answer, just kept writing things so I persisted. "I thought you were the specialist. I've waited six weeks for this appointment. What was the point in seeing you. I could have told you on the 27th July 2011, nearly six months ago, that I needed to see a knee surgeon."

He was good at ignoring my rant. I wondered if he was related to my wife.

"You will get a letter in the post with an appointment." and with that, suddenly I was out of his office.

I couldn't understand what had happened and I cycled home in a daze.

"What happened?" Asked my wife.

"He said I need an appointment with the knee specialist."

"I thought he was the knee specialist."

"There's a whole group of people with that misconception. I'll laminate you a member's card."

I sat by the front door waiting for the appointment letter.

A few days later it arrived, I ripped it open, like a Gremlin opening a chicken after midnight.

I saw the date and slumped: 28th February.

Where It All Began

This blog will detail my recovery, I hope, from an anterior cruciate ligament tear. These happen to a lot of people from pro sports people to weekend players like me.

Before the recovery begins let's just go back to the beginning.

On the first day the lord said...no not that beginning.

My ACL was torn on the 27th July 2011. I was playing football at Paddington Rec., west London. The game had been going well, I'd scored from a 40 yard free kick, no really I had, and then it all went wrong.

I play centre half and I was ushering the ball out for a goal kick when the opposition's centre forward tried to get to it. He was lazy, stupid and reckless and so rather than trying to go round me to get the ball, he came straight through the back of me, via my left knee.

I collapsed in pain, the ref didn't give a free kick and the game continued. I got up and gingerly got through the rest of the first half. For the record, we were one nil up. I felt a bit sore but forgot all about it as we changed ends.

Two minutes into the second half I was jogging backwards to the edge of the box when I suddenly went down. No one was near me and my first thought, because it hurt so much, was that I would never walk again. As I lay on the ground I begged people not to touch me, the pain was worse than anything I have ever experienced.

After a few minutes it subsided and I was helped off the pitch. I got some ice and even managed to cycle home. It began to swell a bit, but not much.

The next morning I went to A+E ready to hear the worst.

To my amazement, even though I was convinced it was an ACL tear, the nurse said it was merely soft tissue damage. Her advice was to rest it, let the swelling go down, and then slowly start exercising again. I should have insisted on an MRI there and then but I was so relieved to hear the 'good news' that I didn't.

Five weeks later, I was ready to play again and 50 minutes into a 7 a side game, in which all had been well, I jumped to control the ball, again no-one else was near me, and when I landed the knee collapsed. The pain if anything was worse this time.

At A+E I assumed they'd book an MRI but again, after the usual physical manipulation they said it was just soft tissue damage. Rest, let swelling go down and start again. I was surprised and went to my GP and a physio to get 2nd and 3rd opinions. They agreed with A+E, no MRI needed. I should have insisted.

Another eight weeks later, I managed to book an MRI by getting a private doctor to insist.

The MRI, on the 15th November 2011, showed an ACL tear, and a meniscus tear.

I was vindicated but felt depressed it had taken this long to get the news.

And so with a diagnosis, finally, the actual recovery could begin. I hope you find it interesting.