Oranges are not the only fruit.

Being in hospital was a strange experience. For one I spent most of my time there asleep, sleepy or trying to get to sleep. When I arrived there at a quarter to seven in the morning I was rather sleepy indeed. As it was such an ungodly hour I can only assume they had their reserve staff in. As I was checked in my a receptionist who’s Jamaican accent was so strong it sounded like Lenny Henry when he does a pretend Jamaican accent. So tired, and un alert I was treated to “douche ha aii vhaaaluubals?” To which I replied “ten past seven”. Not really, but still quite confusing. Then I was met by my Japanese surgeon (more on him later) and got drawn on. When I say drawn on, I literally mean I had an arrow drawn on my leg, pointing to my knee. This was to make sure they got the right leg when they came to cutting me open. Although it must be said that on waking up I saw that my left leg had been shaved the same way that my right, leading me to believe that they did start to do the wrong leg till they saw the massive arrow... Then after that little bit of a calf art attack I got taken down to the aesthetic room, where I was met by a French Anaesthesiologist who talked to me about Arsenal and how much better they were than Wolves, which I couldn’t argue much against because he’d just injected me with something that I can only really describe as being medical poppers which was whizzing around my head to the point where I could feel my brain beating in my head. Next my Japanese surgeon came to see me again. I think it’s worth mentioning at this point that for a while leading up to this operation I was semi convinced the aesthetic was going to kill me. So at this point, linked up to a heart monitor my pulse was going all over the place. My little Japanese surgeon held my hand and told me everything was going to be okay, far from thinking that it was a bit gay, I’m sure that if there is a heaven he’s going straight there.

I woke up in the resuscitation room, which is apparently rare. Most people choose to wake up in the ward you see, but I was obviously impatient to discover if I’d died or not. Which I hadn’t. Which was a plus. So I get taken to the ward and dumped on the bed and fall asleep. For a good few hours, parents came and went and I could just about remember their visit. The worst part of hospital on the first day was not being able to move. By that I don’t mean not being able to get out of bed I mean to physically not be able to move my leg, it’s still much the same. It takes a lot of concentration matched with considerable pain and then I move roughly an inch and end up tired and a bit ill. I shared my ward with some wonderfully kind people. There was Donald who’d just lost his second testicle to cancer who came over to talk to me a few times, and who gave me some biscuits when he left. There was Ian who’d broken his cheek 4 weeks before he was supposed to be married, who had the most spectacular bruises around his nose, eyes and cheek who gave me sweets and bought me a newspaper. I was seemingly adopted by those around me, I was the youngest by at least ten and at the most fifty five years and because I couldn’t move an inch I was called the quiet one. Plus I spent most of my time when I was awake reading Bill Bryson, which I’d taken the cover from so it looked similar to a big black bible. I’m sure they thought me some sort of monk on a vow of silence.

On the second day I was woken up at six, and asked what I wanted for breakfast, I went for bran flakes. I hadn’t slept in the night. Strangely, having slept most of the day I found sleep escaped me at night. I firstly woken at two in the early hours to have a new IV line placed in my wrist and for two loads of anti-biotic to be pumped into me. The other people on the ward conspired against me with their snoring tag team effort, once on stopped the other started. One even managed to snore face down and because he was face down it was sort of amplified beyond belief. As I could only sleep on my back I could only hope that I gave as good as I got when I snatched some sleep. Around ten the physiotherapist came to see me. Well, I personally believe she was a witch in disguise. My leg was still numb, I couldn’t feel anything going on with it but I still had a drain in it. A drain is basically a needle sitting in my knee cap attached to a vacuum sealed bottle which sucked out any blood or excess cack. So this physiotherapist bitch grabbed my leg and made me bend it, I said to her, nah I don’t think I can do this, to which she ignored me and continued to force it upwards, blood was streaming into the drain pain was pulsing up and down my leg and I fainted. Then came round. Then was sick. I got a different physiotherapist in the afternoon. I took my rehabilitation from that point into my own hands, I thought that I knew my body better than most so I set about trying to pass the criteria I needed to be able to go home. I needed to be able to bend my knee, life my leg clean off the bed and walk with crutches. After I had my drain taken out and was once again doped up with pain killers I set about it, encouraged by my nurses and David Morgan, a lovely old gentleman who’d had an ankle operation I made very slow very painful first steps towards movement. By the afternoon they told me I could come home and I was overjoyed. Ever since then I’ve been trying to continue my exercises but they’re rather hard and I’m still rather swollen which doesn’t make bending very easy.

So yes, here I am. Alive and well, that was my hospital adventure.