The Blurred Line

Week 6: Mayoral election and I'm in stitches

So amputee life begins. Not exactly something I'd ever imagined. It's as frustrating as watching Boris Johnson try to answer a questions – moves nowhere and is a bit of a joke. Talking of Boris Johnson, I highly recommend, if you happen to be in my position, taking all the laxatives you possibly can – trust me. I'm still me – stay positive and strong, I know and I do but... well it's a big but isn't it? But then adaptation is always a key point I stress upon in my CV.

I'm so sorry I haven't posted in a blog in a while. Since being back at home, I've been doing so much! (mostly sleeping!) I've decided though to write a whole week in one post rather than individual days at least for when I've been at home. Writing retrospectively from 4 weeks in the future, catching up on the posts would virtually impossible. Unfortunately, time just won't stop and let me write all my posts. Instead, the day I've written a post, that day then becomes a post. Honestly, it's like the ironing! It just won't stop! Not that I want it to though. I want to let everyone know how I am and that I'm alright, and it's quite cathartic as well.

In any case, most days are relatively similar now. Exciting things still do happen but I'm in a routine now of going to physio three times a week (and sleeping all day after them), going shopping with my mum, grandparents coming over and seeing Jack for brunch. Oh, and going to sleep with the cat at my feet, which is the definition of bliss if I could sleep soundly.

A question I get asked a lot is am I bored or am I lonely? I don't really have time I think and I'm pretty much never alone. Actually, I sometimes just like to be on my own, lie on the sofa and watch really bad day time TV. I mean Bargain Hunt just has that way of curing all ills with fake tan and tacky vases that are supposed to be worth the moon. Nap time is strictly from 5-6pm. There is no point in communication with me during these hours. Emily is out.

On Tuesday, the lovely lady who runs the transport lounge had a lovely motto: if there's something you can change, change it, but if there's something you can't change, accept it. Exactly right and she went on to say how people how complain about things they can change, don't change things when they should. Change things while you can but I can't change that I only have one leg so I'll accept it but change how I live to accept it. She had an analogy to describe being asked about your disability: that that it's like a non-drinker being asked why they don't drink like it's something wrong. Or a veggie being asked, why don't you eat meat? When it's just something you do without thinking. Basically we have the modern day Descartes in out transport lounge. I really like being in there actually, most of the time. It's quite the social event of the day.

There was a lady in the transport lounge who is a lot worse than me on Tuesday. I won't go into her story but I said sorry, naturally, and she said, "I don't know what to say when people say sorry. There's nothing you can do about it." I know completely how she feels, not just when people say sorry but also when they talk to my mum as if I'm terminally ill, but you, even though it's so easy to fall into, falling into an attitude of "don't say sorry, there's nothing you can do about it" or "well it's not your fault" is wrong because there is something they can do. They are saying that they will be with you for that 5 minute conversation and show that they care. It's only common curtesy even if it's nothing else. How would you feel if they didn't say sorry?

Anyways, I had my stitches taken out on Tuesday – 43 in total. The removal of them actually wasn't that bad except for a few long ones and quite fascinating really. However, the initial removal of the adhesive dressings – well mum's hand that was holding mine got thoroughly crushed. I literally have no idea how anyone could have a wax and those that do I salute your bravery! Let's just say though tht the waxing parlours of Ealing and Manchester are safe from my hairy legs... I don't say anything about the others.

HOWEVER.... On Thursday night, more scabs had fallen off (gross I know sorry) and I noticed something – blue. I was quite excited at first and called in mum to witness the cutting of the stitch. I cut it, I pulled it out, I pulled some more and some more. It became quite clear that it was somewhat stuck. Looking along the suture line, the stitch ran like running stitch quite far down the suture line and disappeared into a scab.

So we rang up the GP surgery (after the district nurses weren't particularly helpful) the next day and the practice nurse saw us but she couldn't work it out either. It took her, one of the GPs and over half an hour to figure out where the stitch went and unbury each bit that was originally outside my skin but had each begun to get enveloped by skin. There was a moment where I thought we would never find the other end but the practice nurse pulled on one bit and the other bit came free, having been cut off in the original stitch removal.

We again found another similar but slightly smaller stitch on Sunday but I removed that myself. I might like to add that it was all incredibly antiseptic conditions. I even washed my hands in proper water opposed to just wet wipes which is a rarity. This one looked like the Go-Compare man's moustache and I keep them both in a specimen bottle in my drawer.

On Thursday, I talked to Laura for an hour and she's coming to see me next week which is very exciting! Even more exciting, Sadiq Khan won the London Mayor election! (Even if my vote didn't actually get counted because I apparently put my date of birth down wrong – embarrassing!)

A couple more panics happened this week. Firstly, on Friday, when Ben went to call patient transport after the physio session to say I was on the way, I didn't have patient transport booked even though I had booked in hospital for 6 weeks and it hadn't been 2 yet. To make matters worse, because I hadn't got transport to physio (Mum drops me off on her way to work), I couldn't then get transport back home.

I panicked a bit and I think Ben, the physio, did too. I tried to ring my grandparents but they were out. Then I found Dad who wasn't really sure what to do except go to Mum's school and pick up the car. And then a light bulb struck! I remembered that Jack had passed his driving test and could potentially pick me up. I phoned him up and he and his dad came and picked me up. My heroes!

The second panic was on Saturday when a boy fell into my wheelchair in Marks and Spencers. We were on our way out and this twelve year old was walking backwards and bickering with his brother and with their mum. Mum shouted, "Watch out!" but he tripped over and on to me. I managed to catch him and save my leg but can you imagine a person falling on my leg? How devastating that would be? Mum was quite restrained I think with her, "For God's sake! Watch where you're going!" It was so frightening and really shook me and I even had a bit of a cry.

After that, we went to Litton Reserve open day in Greenford, which is a really lovely wooded area with a bug hotel and pond dipping and a Viking hut sort of thing. It was actually really nice and, if you're in the area and it happens to be open, definitely well worth a visit. There is a pond there which is made from a bomb crater from WW2.

So concludes Week 6 of this ordeal. Mayoral victory, philosophical questions and I'm in stitches... or out of them actually.