Today, I returned to hospital. Luckily not as an inpatient this time. Following my 3 week holiday, lying in a bed at my local medical institution, I was recalled to make sure I am still functioning and ticking over.
Given my ongoing leg pain, taking my mobility scooter to the hospital was not an option – primarily due to the poor state of the road and pavement at the top of my street, which would no doubt cause enough tremors to dislodge any leg fractures, should I ride over the treacherous surface (cheers, BANES).

I therefore had to order hospital transport. Apart from having to be on stanby two hours before my appointment time, getting collected by an ambulance worked well.

Upon arriving at the hospital, I was told that I was not expected. Great. Luckily, they did manage to fit me in for an appointment, but not before I visited radiology to have lots and lots of X Rays taken.

I was asked if I wanted a hoist to transfer from the hospital-provided wheelchair to the X Ray table. Did I really look that infirm? Given the fact my left leg was screaming at me, after moving from chair to chair, I said “yes”. This was a mistake. I could have made it onto the table, even if it would involve some cursing. I have never used a hoist before, and after today, don’t think that I will again. After being tied up in what I can only describe as a florescent straight jacket, I was lifted into the air. Now THAT was scary. If Alton Towers want to introduce a new frightening experience to their theme park, just buy a hoist.

I met a very helpful doctor, who explained the cause of my broken bones. However, I had to laugh at the consulting room – a cubicle, only separated from other rooms and the corridor by a curtain. As this curtain was not made of lead, it wasn’t that great at blocking sound and therefore patients’ privacy. As it was only my dodgy leg thst was being discussed and not some embarrassing STD, I didn’t mind.

The hospital visit was round off terribly, when awaiting an ambulance home. My earlier praise for transport, Arriva, was all forgotten when I was made to wait well in excess of an hour for a prebooked ride. Apparently an ambulance was on its way to collect me, but ended up going to Bristol instead. Bravo, Arriva.

This is now my second full day home from hospital. While the staff were fantastic, I am thrilled to be home and don’t miss the place one bit!

I have a long road to recovery – something I need to keep reminding myself, when I struggle to undertake basic household duties, like repairing the roof or digging a pond in the back garden. Seriously, while my breathing is finally under control, my leg is bloody agony at times! However, being at home is far better for me than in hospital, where I was bedbound. Back home, I get out of bed and spend the day down stairs, primarily watching TV and going on the internet… no different to before I was admitted to hospital!

The food is much better than in hospital too. I won’t criticise the quality of the cuisine too much, except to say that it won’t have a touch on my meal tonight… Nandos! Well, I’m back home – it would be rude not to.

The past 24 hours has seen #ItsComingHome become one of the top trends on Twitter.
While it’s appreciated, it’s unnecessary for so many people to celebrate my return home from hospital.

Is it just me or are all physiotherapists psychopaths? This morning, little after 8 O’clock, I was trying to catch a post-breakfast 6am wake up call (something sadistic im itself). At this point, a pair of physios turn up. They’re both very athletic and look like they had been at the gym since midnight, burning calories, while renewing their Juice Plus subscriptions. I was asked how I was feeling and if I had made any progression with regards to standing and walking. I told them how I was woken up earlier than a farm yard hen and how as a result, I was shattered. I also informed them of my fine efforts the previous evening, where, with Claire’s guidance, I was able to stand and walk around my area of the bay. I thought this might impress them. It did not. Despite my fatigue and triumphant tale, the cruel pair insisted I move myself towards the end of the bed, stand up and do yet more walking. Obviously another hour in bed, followed by a plate of bacon and eggs was out of the question.

I took a while to get to the edge of the bed, and warned the physios that I would be slow. I was told I could take all the time I required. Obviously this was nice, but if I had taken five hours to walk a couple of steps, the pleasant promise may be retracted.

I was able to stand on my own and able to walk even further than the previous evening. Pretty impressive considering I have been simply existing in a hospital bed for the past two weeks.

Maybe it’s a good thing the physiotherapists are so demanding. If they wrapped me up in cotton wool and allowed me to become lazy, I would make no progress. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. If I break my own back because of an over demanding physio, I’ll let you all know.