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.

So, I’ve gone and ended up in hospital. I’ve been here for two weeks. The truth is that I have been feeling awful for months. I’ve been signed off work since mid-May and various ailments have been gradually getting worse and worse, until they finally came to a head, ending up with me being admitted with breathing difficulties one Friday night in June.

I’m still in inpatient. During my fortnight stay, I have been given a tour of the wards, while the doctors and nurses work out what to do with me. At its worst, I wasn’t sure where in the hospital I belonged and had to deal with what felt like a dozen tubes and cables coming out of my body. I felt like Frankenstein’s Monster… or the back of a television.

As of today, there are currently ZERO wires exiting my body and I am feeling one hell of a lot better. The consultants are also eager to kick me out anad free up a vital bed for somebody else, who needs it more than I do. Trust me – if it means I can be in my own home, with my wife, I’d even give up my bed for John Terry. There is no definitive date for my homecoming, but everyone is talking about “next week”.

Luckily I’ll be going home in safe hands. My wife, Claire, has been amazing. She has always stood by my side, sacrificing her own needs for mine, in order to help restore me to full health. Claire is naturally a caring person. It comes with her personality and is one of the many reasons she makes such a good nurse. The dedication and love she shows me, as my wife, is incomparable. I wouldn’t have been able to get through this without her.
Claire hasn’t been the only person to help me. My family have been fantastic, with my parents spending many hours a day at my bedside and brother and sister travelling from France and Spain to visit. That’s on-top of all the love, help and support I receive from other family members, friends and colleagues. You know who you are. Thank you.

One final note, I have always been a supporter of The NHS; but it is only now, when I am being treated as an inpatient, that I can truly appreciate the service provided. Each staff member REALLY cares. I have found that nothing is too much trouble, with many of the teams – Nurses and Health Care Assistants, especially – going well above and beyond the call of duty.
The staff who have taken care of me are a credit to their profession and The NHS.