I recently attended my local hospital, for a routine appointment regarding my breathing.

As we only live round the corner from the hospital site, Claire pushed me in my wheelchair. I would like to report that it was a relaxing and peaceful stroll, but I can’t.

While it would be unfair on the two of us to say that we left late, we did have to make haste, to ensure that we were not late. This meant that Claire had to walk fairly briskly, all while pushing me rather quickly!

A pretty intense workout, I can imagine…

A combination of Claire’s speed in getting me to the appointment on time, along with Bath and North East Somerset Council’s poor maintenance of the pavement, meant that it felt as if one of the wheels was going to fall off my chair and I was going to topple out onto the ground again.

IT’S EASILY DONE…

Part of my outpatient visit involved providing a sample of blood. This blood isn’t your every day, common variety. The blood required is apparently special – as is the way of obtaining it…

In order for the special blood to be successfully collected, the patient must travel to Tibet and climb to the summit of the Lhotse mountain.

You will meet a monk, who will use the ancient Wand of Pavitrata (‘pavitrata’ being Hindi for ‘purity’), to extract the blood from a specific spot, located at the rear of your head. The extraction may only take place once every four years, on 29th February.

Luckily for me, my local hospital is also able to perform the procedure…

When providing blood for a standard test – of which I’ve had many* – you can normally expect the following…

• Turn up in vampires’ lair and take a seat.
• Roll up the sleeve of whatever garment you happen to be wearing.
• Allow the vampire – normally wearing a plastic apron and latex gloves – to tie an extremely tight belt around your forearm.
• Say a quick prayer that the blood supply to your wrist doesn’t get cut off and you lose your right hand.
• Listen out for the vampire telling you to expect a “short, sharp scratch”.
• Watch while vampire produces what can only be described as a skewer, large enough to roast marshmallows on a camp fire.
• Brace yourself as skewer is jammed into your arm.
• Get told by vampire that they couldn’t find a vein and that they will have to try again.
• Watch with tear-filled eyes, as the skewer is removed from your arm and thrust back in.
• Notice that this time, without the warning of a “scratch”. You’ve been stabbed once already and know what it feels like. The vampire isn’t going to insult your intelligence.
• Relax as the pain from the skewer, now embedded in your body, eases. Possibly because of a severed nerve.
• Tell yourself not to look at the claret coloured liquid, draining from your punctured limb.
• Look anyway. Either vomit, scream or faint. Possibly even a combination of all three.
• Breathe a sigh of relief, as the skewer is removed.

• Worry when you are given a cotton wool ball and instructed to hold it over the wound.
• Try not to think about the fact that this small ball of fluff is the one thing preventing you from bleeding to death.
• Thank the vampire when they stick a plaster over the gaping hole.
• Wonder why you just thanked somebody who committed GBH on you, just two minutes earlier.
• Leave vampires’ lair.
• Ask yourself why two vials of blood were taken, when you were only being tested for one issue.
• Realise to your horror, that vampire will be drinking one of the vials for their lunch.

* oh, and blood tests are nothing new to me – this  is due to them being a daily occurrence, during my three stays as an inpatient. I don’t keep getting tested for STIs, in case you were wondering.

Apologies if you found my guide to providing a blood sample a little graphic. I’m not even needle-phobic!

Luckily, the most recent blood test didn’t involve being stabbed with a needle. Instead, I was slashed with a knife – no, seriously!

YOU CALL THAT A KNIFE?

Did I tell you that for this test, the blood had to be taken from my ear?

To provide a good quality sample, your ears need to be hot. My earlobe was therefore covered in some cream that smelt of Deep Heat.

I know that many people hate the smell, but I’ve always been a fan. If I could wear it as a cologne, without it resulting in my family, friends and colleagues refusing to come within 500 feet of me, I would.

POUR HOMME.

Unfortunately, my King Lears had become cold, during the journey to the hospital. I was going to suggest that the staff on reception start gossiping about me. Apparently, if people are talking about you, your ears start burning.

Instead, the blood nurse (I’ll show her respect, by not calling her a vampire) placed a tissue soaked in hot water, over my ear. This did the trick. Why they didn’t do this to start with, I don’t know. Maybe the nurse enjoys the fragrance of Deep Heat too.

Once my ears had reached their optimal temperature, the nurse got her knives out. Surprisingly, I was more concerned about my coat getting blood on it, than somebody slashing me with a blade.

You may recall, that when I had my scooter accident last November, the paramedic had to cut my lovely blue coat – releasing hundreds of goose feathers into the street.

I really liked that coat and I was kindly given an identical replacement for Christmas. As I was wearing this coat at the time of my latest hospital appointment, I was a little concerned that I would ruin it, by dripping blood everywhere.

Thankfully, no excess blood went astray, as the nurse managed to catch and contain it all in a test tube, before whisking it off for testing.

After being suitably patched up, I was asked to return to the waiting area, where I would soon be summoned by the consultant and told how well or poorly I performed on the exam – sorry, blood test.

The waiting room was rammed. I have visited the same unit many times before, over the last 18 months, and it had never been busy. Something told me that I wouldn’t be seen on time.

After waiting around 40 minutes, the consultant called one gentleman into her office. He politely asked if his family could join him, and was naturally told “yes”.

With that, no less than half of the waiting room stood up. It was like the entire Brady Bunch had come along.

The consultant apologised to the man for the tardiness of her clinic, to which a posh woman, who was presumably family chortled “Never mind. My children wanted to spend an afternoon in a hospital waiting room!”.

Despite her ‘joke’, it was clear to me that she was exhibiting faux joviality. I found her to be rude.

One of the main reasons why clinics run late, is because patients use more than the time allotted to them for their appointment.

I am of the belief that every patient has the right to spend as long as they need with their doctor or consultant. It is none of our business what they are discussing and certainly not our position to judge.

If a patient before me spends a long time in their consultation and causes my own appointment to run late, that is not an issue for me.

It clearly was a problem for the posh woman. Incidentally, the gentleman whose appointment she sat in on, spent over half an hour with the consultant.

Now, I am not ignorant enough to forget where I was at the time – a hospital. It could have been the case that the woman was worried about her relative, which may explain her curt manner. If stress was the reason, I hope that her troubles are resolved. I still disagree that there is an excuse to be offhand.

Naturally I didn’t mind in the slightest – I believe it to be his entitlement – although, I wonder if the woman cracked any more passive-aggressive jokes about the time they spent in the consultation room?

Although I generally don’t mind about hospital delays, there is something disconcerting, when the receptionist and other admin staff shut down their computers, put their coats on, before collecting their bags and heading home for the weekend.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I had been forgotten about – just like what happened to Victor Meldrew in an episode of One Foot in the Grave.

When I was eventually summoned to be seen, Claire and I both made a collective sigh of relief. I was almost certainly the consultant’s quickest appointment of the day. No doubt she wanted to get home as quickly as we did.

This is certainly not a bad thing. The reason why my consultation was so brief, was because the tests carried out on my blood all produced encouraging results. Basically, my breathing is healthy and as it should be.

A MARS A DAY KEEPS THE DOCTOR AWAY.

While I wasn’t too surprised by the results, as I have been feeling well, it is always a relief to hear – especially as it was respiratory issues which landed me in intensive care in 2018.

I celebrated my healthy lungs by smoking an entire pack of Hamlet cigars and suckling on a Shisha pipe.

LIKE A DAILY MARS BAR AND 18 HOURS OF TELEVISION A DAY, SMOKING IS ALL PART OF A HEALTHY LIFESTYLE.

Yesterday’s blog provided an update on my health and rehabilitation from injury.

I mentioned that one of my goals was to get myself out of bed, before transferring to a wheelchair…

You never know, the next time I provide a progress update, I may be walking to my wheelchair and taking myself to the stair lift – my current short term goal.

Well, this has materialised quicker than planned; no doubt surprising many people – most of all, me!

KEEP UP THOSE BABY STEPS.

Sunday morning. I was only planning to stand by the bed, tightly gripping the walking frame. Maybe I would try walking a step or two.

What actually happened shocked me…

I don’t know where I found the strength. Probably a mix of improved fitness from exercise and stubborn determination to succeed.

Firstly, I managed to get myself out of bed and into a safe, standing position. Up until now, Claire has had to assist me in leaving the bed.

Encouraged by my first surprising achievement, I then negotiated the necessary steps and turns, to position myself above the nearby wheelchair, before sitting down.

Those who are not aware of what I have been going through, over the past three and a half months, may wonder what all the fuss is about. To those people, I suggest you look through the ‘Health‘ category on my blog.

Anyone who has played a part in my fight to recovery, will know that this is huge progress towards returning to independence.

At the moment, if Claire has to leave the house, I have no choice but to remain in bed – surrounded by food, drink, medication and some more unsavory items (urine bottle!).

This can be extremely frustrating and degrading. Not to mention the worry of “What at happens if I need to go ‘number two’?”. Mercifully, this hasn’t been a problem, while I have been left home alone.

Claire cannot be off work, caring for me indefinitely. When the day comes that she does return, I’ll have to be able to cope alone.

Then there is my working situation. I too will need to get back to the office (a day which can’t come soon enough).

By making this most basic of transfers, all by myself, I have taken a huge stride forward.

I am normally a very modest person, so bragging doesn’t come naturally to me, but I am not ashamed to admit that I feel very proud of myself.

There is one person I couldn’t have done any of this without. Had this person not been in my life, I would probably be in a community hospital right now.

I am, of course, talking about my wonderful wife, Claire.

Thank you, Wifey. I love you.

It has been 104 days since my mobility scooter toppled over, resulting in three broken limbs, surgery, almost three weeks in hospital and an inability to wash and toilet myself.

Since that awful day in November, I have been unable to work, or even get myself out of bed and walk without major assistance.

The entire ordeal has been horrendous – not only for me, but for Claire. My dedicated, loving wife has taken herself out of work, in order to attend to my every need.

Our wedding vows couldn’t have been more appropriate. “For better, for worse.”, “In sickness and in health.”.

I continue to feel increasingly frustrated at my lack of independence. Although there are no words to express my gratitude to Claire, I just wish that I could do more for myself – most notably, moving, washing and using the toilet.

I am also desperate to get back to work. I know that all of these things will return in time, but there are occasions when it feels like I could be waiting a million years to return to how I was before the accident.

This was never intended to be a downbeat blog post. After you read the next few paragraphs, I hope that you’ll understand that and notice the positivity which I originally intended to convey.

On Friday I took my first steps. This may sound unremarkable to many, but to me, this showed huge progress. I had basically been bedridden for three and a half months. It was as if I was a baby, learning to walk again.

Admittedly, this time I used a walking frame. Unfortunately, barring a miracle, that is my life from now on.

I only managed three steps forward, before retracing my path back to the bed. It’ll be a long time before I can walk out of the front door, cross the road and take on the Cotswolds Way.

For the past few weeks, Claire and I have been of the same opinion that my rehabilitation should be based around baby steps. So far, this has worked, with a little amount of progress being made each day I try to stand or walk.

Hopefully later today, I will be able to try and walk again. I may even manage a few more steps than last time.

You never know, the next time I provide a progress update, I may be walking to my wheelchair and taking myself to the stair lift – my current short term goal.

The final part of this blog is about a programme I watched with Claire recently; focusing on the running of a hospital.

There was one patient with motor neurone disease. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen years older than me.

The gentleman’s only means of communication was by moving his lips. This would control a computer, which would then relay his message using a digital voice, not dissimilar to the one used by Stephen Hawking.

I mention this remarkable man, because despite all his health problems, he remained remarkably upbeat and grateful for life.

When I was much younger than I am now, I had a spell in hospital for reasons different to my recent visits. I overheard an elderly man telling a nurse “I am grateful for every day I wake up alive”.

To some, this may sound morbid, but I find it an incredible and positive way to think about life. It must have made an impact on me, almost twenty years later.

I have been told that I am mentally strong and cope with whatever health problems are thrown at me. As I tell people, what choice do I have?

Despite my many boxes of medical records, my problems don’t come close to those of someone inflicted with motor neurone disease. Then there are those patients missing limbs, brain damaged, suffering with dementia and the terminally ill.

There is always somebody worse off than yourself. Not that I take any pleasure from that, of course. What I can take is inspiration, that if they can cope, so can I.

I hope that somebody will read this and remember my post and the story of the brave patient with motor neurone disease.

I hope that if they or a loved one is ever suffering, mentally or physically, they take inspiration from the strength of others and use this to help in their own fight.

It’s been a few weeks since I last had an appointment regarding my health, so it will come as no surprise to learn that I was summoned to the hospital this morning.

As with my last appointment, I took the wheelchair. By this, I mean that I sat down and Claire pushed me.

We have thankfully progressed beyond the need for hospital transport, so left the ambulance and paramedics to deal with patients in far greater need of the service than me.

Despite not attending the hospital for literally days, Claire still remembered the way and successfully managed to transport me all the way to the radiology department.

You’ll remember that I hate x rays. It isn’t the fact that I have to lie totally still, before being exposed to high levels of radiation. My problem is the “cassettes” that I am forced to rest on, in order to allow David Bailey to take the perfect picture. These cassettes are not like the ones your grandparents would buy in order to record the Top 40*. The cassettes I am referring to are huge boards, apparently used to help capture the x ray image.

* alright. At a guess, cassettes probably arrived after your grandparents’ childhood. Your parents would certainly have had them – plus, however much they’ll deny it, anyone over the age of 30, including yours truly.

See, kids – music piracy was around long before broadband. Plus, unlike today, if you illegally copied that Spice Girls album, using your SHARP TWIN DECK MB-2107-55 Hi-Fi, there was no risk of getting fined by the British Phonographic Industry, or having your internet cut off – mainly because it hadn’t been invented!

Yet again, I have digressed horribly! Where was I? Oh yes..

Luckily for me, I was having an MRI scan, which meant no cassettes. This type of scan also doesn’t use radiation. This is something of a disappointment. I have had so much exposure to radioactive x rays over the years, I was hoping to develop some kind of superhero power and become one of the X Men.

I’VE ALWAYS FANCIED MYSELF AS A SUPERHERO. I WONDER WHO MY ENEMY WOULD BE. TORIES?

To make up for the absence of the cassettes, the radiographers treated me to a new kind of torment – the magnetic resistant wheelchair.

Upon arrival to the unit, I was told that I would not be able to bring my own chair into the scanning room. Presumably this is because my wheelchair is made of metal and would therefore fly through the air, should it enter the scanner’s magnetic field. I must admit, that does sound fun.

I understand their fears. I got double science for GCSE, which practically makes me as brainy as Stephen Hawking.

What I could not comprehend, was why I couldn’t bring my wheelchair into the room, while the scanner was turned off. There is almost certainly some good reason for this rule. I wasn’t prepared to tell a radiographer how to do their job, just like I wouldn’t expect them to tell me how to do mine. Hang on a minute… there was that time five years ago – I was working on the IT Helpdesk and I received a call from this radiographer…

The MRI-friendly wheelchair may have been pals with the scanner, but it was anything but Sean-friendly! It was almost as if someone had been commissioned to build a chair, as difficult to get in and out of as possible.

I COULDN’T FIND A PHOTO OF AN MRI WHEELCHAIR, SO FOUND SOMETHING ONLY SLIGHTLY LESS UNCOMFORTABLE TO SIT ON.

The seat was really low down, but worst of all, the chair had what I can only describe as poles sticking out near the wheels. This caused me great panic, when my foot became trapped underneath one of the poles, while attempting to transfer to the MRI table.

The purpose of the scan was to check my right eye socket. When I threw myself off my scooter last November, the bone around the socket was apparently damaged – although I suffered no pain or symptoms as a result.

I thought scanning around one eyeball wouldn’t take long. I must have been in the scanner for over 45 minutes! During this time, I was given an injection and forced to wear a cage over my face, in order to keep my head still.

Midway through the proceedings, I was told that they were taking distorted images, as I was moving when I breathed. I almost replied, asking if I should stop breathing, but realised that my well-intended offer of help would most  likely come across as rude.

Scan over, I was sent home. Not before having to transfer from the scanning table, onto the worst wheelchair in the World, before finally getting into my own.

Bring back those cassettes…

I have had a fantastic day! After over three months of turmoil, pain and being confined to my bed, I finally feel like I am on the path to recovery and can see an end to my personal hell.

This week, I have been trying to aid my recovery, by attempting to get out of bed and independently stand. This has often been a struggle. Spending three months in a bed would be enough to leave anyone deconditioned.

With help from Claire, I have been able to get out of bed, and for a brief period, maintain a standing position most days. I feel like each time I repeat this exercise, I have been able to progress a bit further than on previous attempts.

Today was my best effort to date. For the first time since my accident in November, I was able to get myself out of bed and comfortably stand for half a minute. This may not sound like much, but for somebody who has spent a quarter of a year primarily on his back, this was a massive step forward.

My biggest accomplishment of the day was yet to come. I have been able to sit downstairs on the sofa for a few weeks now. I generally try to do this a few times a week, and spend two or three hours at a time, in the front room.

Today I spent the afternoon on the sofa. This was no two hour visit, though. I was downstairs for six hours. I ate lunch, spent time with Roman and Claire, watched Soccer Saturday, and even found the time to rub my wife’s leg with the back-scratcher. It was just like old times.

I felt incredible. Claire also remarked how I looked like my old-self. This was intended as a compliment! I was so chilled, relaxed and pain free. The only stress I felt was following the Leeds game, but even they won. I was left feeling very happy indeed.

While I am very pleased and proud of myself, I also feel indebted to Claire. Without her love, support and patience, I would not have been able to achieve any of this today. Who knows where I would be. Best not to think about it.

Anyway, I wanted to remain downstairs for tea. Claire had bought one of those Mark’s and Spencer ‘Dine In’ meals, to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Granted, we are one day late, but whatever – my wife and I love each other very much. We certainly don’t need an anniversary of some Saint, in order to enjoy a romantic dinner… although we will still buy cards and food promotions in his name.

Sadly, eating downstairs was not possible. As mentioned in a previous blog post, this weekend has seen the country ‘gripped’ by Storm Dennis. Personally, I think it is something about nothing. I am sure that naming a storm is a new thing. While unpleasant, the weather is just wet and windy.

Despite Storm Dennis being as entertaining as Les Dennis, Claire and I were concerned when the ceiling lights started to flicker. My Dad recently fitted some long life bulbs for us. You know the kind – the ones that claim to last for so long, that they will outlive anyone who makes use of them.

The fact that they had started to flicker was therefore a tad concerning. I was worried that despite being as impotent as a 100-year-old monk, following a lifetime of celibacy, Storm Dennis was about to cause a powercut.

A powercut is bad news in our household. Not only would it prevent Claire from watching the Liverpool game on television, worse still, I would be trapped downstairs as my stair lift runs on electricity, and sadly not magic spells and wishes.

We whizzed upstairs as fast as the stair lift could take me. 43 seconds. Incidentally, it takes 50 seconds to go down, which I find strange. For some reason, I just assumed it would be faster going down, what with gravity. In case you were wondering, yes, I have used the stopwatch on my mobile phone, to time how long it takes. Saddo.

There was no powercut, which meant that Claire was able to watch Liverpool win. Blessed with electricity, she was also able to cook our Valentine’s Day meal.

I ate mine upstairs in bed. Claire stayed downstairs, eating hers while watching The Masked Singer. Based on the choice of television on offer, I was more than happy to remain in the bedroom.

Now that I know what I am capable of, I am planning on spending a large part of Sunday on the sofa. That is unless Storm “Les” Dennis has a say in the matter…