Having finally torn myself away from the shower (yes, ok - and the mirror). I went back to business - preparing myself for the exit door. I had realised now that this was probably going to be on the Monday morning when the medical professionals were back in plentiful supply.
This gave me twenty-four hours of limbo, so I tried my best to get sleep, to eat, and to keep merry. Sunday passed without incident - I was still deemed to be infection-free, I was getting stronger, more independent, and quicker on my feet. I chatted with my ward-mates about their problems and pains, and their lives outside of the hospital wards, and with the nursing staff. I felt quite at home in the setting, and people seemed to feed off my positivity. I was happy doing anything to help pass the time that separated me, and a good night's sleep in my own bed.
Monday came (and not a second too soon) with a visit from the Doctor on rounds. He assured me that today would be the day, and that I would have my hands on the Physio and OT I had craved for the last two days. As the morning wore on, I was visited by number one - the Physiotherapist. The assessment was brief, and everything seemed more of a challenge under 'exam' conditions. My left-right balance was checked, along with my ability to get up, sit down, and walk a short distance before turning round and coming back. I was ready for all of this, but not what was about to come. This was it...stairs.
I hadn't had a go on stairs for a while, and this was yet another example of an every day task taken totally for granted. As I approached the first step, my brain fired a quick note of caution across my consciousness, but I powered on. With what seemed like a momentous amount of effort, I climbed on to the first, then the second, then the third. I clutched the bannister as I dismounted my tiny three-stair pedestal, and breathed a sigh of relief. I was fifty percent there.
Within the hour, I was accompanied by an Occupational Therapist. She was clutching a bundle of badly photocopied forms, and sat with me by the side of my bed. This young woman was the key to my freedom. I decided against flirtation, as I thought the impact might be lost with twenty-seven staples in an alice-band formation across the top of my head, so I focused on engaging my brain. The questions were clearly part of a standard set, and whereas the subject matter was basic, the questions were a challenge - I think it was the first mental exercise I'd had since the op, and I could feel every bit of it. Up until this point, my brain was satisfied with selecting words, and then saying them internally - this was progress, of course. My brain could recognise that the information I was being asked for was of a very basic nature, but being able to name as many of something as I could in a minute seemed inordinately difficult. The OT gave no visual feedback as the assessment wore on, so at the end of the test, I looked at her quizzically, and waited for what seemed like an age to hear the words, "That's absolutely fine".
It was a feeling I can only equate to being told that your life depends on passing a long division test. You know you should be able to do it, and with enough scribbling on a scrap of paper, you'd be able to do it, but being put on the spot? That was something else entirely. In either case, I had passed my long-awaited assessments, and with the final word of the Doctor, could go on my way.
I packed together my things, which in itself seemed like quite a task. I parked myself on my bed, and awaited Lydia to arrive for visiting time, which would now be going home time. I was handed a series of tablets, and instructions on when and how to take them, and was given strict instructions about my wound. I would need to attend my local surgery that Wednesday, when my staples would be removed, and in six-weeks, I would come back to see Mr Ross. This was it. The start of the rest of my life.
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