crutchwork

It took me a while to track this photo down. This is Dr. Ilizarov. The man who realised that with the cunning application of the bicycle spoke, people's legs could be saved from the operating theatre's floor. Obviously a great man. However, when you are entirely at the whim of the piece of ironwork he invented, you cannot be blamed for pointing out the passing resemblance he shows to Groucho Marx. Or how he looks as if he has just stepped out of the kitchen of his thriving bakery business.

However, life is looking up today, as the aching from my fall is subsiding, and I have been perfecting my crutch technique. In fact, I'm quite proud of it. Obviously, this would seem a strange boast 48 hours after I fell on my arse on a stretch of level ground, but I'm not referring to the use of a pair of crutches as a means of propulsion. In fact, the humble crutch becomes an extremely versatile tool in the hands of the sofa bound. It can switch the ight on and off, drag a paperback to within reach, or act as a rudimentary first line of defence for a toddler determined to climb on your frame. I have also used my crutch to kill spiders. Humanely, obviously. To turn the pages of a newspaper. And to rescue the remote control when your partner has left you alone in the room with the television showing endless repeats of 'Most Haunted'. Today, though, was my virtuoso moment. It took me 30 mins, resulted in backstrain, and was of limited point, but I managed to use my crutch to put a sock on. Not an insignificant feat when you are alone in the house, wearing a pair of shorts, and the temperature is starting to drop.

If you at all doubt the triumph that I felt, give it a try with a couple of broomsticks. Just allow yourself a fair while. And you may, of course, decide that your time could be better spent.

Escape

I am becoming at one with The History Channel. It is the only place where the inveterate (should that be invertebrate) sofa dweller can always find something to watch that at least isn't full of hysterical D-list celebrities. It is also a useful tool when it comes to frightening away children. Nothing shifts a chattering 10-year old girl faster than the prospect of being stuck in a room with a documentary about tank tactics in Normandy. Which is why I had it on yesterday, and was enjoying a film about the true life 'great escape'. Highly appropriate, as yesterday afternoon was the first time I had got away from the house in three months, other than a trip to the hospital, and a weekend at William's hospice.

Hurrah for my friends, who realise that a large part of the healing process is remembering what it is to widen your frame of reference beyond the daytime television schedule and the far reaches of the Ebay universe. And I was just beginning to really settle in!

A top evening. I remembered why I love my job, and my colleagues. And I was pleased to note that the gossip had failed to move on at all in my absence - merely grown in intensity. I was proud of myself for hobbling 500yds to the tram stop. I managed to cope with the ignominy of the Croydon shopping community failing to disguise their staring at my leg. I was very good. I had two early Guinesses (Guini?), then I drank Coke. I shared my chocolate. I was insanely polite to the random drunk punter in the pub who wanted to know what had happened to me, then used this as a pretext to bore us all with some of the most laboured humour I'e ever endured. Then we left the pub, I slipped on the wet pavement, and fell on my arse. Very painful - quite scary, and generally extremely embarrassing. Is somebody trying to tell me something, I wonder? The last time I left a pub, look what happened. I got away with it. I did have to make an early escape in a cab, and my leg's still sore, but not sore enough to suggest I've done myself any significant damage. And it was worth it. Even, believe it or not, for a night out in Croydon.

sofa rage!

Road rage is, of course, a dangerous business. Cars are fast moving, leg-breaking hunks of metal. I should know. Sofas are soft furnishings. So I don't mind admitting to a bit of sofa rage. You can have a cup of tea at the same time.

I witnessed a nasty road rage incident a few months ago. A man stepped out of a car at the lights, walked up to the driver's window of the car next door, and repeatedly punched the driver. I phoned the police, got through to a call centre in Nottingham, and was assured that the area of South London I was describing didn't appear on their computers. There were CCTV cameras there, but they were pointed in another direction, in order to catch minor infringements of the bus lane. I was caught by that camera a few weeks earlier, for straying into the end of the lane whilst turning left. I was offered no recourse unless I was prepared to pay double the fine. And I never heard about the road rage incident, despite the fact that I had given them the licence plate of the offender.

All of which brings me to my point. In today's bureaucratic spaghetti dish of existence, is it any wonder that rage sets in. And if you are sofa-bound, and thus dependent on relying on the competence of others, the rage becomes incandescent... Can you rely on the competence of others?

I could use this blog to vent my rage. Why should I though, when I have ameliorated it by reaching for the phone and word processor, and vented it on the people who deserve it. Far more satisfying. Like the people who are drying my flooded flat, and two months on, have only now decided that the plaster is wet, and that it's not a French polisher that I need. They got a letter. And the Wheelchair supplier, who can't understand why I can't bring my wheeelchair in for servicing myself, even though it's not self-propelled. A phone-call. The doctor's receptionist who repeatedly insists on suggesting that I have an appointment at the top of two flights of stairs. Repeated phone calls. (I think they've finally given in to me...!) The gas company, who cite 3 phone numbers on their bill, all leading to the same automised machine that you have to convince you have a leak before it will put you through to a human being. A phone call. And even then, I had to convince the 'operative' that I didn't want to buy any extra services...

I saved my most spleen for my bank though. Nat West. When I asked for a mortgage holiday, they suggested I contact my bank (Nat West) to borrow more money to pay my mortgage company (Nat West). I spent half an hour finding a number to complain to, was assured that I would be phoned back, and wasn't. Great work!! I'm planning to save this one up for a rainy day. I think it will be a two cup of tea phone call, possibly followed by a email requiring a piece of cake. So much better than a shouting match at a set of traffic lights. I just need a horn fitting to the arm of the sofa.

work?

This is a pig I animated for my friend Mikey's website. (www.stytunes.co.uk). It is a good example of what you are reduced to, when your work opportunities are restricted by four walls and the need to put your foot on a cushion. I should be currently earning money by pretending to be a turn of the century aristocratic party-goer, moved into song by the excitements of Prince Orlovsky's party. I can sympathise with those who might consider this to be a job of work roughly comparable to animating pig pictures. However, singing is my chosen profession, and one that I have trained and sacrificied for. So there. And I animated the pig for love, not cash!

I know that my next opera contract is in February, so have some time to fill. Ideally, this would be in a way that paid my mortgage, as this is a growing consideration. Instead, I seem to have found myself doing things out of the goodness of my heart, as I can generally cobble something together on a computer, but those with cash to spend would generally choose to spend it elsewhere. Hence the pig. And the posters for the Brompton Fountain charity that Sarah directs. And their flyers. And their membership database. Well, at least it makes me feel a little less guilty about staying at her house...

I have been practising some singing - it is good for morale to know that the accident didn't wreck my voice, and it's important to keep everything working. However, I've had to wait for those few opportunities when I am on my own, and when I can stay upright for a while without too much discomfort. The neighbours, I'm afraid, just have to suffer it. However, most of the hours I could describe as 'working', are spent doodling around on my laptop. Which is creaking under the weight of various 'trial version' programs. It copes, just.

There is another limiting factor to my laptop-based activities. In fact, a menace that makes it impossible to do pretty much anything after lunchtime. Don't be fooled by the cherubic smile. William has now decided that my laptop is not my laptop at all. It is my 'Bubby Boog'. Tellytubby book. My fault of course. I should never have let him look at the BBC website. It is astonishing how much time he can happily spend playing 'Animal Parade'. And he insists that the book is shut when he is not playing with it. Leaving me twiddling my thumbs and watching CBEEBIES. Again.

In the meantime, I await orders from those requiring animated pigs. I have all morning to make them...

Bugs

Very frustrating. There you are, happily getting on with a routine, albeit one that doesn't involve much beyond the bathroom and the PSP, and a staphylococcus cocks it up. One of my pins has become infected again, and for some reason, this time it has been very, very sore. In fact, I ended up staying in bed yesterday, because if I moved my leg from the one place it seemed content, the pain was enough to make me shout involuntarily. Not bad for a bug that apparently happily resides up our noses most of the time anyway, and is normally fairly content with just that. Apparently, the bugs resemble clusters of grapes under a microscope. The thought of staphylococcus viniculture kept me amused for a second or two, but not as amused as a good claret would have done.

Think about having a tender boil just below your knee. Then imagine sticking a nail through it. And leaving it there. And attaching a weight. I suppose it was always going to hurt.

The most frustrating thing has been that my period of immobility clashed with my monthly outpatient's appointment, at which I was hoping to get some news about a release date. Bugger. I now have to wait another 2 1/2 weeks. It is a frustrating feature of the NHS that once you have left hospital, you operate in a kind of limbo that is policed by receptionists jealously gaurding the diaries of the medical professionals you wish to see. St. George's is a great hospital. I was extremely well looked after by the team there, and owe them a huge amount. When I phoned the ward this week, nearing the end of my tether with pain, a nurse told me to take Nurofen, or phone my GP. The harsh fact is; once you have left, you are out of the loop. At least I have finally managed to crack the Fort Knox that is the GP's surgery, and managed to be seen without waiting a week to catch a taxi for 1/2mile in order to climb two flights of stairs so that I can finally see a doctor (the suggestion of the receptionist). So I phoned the GP. And got some better pain killers. Which have worked. So I suppose I shouldn't be moaning. It's just that stuck in a nest, the active mind is desperate for more information about your condition, and it's difficult to be content with the fact that it is simply an infection that should clear up with Penicillin and some strong aspirin. So it was back to the web, and researching the enemy...

Staphylococci. Tricky by name, tricky by nature. Apparently, these little bugs generally live on the skin, but get a little over-excited when they sense weakness. Pins impaled through the leg are therefore pretty attractive to the average Staphylococcus. Their work then produces inflamation, necrosis of the surrounding tissue (best not to dwell on this), and pus. You do have to be a little careful. They can infect the bone, which would be bad news. If they get really feisty, they can cause septicemia, which can kill. This is the sort of consideration that we have to bear in mind with William, who has had a close call of this nature. In my case, at least all they are doing is causing pain. And pus. I have a sneaky suspicion, in fact, that these are the little blighters that are behind spotty noses. I shall therefore take particular pleasure next time I take on a spot. I shall view it as personal revenge.

learning a new language

Given the job that I do, being able to operate in another language is a very useful skill. Unfortunately, the nature of being housebound in a small family home means that repeating the recitations of Herr Linguaphone will have to be put off for another occasion. Anyway, as we all know, the only really effective way to learn a language is to be immersed in it. For this reason, I have been afforded the unique opportunity to learn toddler.

The difficulties of this can be easily illustrated by two of William's favourite phrases - "Bee bee bum" and "Ber bee bum". The experienced toddler speaker will, of course, recognise these utterances as "PC Plum" and "Bertie Bus" respectively. Only hours of sofa bound observation have enabled me to pick up the skills required to interpret this. On the plus side, William does tend to stick to familiar topics - facilitating my own learning through context. "Dadoot" can only ever really mean "Thomas", both because this forms 50% of his conversation, and because it is often declaimed whilst waving a Thomas toy. More abstract ideas are trickier. We are trying to improve everybody's chances of knowing what on Earth he's talking about by teaching him some sign language. Thus "Peet", and a hand up to the mouth, means "Please". This early politeness training can backfire. How can you reward a 2 year old for asking nicely when he is repeating "Peet" with increasing urgency, and motioning desperately for you to hand him a bread knife? Other signs are more entertaining. Shaping a mane and a pair of paws enables you to sign 'lion". Or "Dyoot" in William speak. "Manit," is the word most often heard around the house. It means 'nappy'. Naturally.

The real joy of learning toddler is that it is a two way process. William is an excellent mimic. It took me about 1.5secs to teach him to say the word 'bugger'. It will take me a lifetime to try and stop him saying it.

Nesting

Nesting is an important part of being sofa-bound. It is normally important to the householder that shelves look neat, and are populated with impressive looking books, or attractively draped with nic-nacs. My own bookshelves sport a variety of candle ephemera and carved wooden odities. However, what use is a nic-nac when you're sat next to it for twelve hours? And just how fascinating is that coffee table book on Bauhaus architecture after a few moments of appreciating its glossy elegance?

Sarah has generally been unimpressed with my nesting activity, as it inevitably 'makes the place look untidy'. This is where the atavistic mammalian burrowing skills come in. There is hardly a spare square millimetre underneath my corner of the sofa or shelves. The ability of an object to squeeze into such a nook or cranny is part of the selection criteria for nest inclusion. Mostly, however, the key criteria is comfort.

Anybody who has spent time in hospital will be familiar with the nest. Everything has to be within reach at hospital, especially if you wish to retain enough self-respect to avoid ringing the nurse call bell every time you need something to hand. There are few more disheartening things than seeing your half-read paperback where your last visitor left it - stuck out of reach underneath the 'sitting-out chair'. Actually, about the only thing that is more disheartening is facing the same dilemma with an empty wee bottle...

Once at home, the nest performs the same function. There are important items - drugs, tissues, creams, dressings etc. There are functional items - a bag for rubbish, a mobile phone to ring for help in case of sanity failure, a sweater in case it gets cold. Then there are necessities. A portable games console. A computer with internet access. A supply of chocolate. And, this is very important, the remote control for the television. Absolutely key to the activity of nesting, is retaining control of this piece of equipment as far as possible, or else you will spend your entire convalescence watching a combination of screeching children's TV presenters in 2D primary coloured sets, and programmes about Big Brother contestants past and present. Try your hardest not to get run over during Big Brother season. I failed in this key task.

The last feature of the nest is to include enough revolting items to discourage speculative ferretting by other household members. A bottle full of stale wee should do it. And some overflowing tissues. This should protect the PSP and chocolate stash...

blegspot

I obviously chose the address 'blegspot.blogspot' for comedy linguistic effect. I've now looked up 'blegspot' in Google. It links to a site about STDs and genital warts. Curse that time spent surfing...

Doing research

This is the reason for my enforced sofa habitation. If they could provide transport to the studios, I would happily let the BBC use my leg as a prop in one of their medical dramas (A future post on the subject of vegetating in front of crap TV will soon be forthcoming...). This picture was taken by my goulish mother. Goodness only knows what she planned to do with it. However, it has proved very useful in generally impressing my friends, may be quite useful if I decide to get litigious with the driver who chose to run me over, and should certainly be forwarded to the bumper design team at BMW.

When you are daily presented with such a medical curiousity as this - when it lurks under the duvet every morning, waiting to remind you that it will be a while before you are once again tripping the light fantastic - one of your first tasks as sofa detective is to research your condition. In fact, as soon as I established my laptop as part of my nest, I was googling away. It took a while to finalise the exact spelling of 'ilizarov' and 'fasciotomy', but I got there in the end. And there were 33,000 listings for ilizarov frame alone. And an external fixator for sale on ebay. I couldn't tell if it was used or not.

So, what have I found out? Firstly, that the website for the 'ilizarov supporters' group' was clearly set up by somebody with too much time on their hands (funny that!), but with little in the way of design flair. Secondly, that people with horrible looking injuries are quite happy to show pictures on the world wide web. (I refer you to the picture above.) And thirdly, that a dictionary and fairly active brain will still prove hopelessly inadequate whilst looking at specialist medical sites.

There is, I discover, a danger with this form of research. My consultant is the sort of breezy doctor who likes to flit through an orthopaedic ward giving good news and encouraging prognosises. (Prognosisi?). He told me on day one, that I would likely be looking at wearing my frame for three months. I haven't been told any other potential date for parole, so am clinging onto mid-October as the date when my life will begin again. The web, however, tells me that the average time for wearing an Ilizarov frame is 16 months. Equally, I am still hobbling along on my crutches, dreading stairs, and hurting a good deal if I go any further than the kitchen. There are pictures on the web of people wearing these frames playing cricket for God's sake. I couldn't even do that before I broke my leg. So, the lesson is that either my doctor should be telling me more, or I should be researching less. Which is unlikely when you've got time on your hands, and you're spending your day two feet away from an intriguing looking science experiment below your knee...

So. Things I've found out.

1. An important complication to watch out for is compartment syndrome. This is a condition when the muscular compartments of your limb swell out of control, and can lead to the extremity going a pretty colour and falling off. Alternatively, according to the web, 'compartment syndrome has been defined as an elevation of the interstitial pressure in a closed osteofascial compartment resulting in microvascular compromise'. You see? I had/have compartment syndrome. It's why there are two cuts on my calf, and why I still appear to be borrowing my lower leg from an Austrian body builder, while the rest of my lower limbs are still of the fashionable skinny Englishman variety. I can already vouch for the fact that it hurts a lot. Good to see it clarified on the great web guru though. I couldn't discover online just how my leg planned to set about deflating. I guess I'll have to ask my doctor that one.

2. Ilizarov frames were invented by a Russian doctor after he became disenchanted with the number of limbs he was being forced to amputate. He alledgedly experimented with bicycle spokes. Devotees think they are an elegant and reliable solution to diffficult fractures. Dr Roger Atkins of the Bristol Royal Infirmary also points out that they don't cause the same infuriating itching that plaster casts do. I wonder if Dr Atkins would prefer an itch himself, or to nail 6kg of metal to his calf. Twat.

3. People often elect to have these frames fitted. Why?

4. Fasciotomies are cuts made through the muscle compartment walls in order to allow room for swelling. For a week, I could have seen my own calf muscles if the killjoys at St. George's hadn't have kept my leg dressed. Still, if you look closely enough at the above photo, you can still get a good idea... Mine are now covered by split skin grafts. Some hospitals wait for your limb to deflate, then close these wounds. I don't know what the plastic Drs at George's have planned, as they are institutionally reclusive. Odd really. If I were a plastic surgeon, I would give myself devastatingly good looks, then party. Is it possible to give yourself a nose job? I couldn't find this out on Google.

5. The scar on my forehead should fade, especially if I apply vitamin E cream. This was a titbit that was also imparted my the company manager at work. I have been using Sarah's stretch mark cream. Plastic surgery can offer little for a scar like mine. I just have to frown a lot in order to make my wrinkles fit in...

6. They put frames on pet dogs. We presume in America.

two months in

This was me in mid-July, a couple of days after a close encounter with the bumper of a BMW. I am glad to report that the German engineering held up, and was able to efficiently break my nose, eye socket, left ankle, and make a particularly impressive mess of my right tibia and fibia. History does not yet exactly relate how it happened. I have no memory of the accident, and the police have been oddly contradictory so far. I think the witness statements remain uncollated, as that can be the only excuse as to why there seems genuine confusion as to whether the driver was male or female. That, or the driver's name was Jo. Or Leslie. Or sex changes have become more efficient this summer. Or, the accident was in Clapham after all, the driver was a specialty cabaret act. In which case, I want complimentary tickets.

My first recollections of life the other side of the nasty accident are snippets of chatter in the A&E department of St. George's hospital. I was asked if I had taken cocaine. I even remember the conspiritorial nature of the enquiry. Perhaps it was an opening gambit for a possible sale? I was told to stay still. I don't think that went down very well. A nurse congratulated herself on the quality of the stitches she had made to my head wound. I think I was extremely keen that my employers should not be told the extent of my injuries, as I was desperate to keep hold of my job. Then a quick trip to a ward before a morphine fuelled week of three operations that would piece me together, and leave me with two extraordinary skin-grafted 'fasciotomy' scars, and an 'ilizarov frame' on my right leg. This is a 6kg piece of scaffolding that is impaled through muscle and bone, and makes you look as if you have accidentally trodden in a dalek. However, it is why I still have a leg, and so it is a good thing.

This brings me to this blog. I can't go very far, and despite the best efforts of the BMW, my brain still works. So I have spent four weeks in hospital, then a further six weeks so far at my partner's house, with at least one foot up. It hasn't made me popular with Sarah, my other half, as she has had to beetle around me, and life is made insanely difficult anyway by the particular needs of our son William (see her blog on the links bar). However, it is an inevitable state of being, and so this blog is to chart the possibilities of time spent with a computer, tv remote control and plastic wee bottle all within easy reach.