BEING told I could come home from hospital was great news.
Even though the treatment I received in Huddersfield Royal Infirmary was marvellous, everyone likes to go home.
Once there, in the comfort of your own bed with your own bathroom across the landing, you can relax. Even though you may have long distance worries.
I mean, in hospital there is always a nurse checking to make sure you are okay. At home, there’s me and Maria. And what do we know? Which is why I’ve been having silly discussions with myself.
It was only appendicitis. It’s a routine operation.
But at my age? Could there be complications?
Ah, there’s the rub. You are an old git, as Kev would say. Of course it’s going to take time to recover at your age.
But how long should I be on pain killing drugs? And should the Mark of Zorro slash across my tummy still be leaking a little blood?
The appendix, as if you didn’t know, is an organ in the stomach that serves no useful purpose whatsoever except, when it occasionally wakes up, to give you gyp.
Charles Darwin suggested it was an aid to digesting leaves in long past ancestors. As I have never eaten leaves, mine has been particularly underused.
Most people can go all their lives and never be troubled by their appendix. Unfortunately, mine got bolshy last week and declared war. Once I was admitted to HRI, it hadn’t a chance. The A Team took care of it. Well, I like to think of them as the A Team.
They were in there, quick and professional, and removed the troublesome swine at a stroke, before BA Baracus drove them away in a custom built van with go-faster stripes. At least, that’s how I like to think it happened. Amazing what morphine can do to the mind.
Before we left hospital, the nurse gave us final instructions and said, “No heavy lifting.”
Maria just about managed to contain her hysterics.
“Him? Heavy lifting?”
I have to admit, I haven’t lifted anything heavier than a pint in my life.
But before I was struck down, I ordered a new 42 inch TV and it has been delivered and sits in its box in the hall.
Our daughter Siobhan was horrified.
“I hate televisions that size that dominate a room,” she said.
I shall leave it to her in my will, just for spite.
My sport, these days, is conducted from an armchair which is why I’ve got the big telly. So there. Unfortunately, it could be the end of the football season before I get my strength back sufficiently to supervise Maria lifting it out of its box and setting it up.
The only other worry I had was in having my staples removed. At first glance, my four wounds looked as if they had been welded together by a team of shipbuilders on Strathclyde and I half expected a bloke with a blow torch and protective helmet to come and remove them.
Instead, a very nice district nurse snipped them out as easy as pie. No pain. I was amazed.
And now I am at home and basking in the caring thoughts of friends.
“And if you’re looking for sympathy,” said Alan, “it’s in between symphony and syphilis in the dictionary.”
Ah yes, it’s good to be home.
