They say your memory can play tricks on you. I think they could be right.
Skipping over, for a moment, the question of who exactly 'they' are and why 'they' are such authorities on the human mind and, well, just about anything else you can possibly think of; I know for a fact that my own memory can, and in fact does, do me a disservice from time to time, not always to my detriment.
This was highlighted by a recent and perhaps slightly peculiar round of reminiscing.
Time To Rewind
I say peculiar because when we jaunt back through the mists of time it's often to the happiest times of our lives that we merrily skip. It's to that special birthday, that epic night out (my memories of those tend to be... patchy, for some strange reason), or that family holiday in Scarborough where you went to watch the wrestling with your dad. I may be projecting ever so slightly here, but I'm sure you, my dear readers, will have similarly treasured memories of life's good times.
When my parents came round for a visit this week the subject of our soft focus stroll down memory lane was... Somewhat different.
Growing Pains
I was seventeen, and I'd pretty much finished with the whole growing thing. Unfortunately, due to the disability I was born with (see here for detals of that), the growing wasn't all done at the same rate, a fact that had rather, um, interesting repurcussions.
Back in those days I was much more mobile. In fact I hardly ever used a wheelchair, apart from long distances and nights out with the gang. The former was due to my propensity to tire rather easily, even over what most people would probably class as reasonably easy trips. The latter had more to do with the tendency for my naturally somewhat unbalanced progress to become increasingly eccentric and even potentially dangerous with every boozy beverage that passed my lips, as can be witnessed by the towel heater that used to decorate a friends bathroom wall and the glass shower screen belonging to my parents that I once managed to fall through. This was during an ill advised trip to the bathroom upn returning from town at 3am, and resulted in the less than dignified pictuure of yours truly slumped in the bath, pants round ankles, in a pile of of what thankfully turned out to be safety glass.
Not my finest moment.
However, impromptu home renovations to one side, the fact is that at this particular time in my life my wobbly walking was becoming more and more of a problem due to a dislocating hip, which in it's own turn was caused by the aforementoned growth spurts and the fact that my lower half was dragging it's feet (so to speak) in comparison to my top half.
This would mean that there I would be, making my merry if somewhat erratic way along my chosen path, when BANG! I'd find myself on the floor in a bright blaze of agony. Not good, I'm sure you'll agree. A solution was therefore called for and, after consulting the um, well... Consultant, it was decided that the answer was for me to go under the knife.
Plastered
I'm told it was a long operation, I can't swear to it, as I was asleep at the time, but as they rebuilt the entire hip, reshaping the socket, the ball, and the muscles and tendons that keep the one in the other, I can appreciate it would take some time. These things can't be rushed. What I do know is that when I woke up my mum and dad were wating patiently by my bedside, as they always have been, and I also know that I was absolutely covered in plaster of paris.
In all seriousness, this was a huge operation, one that took place long before hip relacements were such commonplace occurances, and the amount of surgical work meant that the hip, and the leg attached to it had to be immobilised. This was acheived was with what is called a Hip Spica.
Imagine, if you will, a man laid on a hospital bed. His entire left leg is encased in a pot that goes on to cover his hip, and keeps on going until it is just below his chest. The pot also reaches down his right leg to just above the knee, and the legs themselves have been separated with a piece of dowling. There is, as you might expect, an artfully designed gap in the plaster to allow for normal bodily functions, which is probably best not mentioned ever, ever again (too late? Ah, well. Sweet dreams). Well anyway, that was how I woke up... And that is how I stayed for the next five months.
The Young Ones
They were not easy months. It took three nurses to turn me, something that had to be done several times a day to avoid bed sores; one nurse to wash me, and toilet time is something probably best skimmed over completely (oops! Last time. I promise).
Dignity? Well let's just say that took a little holiday; possibly a road trip of some kind, with pride and independence arguing over who got to ride shotgun. The whole pot had to be changed a couple of months in and that was the first time I had dia-morphine (the strongest painkiller there is: to all intents and purposes 100% pure heroin). No, they were not easy months, and the rehabilitation afterwards was worse.
Pain, tears, pain, frustration, more tears, and of course a spot more pain, were pretty much par for the course over the next four months. I was eventually moved from Leeds General Infirmary, where I'd had my operation, to a Young Person's Rehabilitation ward at Ida hospital, a few miles away. This sounds pretty good until you find out that 'young person' means under 65. I spent my 18th birthday as an impatient inpatient there, although they were good enough to let me go out for a meal with my family to celebrate. Going back after that was not good times.
Bed & Board
Well, it all comes back to what I was saying about the memory playing tricks. When I think back to those days the agonies and heartaches are still there, but they have faded somewhat as the years have passed, moving from foreground to background, losing colour and volume. What remain most strongly with me are, rather perversely, things like the late night cards and horror movie session with Darren, the long term patient in the next bed, the night nurses including us both in the midnight fast food orders of pizza and burgers, my parents going to the visitors cafeteria to get me some chips, and of course the wonderful Bonnie, one of the ward sisters, making me lasagne when my family were on holiday (can you tell I was never a fan of hospital food?). Yes, it's fair to say that when I look back there are actually some memories which are rather... nice.
via GIPHY
It seems to me like my mind has turned up the volume on the good memeories whilst the bad have been relegated to background noise, possibly as some kind of self protection mechanism. Speaking to my erstwhie other half, Tina, it would appear that she has the same experience regarding the birth of my step-daughter, Sarah (and as she said, if the pain didn't fade, who would go through childbirth again?).
ThisToo shall Pass
It's good to know that whatever life chucks at you, once on the other side, it' possible for the bad to fade and that with a little time and distance we can come out of such things with at least the possibility of a glimmer of something positive. I know my experience is not universal I know this will not and can not apply to everyone but, personally at least, I find that possibility one that gives me a heck of a lot of courage for the future.
Until next time.
No comments:
Post a Comment