Agony and isolation – but then we’re the lucky ones
THE day I wet the bed seemed to sum up life so far this year for me and my wife. Sciatica struck on Christmas Day, is still rampant down my left leg and has now been joined by excruciating pains down my right leg.
While Maria has been out occasionally for shopping, we have pretty much cut ourselves off from the world, and now have groceries delivered.
So the news that elderly people will soon be advised to self-isolate for months at a time as we fight the coronavirus, doesn’t seem too daunting.
But then, we’re lucky. There are two of us and we get on. For others, it could be an appalling prospect of loneliness and worry.
The new pains in my right leg are ferocious. I can no longer walk around the house. I stagger from one anchor point to another with grunts, curled over against the spasms.
Saturday morning, I collapsed at the top of the stairs, yelling in agony, as I made my way from bedroom to office. I was unable to get up and looked like one of those chalk outlines in detective films.
I told Maria not to phone for an ambulance because the only treatment was pain management but she made a unilateral decision and dialled 999.
To be fair, I was worried. I didn’t know you could get sciatica down both legs at the same time. Or is this an unrelated problem?
The paramedics were brilliant and, after making their own medical checks and assessing my situation, took me to HRI.
And what a surprise. At mid-day, the Accident and Emergency waiting room was empty. The coronavirus was making people stay at home.
As I had expected, the only treatment was pain relief and I was put on a drip to get it into me quickly and given yet more pills.
Needless to say, the doctor and nurses were great. Every Brit is proud of the NHS but when you experience it up close and personal, in all its forms, you appreciate it all the more.
Hand sanitisers were everywhere in the hospital and signs on outer doors warned people who thought they might have the virus symptoms not to enter, but to go home and call the NHS hotline on 111.
We returned to the safe haven of our house and for the third night running, I tried to sleep in the recliner in my office, because it can adjust to the demands of the pain points in my lower body.
For the third night, I didn’t sleep a wink. At seven I staggered into the bedroom as Maria got up for the day. I sprawled beneath the duvet doing a good imitation of a stranded octopus. An hour later, Maria brought me a cup of tea.
“Are you all right?” she said.
“No. I’ve wet the bed.”
My wife was startled by the admission.
The sheet, mattress and track suit I was wearing, were soaked. Grief, I could have drowned.
I held up the water bottle I carry everywhere because my mouth gets desert-dry with all the medication. The top had come off.
A wet bed comes well down our list of worries and all you can do is laugh at life’s absurdities. Next up is Covid-19. But that’s all right.
We’ve been in training since Christmas.
And my wetting the bed was worth it if only for the look on Maria’s face.