My walk of freedom with no sniper in sight

IWAS pushed into Sheffield’s Claremont Private Hospital in a wheelchair because even standing had me howling. I’m not very good at pain management, although the feeling in my right leg, whenever I put pressure on it, was like being shot by a sniper.

Twenty four hours later, walked out after spinal surgery.

This latest episode of my sciatica soap opera, started when I saw a consultant neurosurgeon.

He agreed to surgery but arranged for me to have a new MRI scan. I had one last year but he wanted a more up to date version.

As reported last week, I managed the scan, also at Claremont Hospital, with difficulty because of the pain, but was encouraged through it by the MRI team. It was just as well I lasted the distance.

The next evening a neurosurgeon phoned after viewing the scan and said there had been dramatic deterioration and he was attempting to get me admitted as soon as possible.

This was good news from a totally personal point of view.

If the operation was weeks away, it would undoubtedly be postponed by the measures taken to cope with the coronavirus, which would affect both

INHS and private hospitals.

Another call next day said it could be done that night.

There was little time to be worried about someone delving into a delicate part of the anatomy. I packed a bag and son-in-law Andrew drove me and my wife to Sheffield. Thank goodness we still had the wheelchair loaned by Holmfirth Rotary Club.

The surgeon started at 4pm and I was fifth on his list.

Time to settle into my room, meet the staff and put on one of those backless hospital gowns. This wasn’t too bad, but I wondered if there had been a mistake with the knickers.

These were baggy gossamer pants and I couldn’t decide if they had been designed for modesty or embarrassment.

Just before it was my turn, my daughter Sian phoned and had my grandchildren telling me they loved me.

Which was nice, but a bit like final words.

Then a nurse came to wheel me to theatre and I had other things on my mind, like making sure no one saw my knickers up the gown.

I shuffled on to a trolley, the nurse kept chatting, the anaesthetist stuck a needle in my arm and I woke up back in bed in the middle of the night.

Where was everybody?

I had woken up because I wanted to go to the loo and I realised the operation had been done when I got out of bed and nobody shot me in the leg. Wow. I could walk. I resisted dancing, in case I fell over, and went back to bed.

Next morning, there was a soreness in my back, which was to be expected, a physiotherapist walked me up and down stairs, the surgeon came to see me and wished me well and I was free to go home with nothing but praise for Claremont Private Hospital (courtesy of the NHS).

It could be up to 12 weeks to make a final recovery although the change has been dramatic.

I only realised how dramatic, as I walked the full length of the hospital when I was leaving and I had done it completely without pain, sniper shot or wheelchair.