Tonky Talk

Paul’s world of pain

This article was meant to be an upbeat missive detailing my first 1500m race in almost 30 years, a race that would have signalled a summer of track exploration. I would sprint round bends and emerge into autumn fitter and faster, ready to have a proper crack at cross-country, or maybe even another fast marathon. But no. Because nibbling away at the edges of my consciousness has been the knowledge that I’ve needed a hernia operation for at least three years. Finally, after a very painful weekend in Liverpool, during which I could hardly leave my bed, such was the discomfort that I bit the bullet and booked an op.

I’m big on denial. The hernia had been nagging me for a long time – a bump steadily growing larger above my groin month on month, popping out to say hello, then popping back in again. These things don’t get better. In my mind it got shoved under the carpet, in the same category as the dry rot in the front room that’s needed fixing for years. You know you have to do it, but you can live with not doing it ( knowing, at the same time, that it’s just getting worse).

Coincidentally, the week of the procedure was the same week the builders came to deal with the dry rot. It added to the post-op chaos. The front room was a no-go area. There was dust everywhere and me upstairs, shuffling round the bedroom, high on painkillers and binge watching Breakingbad. I’ll be honest, I enjoyed this stage, the post-morphine high – days one and two were a delightful fuzz. Standards of care were high. Family members were quick with offers of tea, water, biscuits… I was popping Tramadols like they were Smarties, slightly giddy at the attention. What a joy to disconnect! To not answer the phone or read the papers; simply wallow, just me and Walter White… Netflix and pills.

Day three saw a dip in care quality. In fact, I awoke to an empty house, as if the occupants had created some fictional reason to be out so as to avoid my demands. More pressingly, I quickly became aware of an insistent pressure down below. You may be aware of the side effects of heavy painkillers – they bung you up.

I knew this, yet I had been merrily popping them. This stratagem had been accompanied by lots of food, so the morning of the third day saw me with a belly like a solid teak barrel. Relief was craved, yet would not come. The situation was complicated by the fact that the pain from the operation was in the groin. Not to be graphic, but it was in the ‘pushing zone’. I was in pain, pushing into pain. It was agony, like being torn apart from within. The surgeon had warned me of this, and laxatives had been handed out and taken. But that just cranked up the pressure. Before long, I was limping round the bathroom, taking deep breaths like an expectant mother craving gas and air on due day. And then I noticed something I hadn’t been warned about. Brace yourselves: my private parts had become deep purple.

By this, I don’t mean to suggest that they had decided to form a prog rock cover band. I’m saying their colour had changed. It didn’t make the pain worse but it added to my torment at that particular moment.

Relief, oh blessed relief, finally came (three syllables: en-e-ma). The end of the beginning. I made the call to stop taking painkillers. I’ll take the pain, anything to avoid that again.

And lo, after the darkness, the light. I am writing this with a clear mind, in a front room cleared of dry rot, wearing briefs that cradle slightly less purple testicles. My back has felt better post-op. I’d obviously been sitting, standing and walking funny with the hernia. Everything affects everything else. It’s time to do things right. I’m sorting out orthotics that I’ve needed for at least a year. I’m going to have to strengthen my core.

This time next week, with luck, I’ll be jogging – and, hopefully, I’ll have my colour back… as it were.