Yep, it’s been a while, but as you know Richard had his shoulder op booked for New Year’s Eve and the aftermath of this has left me with little time and/or opportunity to do my ‘own thing’. In fact, it’s been so long since I did my ‘own thing’ that I can barely remember what my ‘own thing’ is?
We trotted off to the hospital at the crack of dawn, parked the car, where I received in-depth instructions of where and how I should park said car when I picked him up later that day. I obviously can’t figure this out for myself – and then we toddled in.
We sat and waited for a while, with Richard twitching a bit and with furtive eyes flicking to the door now and then. I squeezed his hand reassuringly (yes I did, I can be the bigger person when I have to be) and leaning in to him whispered, ‘try to remember as much as you can because I can put it on my blog.’ He looked at me and nodded. He had that blanked-out expression so my attempt to jolly him along failed.
Eventually they called him in and I, somehow, without his guidance and assistance, managed to get myself back to the car and drive home. I did take a wrong turn in Burton-on-Trent but it somehow worked out and I hit the right road eventually. I didn’t bother to mention this to Richard.
I did a bit of shopping in Tesco’s on the way back and then came home and waited. I figured I had enough time to watch a film on the T.V (to take my mind of the worry, you understand?) about a string of sled dogs that got left behind in the Arctic when the weather closed in and the humans had to make a quick exit out of there. The helicopter could only carry the humans so they were going to return for the dogs – which they didn’t because the weather worsened, so the poor things were left there, shackled, until the spring. One dog couldn’t break free and died where it lay, another fell and broke its leg, and died. I was pretty distraught by this stage with my mind flicking back to Richard, now and then, and starting to stress in case he died under the anaesthetic.
I figured the hospital wouldn’t ring to say he was ready to collect until 4.00 ish so when the phone rang at midday (with just ten minutes of the film left – I hate it when that happens) I stopped breathing. He’d died under the anaesthetic – I just knew it. Every psychic bone in my body was telling me so.
A cheery voice said, ‘hello, this is Burton hospital. I’m just ringing to let you know that Richard is ready to collect.’
Typical, now I was going to miss the end of the film!
Actually, I’d seen it before and the dogs were all rescued.
I parked where I’d been told to and hurried in. A door opened and my little soldier toddled out, arm in sling, tummy showing (I didn’t mention that or he would have been embarrassed) and off we went – slowly
I had to clip his seat belt for him, avoiding his shoulder. He looked a bit battered and dozy from the anaesthetic but still managed to ‘advise’ me on how to drive – every mile of the way home. I was … ‘in the wrong lane, cutting off the roundabout (he’s never liked my ‘racing line’ position) not looking in the wing mirror, going too slow, going too fast, jumping the lights, sitting too long at the lights, cuddling the clutch (?) holding the car on the clutch, blah, blah, blah’
All this I shouldered magnanimously, after all he had just had a bone scraped and a tendon cut. I figured he didn’t need his throat cutting or his head bashing in as well? I’m thoughtful that way.
The next two days were filled with painkillers, meals on trays – it took me a while to remember that there was little point in providing him with a knife and fork because he couldn’t use a knife. I had to cut up his food for him. I found this a little weird, like I’d fallen asleep and woke up in a care home.
I took him for his first check-up a few days ago and I had used the ‘f’ word three times before I had managed to reverse the car off the drive and into the traffic.
I’m pretty sure Richard hates my driving as much as I hate driving him, but for now this is how it has to be. I am now over my sentimental worrying about him and can’t wait for the day when he can drive the bloody car himself. What he doesn’t realise is that this is payback time for all the times he has scared the shit out of me with his motorway overtaking technique and his attempts to move the car in front of us faster by accelerating up behind it. Yes! Payback time.
I do however have to put it on record that he has been nothing like I expected. I honestly thought he would be a sniveling, useless, pathetic wreck, and that I would be cutting up his sausages for him for the rest of my life, but no, he has shaped up like a good ‘un.
The sling was removed within 48 hours, he showers (by himself, thank God) twice daily, and he can now wash the dishes, put the bins out, empty Chea’s litter tray, bring in an armful of logs and various other things. He has amazed and astounded me, which, after twenty-three years, is pretty amazing and astounding.
I limit the trips out in the car, even though he is going slightly stir crazy by spending so much time in the house. I figure it is safer. Not because of my dangerous driving but because I know where there is a particular deep hole in the road and I might just be tempted to drive the car over it and cause immense pain and suffering to dear Richard.
And another thing …why, when I’m having to drive, does HE always pick up the car keys and hand them to me?
Take care my lovelies x