Tales of a long-awaited ACL Reconstruction

Day 0

I am on a ward with almost entirely elderly patients. We are in a room together but separated by paper curtains to provide a thinly veiled sense of privacy, but we can all hear each other answering the nurse's questions and speaking with our surgeons. Most of these women are old vets at this: Antoinette's here for her second hip replacement, Cathy has had two partial knee replacements, and here I am trying to keep my cool by stretching my legs out one last time and pacing my paper-walled corner of the room.

Just overheard one of the ladies tell the nurse that during her last operation she was looked after by a "rotund black lady whose hands I may have broken from all the squeezing". I seriously hope the hospital staff don't lump us all together.

So far, I've spoken to a nurse who practically giggled when I confessed about my body jewellery that we would have to tape up before I go into theatre. Then the surgeon came in to explain the procedure, gain signed consent, and give me these wicked tattoos to ensure they don't slice up the wrong leg. The physio gave me a crash course in how to used crutches for walking and taking the stairs. And the anaesthetist discussed possible side effects and complications before I mentioned the cold I'd picked up a few days ago. Lucky me, getting sick right before major surgery.

A few short hours after waking up, I was taken to have x-rays done to ensure the screws in my bones are settled in properly (what a horrific phrase). Needless to say, the radiologist was not impressed that I'd been sent down with my metal brace still on; we had a great time faffing about with all the clips and straps to get it off and back on again. On the ride back up to my room, Will was leading the way down the corridor and I shouted at my nurse, "faster, Matthew, faster! Let's take him down!" I figure we all need a little silliness on days like this.

I am drifting in and out of extreme sleepiness. My hands keep reaching for the puzzle book, but I am incapable of finishing a single one due to the brain fog. Will is holding a vigil in his hospital chair while we wait for my discharge pre-requisite: having a wee.

Day 1

After a surprisingly restful night, I've managed to spend the morning cleaning and feeding myself and keeping the cats from waking Will. When a reasonable hour arrived, I devised an ingenious plan to bring my lovely carer a cup of coffee by filling a travel mug only halfway (to avoid potential spillage), placing the lidded mug in a plastic bag, and suspending the bag from my clenched teeth as I tackled the stairs one step at a time. Sleeping Beauty was rather shocked to see his invalid girlfriend hovering above him with a breakfast delivery swinging from her mouth.

The cat's just delivered an almighty stink bomb in the form of diarrhoea that he subsequently decided not to cover up with litter - and since I can't bend down I am unable to cover it myself - leaving it to diffuse throughout the house like a shit-scented wax burner. He's also popped outside to escape the vile smell of his own bowels.

I have become the cats' favourite human. I sit, I sleep, I am warm, I do not move much. They love me.

To be continued...