Hip op hooray? No such luck..
I’m back! And guess where I’ve been? Precisely nowhere.
By now, I should’ve had my hip op and been dancing like my swivel-hipped, twisting 60s old self.
I’d imagined I’d be doing the splits in my living room and high-kicking my way to the shops, just for the hell of it.
But no.
Days before my big op, I came down with a tummy bug which everyone thought was a bad dose of nerves (I think you get the picture).
It was so bad, doctors postponed my surgery and for weeks afterwards all I could do was sip water and sleep.
Thanks to iron drips in hospital and lots of TLC from friends and family, I recovered well enough to get a new date for my operation.
I psyched myself up for it again.
Then my op – and 38 others – were cancelled because my local hospital needed the ward beds for accident & emergency patients.
So here I am, back on my sofa, with my crumbled old hip joint still causing havoc.
There have been down days, like when I dropped hot meals taking them from the oven.
I need two hands to take out a hot baking tray, but that means I can’t hold on to my walking frame.
So my chin wobbled as I watched the puddle of steaming hot cottage pie spread slowly across my floor. All that gravy, wasted.
I don’t feel sorry for myself for long, because there’s always someone else who inspires me to pick myself up.
This week, it was the story of Isla Grist, a gutsy young girl with a devastating skin condition who moved Graeme Souness to tears and inspired him to do a charity Channel swim.
Seeing the former football hardman well up while talking about Isla made me fight tears, then I just let rip and sobbed until my nose was twice the size and Rudolf red.
Isla never feels sorry for herself, so nor should I.
When the pain in my hips is overwhelming, I think of my dad.
He was a prisoner of war for two years in Italy and presumed dead – instead, he walked across the Alps to Switzerland, where he was found in a hospital barely more than a bag of bones 18 months later. So when the pain was getting to me, I gave myself a stern talking to.
“Valerie, get a grip. If your dad climbed the Alps as a PoW, you can bloody well climb those 13 stairs.”
And before I knew it, I was upstairs.
Gorilla fur should keep the cold out
My pre-op prep involves getting CDs of music lined up to play in a CD player Caitlin bought me from Argos which looks like a little tea plate.
I know I probably should try to shave my legs as it’s been so long since I could bend to reach them.
I think asking Janet to tackle them with a razor, or even a Black & Decker hedge trimmer, would be asking her a bit too much.
So I’ll leave them with the gorilla fur. Sometimes it can get chilly in hospital so at least I’ll be cosy.
Tina loss made me feel simply the worst
Losing Tina Turner left me devastated. I adored her when I was young and I was inspired by her as I grew old.
Watching her Wembley concert on TV a few days after she died, I knew I shouldn’t have done it but I couldn’t help it. I revved myself up to dance just with my arms to Proud Mary and I threw my shoulder out.
My granddaughter Caitlin is a great dancer so when she called round the next day, I asked her to slow down the video of Tina and her backing dancers so she could show me the Proud Mary moves properly. I was positioning my elbow in the wrong place but I’ve sussed it now.
I’ve opted for a local anaesthetic during my hip op, so when the surgeon is hard at work I’m hoping my top half will be Proud Marying like mad.
And if he needs peace to concentrate, he’ll have to tape my mouth closed because nothing will stop me belting out The Best to drown out the sound of his drill.
A sing-song keeps you happy, not appy
In the many hospital appointments I’ve had lately, I noticed few people smile or chat in the waiting room and instead lose themselves in their phones.
My friend Janet and I are on a mission to stop all that. Lockdown proved we’re no good when we lose connection with each other.
So anyone who meets us has two choices: chat and laugh with us, or join us in a sing song.
No sympathy for TV Phillip
Do you know what’s getting on my goat? All the sympathy for Phillip Schofield.
We all said he was brave when he came out. It was all Phillip this, Phillip that.
But who is thinking of his wife, two daughters and his mum? They are the ones whose hearts are aching now he’s admitted lying about an affair with a much younger man.
They could do what I do and only ever watch BBC in the morning instead.
* The silver lining after months of an upset tummy is losing 11lb, which makes three stone since lockdown.
What better way to celebrate than with a four-pack of cream cakes: an eclair, jam doughnut, cream scone and something else that wasn’t in the box long enough to remember it.
They were meant to last me four days, not one. But I couldn’t risk the cream going off, now could I?
