I have the date for my hip replacement and now my stomach’s giving me bother because it’s on fast spin with a mixed load of emotions.
Gratitude is swirling around, because I know the NHS is under huge pressure and feel there are many people more needy than me still on the waiting list.
There’s a dollop of excitement at the thought of being able to walk again once I’ve recovered.
And there’s a big helping of nerves. I’ve never had surgery before and I’m terrified of going under anaesthetic.
This week I was uptight during my pre-op appointment at hospital, but reminded myself that music is my quickest mood-changer.
So when a lovely nurse called Emma was taking what seemed like pints of blood, I started singing Meatloaf’s Like a Bat out of Hell.
My friend Janet was with me and loyally joined in. Then we burst into Frankie Valli’s Big Girls Don’t Cry, with Janet on backing vocals singing: “They don’t cry-ayy-ayy.”
Another nurse poked her head around the cubicle door and said: “What’s all the racket?”
And when she told me she liked Tina Turner, it was time for my well-rehearsed and stadium-rousing rendition of Proud Mary.
I got my shoulders going so she could see I used to cut a dash on dance floors and was wilder than Tina herself back in the day.
Before long, there were six of us in the cubicle at Wrexham Maelor Hospital’s department 13 singing our heads off. In the end we were all laughing like old pals and that’s the whole point of singing – it lifts you out of doom and gloom.
The next day when I rang the hospital to give details of my medications, the receptionist said: “Is this the singing lady?”
I won’t be all fun and games on the day of the op though because, truth be told, I’m petrified about going under.
I’ve asked for an epidural instead, so I can be half awake and see what’s going on.
Mind you, I’ll sing and chat to the surgical team so much I might mither them into making a mistake and I’ll end up walking like Charlie Chaplin for the rest of my life.
But I’d rather that than my biggest fear of not waking up at all. I’m serious when I say I will have to say my goodbyes to my sons Jonathan and Robert before the op.
I’m trying to focus instead on the best outcome: recovery and regaining my mobility.
Janet’s already planned for us to go to a Motown tribute band where I hope to be shaking my shiny new hips like James Brown.
Sheila and Sue say we’ll be off to Llandudno for a trip to the seaside. And I long to visit Balmoral after seeing it on telly when our Queen died.
Simple things will give me great pleasure, like browsing for sentimental cards in shops, going to a cafe for a full breakfast and answering my front door before the caller is long gone.
I’ll treat my granddaughter to a new dress and afternoon tea and cheer on my grandsons at their football games. So I am trying to be brave and remember that big girls don’t cry-ay-ay.
I'm saving a fortune by giving up smoking
Giving up smoking is the best thing I’ve done in recent years. If I hadn’t managed it, I’d never be having my surgery because back in October the surgeon refused to operate unless I kicked the habit.
A fag is the first thing I wanted when I heard the news of my op.
But I will never smoke again.
I’m saving a fortune because eight packets a week at £10.40 was a money drain.
My sons are thrilled I’m no longer on the cigs. It is the start of a happier and healthier me.
Who would have time to vacuum a £250m mansion
Billionaires are flocking to bid for a mansion in London’s Regent’s Park.
Granted, I don’t have the £250million needed to buy it. But I mean it when I say I wouldn’t want that house, inset.
I’m so happy in my three-up, two down I couldn’t swap it.
This is where memories of Colin live, and where I brought up two boys who still love to visit.
Nowhere is more relaxing than our own home. And we’re surrounded by neighbours who are friends.
My home is just right, especially since occupational therapists put my chair on blocks, and bars around my loo to haul myself up.
So you can keep the massive mansion in Regent’s Park… who’d have the time to dust and vacuum it all anyway?
I'm going to miss the Love Island final
Telly has been my saviour since lockdown and losing my mobility, but the Love Island final will be on when I’m in hospital. I can’t believe it. I’m desperate to see if our Rob’s friends Tom and Samie win.
Robert’s wife Sarah has said she’ll tape it for me. Sue and Sheila are going to bring Connect Four on to the ward to make sure I don’t get bored.
And Jonathan’s wife Kim is going to Argos for headphones so I can listen to music – until I’m tapped on the shoulder by another patient tired of me singing and saying: “Shurrup!”
I’ve had numerous offers of lifts to and from the hospital, Robert’s asked if I’d like to move in with him and Janet’s said she’ll move in with me while I recover.
Jonathan’s organised time off work to visit me as much as he can and my cousin John is planning visits too.
I’m feeling very humbled by all the lovely people in my life trying to help. I never like to be a burden but am always moved to know people care.
I obey the Tena Commandments...
Sheila has helped me pack a hospital bag. My pyjama bottoms all had to be altered because since my hip joints shattered, I’ve lost three inches in height so I have a couple of new nighties for hospital.
I’ll be packing a big wedge of Tena Ladies, of course.
A nurse talking me through the procedure told me they had incontinence pads there.
“But I don’t have a trickle,” I said.
“I have Niagara Falls.” “Best bring your own supplies then,” she said, slowly edging away from me.
