Fell at the bus stop September before last and broke a hip.
He lay for twenty minutes on the pavement in the evening cold. Thankfully two other oldsters saw him and raised the alarm. The surgeon didn’t think he was in good enough shape for a hip replacement, and pinned it instead. A year and a half on and he was on so many painkillers he was hardly with us.
He deteriorated in December so much that she sought a second opinion. The operation was go, but there was no hundred percent guarantee that he’d survive surgery and an anaesthetic. Then, more deterioration and he went into hospital just before Christmas.
He woke up in HD (Intensive Care as they used to call it.) That was planned as part of the surgery, but of course, he assumed he was about to die. I thought that was perfectly logical. If I was ninety and I woke up in a hospital on various machines, and I was having trouble retaining things I’d been told that day or the day before, I’d assume I didn’t have long to go. And he was a bit of a wraith, those first two days.
Christmas in the hospital: he’s always been a scoffer, so I didn’t worry that he’d be devastated by missing out on the festivities. Neither am I one to make a big production out of Christmas. But the slabs of turkey in the covered lunch plate suddenly made me sad.
Am I dying? No, you’re getting better. You’ve had a hip replacement. Oh yes. Do you remember how much pain you were in? Was I in a lot of pain? Was it because of my broken leg? Yes. You’ve got a new hip now.
He’s in rehab now. Onward.