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| Top Left: In a wheelchair; Top Right: doing my exercises at home; Bottom Left: in hospital, Friday; and Bottom Right: in hospital Saturday |
However, my body had other ideas. Over the last few weeks, I had begun to lose strength in my legs (my left has been weakened since my stroke 20 years ago, but I could get around with a walking stick).
There was no inciting incident, no major accident that could have triggered this change in my strength and stability.
In no time at all, I went from one to two walking sticks, then a zimmer frame and a wheelchair. I could no longer get up and down the stairs normally (something that generally hadn't been an issue) and, instead, was having to scooch up and down on my arse! Even washing and going to toilet became a major operation. It was also all too easy to forget this new normal and try to get up to retrieve a book from a shelf or some such, and just find myself collapsing backwards as my legs concertinaed up.
Luckily, I had an appointment with my GP (originally for something else), but, I have to be honest, she was rather useless and - baffled by my symptoms - simply prescribed painkillers and Ibuprofen gel, in the hope that it would go away.
In fact, the problem just got worse and Rachel emailed the surgery asking for a referral for physiotherapy.
The doctor, promptly, replied suggesting I go to the hospital for a check-up, as she couldn't make a referral without a diagnosis.
So, on Friday, we rolled up at the hospital, and I have to say, although Rachel and I were there for pretty much the rest of the day, we were looked after brilliantly. I was subjected to barrage of blood tests and scans, that were all inconclusive.
Ultimately the doctor there said I needed to come back the next day for an MRI at 9.40am.
Our instructions were to get there for 9am, and the general understanding was that it shouldn't take that long.
I was all prepped and ready, then inserted into the MRI machine... and immediately made the mistake of opening my eyes.
I was in a coffin! It was so claustrophobic.
I freaked out, mashing the panic button, so they pulled me out as quickly as possible.
Everyone was really understanding and lovely, and I was wheeled back to the orthopaedics department, while options were discussed.
Unfortunately, this meant I was - understandably - bumped to the end of the queue as they had a day's worth of emergency scans to squeeze in.
Many, many hours later - some of which I napped in my comfortable chair - they dosed me up with Diazepam (Valium), gave me an eye mask and let me choose the music I could listen to while in the MRI. I chose My Chemical Romance.
A short time later, Rachel and I were back in the orthopaedics department being guided through the images of my spine by another excellent doctor. He pointed out the prolapsed disc in my spine as the likely cause of my problems, but explained that all this data would be sent to a consultant at King's Hospital, in London, for a definitive verdict.
So, that's where we are at present: I still can't walk, but can get round slowly on the frame, I'm still attending my weekly pensioners' exercise class (the last doctor stressed how important that was), I've got a follow-up appointment with GP next week, and hopefully we'll hear from someone in-between about the analysis on the scan (although the doctor said if we don't hear that's good news).
Our NHS has been marvellous (as always); all the staff were incredible, kind, and generous (even when rushed off their feet). As were our friends who puppy-sat Alice, and Rachel's wonderful parents who do a flawless job of looking after us all.
Rachel has been my rock throughout this sudden turn of events and I know for certain I couldn't have made it this far without her.
Onward and upwards...