Watch this space, there is definately a Captain's Log brewing - just use your imagination! I, very very foolishly, and naively, and stupidly, and well just downright brain-deadly really, asked Mum if there was anything in particular that she wanted for her Birthday next week. She had obviously prepared her oration, (as clearly, I am predictable, and she is hard to buy for,) and she didn't stop for breath. 'I haven't stopped you know, and would really appreciate your time'. Oh shite, I know what's coming. 'Will you come and babysit him on Saturday?' Despair gentle licked my ankles with the general impact of a tsunami...I just know that, even though they are out of season, Hincksy is going to start eating Sprouts by mid-week..just to make me suffer! You know, my sister must have predicted the parents one-day becoming more demanding, and had the right idea by moving down-south...Bitch, she always had one-up on me! (And she's slim!)
Last week I was summoned at a late hour, in my Medical Advisor role. Dad was said to be in agony with his bad side, and had had enough - could he have some stronger painkillers?. Now, it was only the week before that I had to provide some words of wisdom about his daily routine. Having been stuck in Hospital, usually recumbant in bed or his sedan, and with diet that had as much fibre and roughage in it as my nail clippings, I find it hard to believe that a man, who is usually unphased by the Telegraph Criptic Crossword, did not think living in the real world would have no effect on his body. Thanks to Hincksy's self-directed two hour daily torture on the Geiger (a sado-masochistic device, with the appearance of an upturned tandem bicycle) and an apetite to compete with that of a wildboar, his body has responded in a way that is....well, to be expected. Dad's once a day paper-reading in the bathroom is more frequent and noxious, thanks to his 'child in a sweet shop attitude' to food, and obviously has to have the energy to get off his arse and walk there each time. He is, therefore, knackered and I tried to advise that sometimes, less is more. As his proper physio doesn't start for a few more weeks, I suggested that rehabilitation was not just about physical strength and agility, but about being independant. The practice of going into the kitchen, perching on his stool and making a cup of tea and a sandwich, would be just as useful as sweating like a bison. Sensible I hear you say, but even my Mother raised her eyes to the ceiling. Nevertheless, she bravely passed on the suggestion... 'Fk O, I could make a butty if I needed to, but I don't!'.
Needless to say, after a bit of professional nursing digging to sort out his pain, (well, all patients tell lies, and only intense interrogation discovers the truth) I established that, contrary to medical advice, Hincksy had stopped taking his Tramadol, as his leg wasn't jumping anymore, and he didn't need it. I sometimes ponder that all patients should have their bad-descision making receptors removed at the doors of the hospital. I, somewhat gleefully, informed him that he had actually stopped taking the pain-killers that were specifically prescribed for his neuropathic pain. Safe to say, he is now painfree...remarkable isn't it?
Well, wish me luck. I told Mum that I might whip Dad into the car and take him somewhere. As it is her Brithday, I asked her if she had a preference which mountain I left him at the top of....
I'm sure I will be back when I have recoved enough, emotionally and physically.
Regards, Poor Vick X