The Knee - 30 Days in October
The beginning of the Journey
Where do I begin?
Probably about 40 years ago. I used to play squash, a hard, fast and occasionally vicious sport. (You’d know that if you’d ever been hit full force by a squash ball. Over time, I developed problems with my left knee. It might have been a ligament tear, but who knows? It was so long ago that I’ve genuinely forgotten how it all started.
I do remember one particular incident, about 15 years ago, when I was building my barn conversion. I was pushing heavy sheets of plywood up a ladder when suddenly the pain in my knee got much worse. I had to keep taking medication just to carry on working. Stopping wasn’t really an option. The thought of spending a third winter living in a mobile home was hardly appealing. Eventually I had an X-ray and was told that my knee was degenerative, although there was still some space between the bones. The doctor suggested exercises gave me an exercise sheet. Like I wanted doing enough!
Then, about three years ago, I managed to strain my other knee at the gym while trying to strengthen my quadriceps. The X-ray showed much the same thing as the left knee. It took a year, yes, a whole year, before it improved. Even then, it was never quite the same. It was unstable, clunked and creaked constantly. I began to feel that the problems with my left knee were starting to take their toll on the right one as well.
Meanwhile, my wife had started an exercise group in our village, meeting twice a week. I knew I needed to keep fit and maintain my strength, so I joined. I was determined to stay in good physical condition.
23 June 2026 — Enough is enough
I finally cracked.
I’d been researching knee replacement operations and knew that NHS waiting lists could stretch beyond 12 months. I wasn’t prepared to wait that long. I’d go private, and quite possibly end up in Kaunas, Lithuania, at one of its specialist orthopaedic clinics.
But first things first. I needed another X-ray.
We have a specialist hospital locally where you can have imaging and orthopaedic procedures. The building used to be a Homebase. They closed down, shut up shop. There was even a hand car wash in the car park, run by Eastern Europeans. I’d visited the place many times, either to buy paint or get my car valeted. It’s been a hardship for me since its closure; I’ve needed to find a good car wash not using trafficked staff run by Albanian mafia.
Then Covid came along and changed everything. One of the more unexpected positive outcomes of the pandemic was the transformation of that building. Within months, it had become a Covid recovery unit. It was never used for its intended purpose, and we all suspected it had some sort of secret mission. Instead of being dismantled, however, it was put to good use. First as a highly efficient Covid testing centre and eventually as a centre for robotic surgery. Quite a transformation for an old DIY store!
I contacted Fred, my NHS physiotherapist, he sent me for an X-ray and advised me to arrange another appointment as soon as the X-ray results came through.
I did just that.
15 July 2026 — X-ray day
A quick visit. In and out in no time.
I’d already arranged my physiotherapy appointment in advance, so there was nothing left to do but wait for the next stage.
17 July 2026 — The assessment
Fred wasn’t available. I hadn’t realised this until I arrived, and I was about to be assessed by a different physiotherapist. A little daunting, to be honest. Fred had been sympathetic and reassuring, and I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from someone new.
Sitting in the consulting room, I was asked a whole series of questions. Fortunately, I’d done my homework. The assessment was based on something called the Oxford Knee Score. It’s a questionnaire designed to measure the impact of knee problems on your everyday life. The higher the score, the better your knee function. I understood that a score of around 19 or 20 was important if I wanted to progress to the next stage.
The trouble is that pain is entirely subjective. I might be able to walk a mile, but by the time I got there, it could hurt like fuck. Someone else might have stopped after 200 yards. How do you compare the two?
I knew three things:
My knee was affecting my quality of life.
It wasn’t going to get any better.
At 72, I was still in good physical condition and well placed to undergo an operation.
I’d already convinced myself that I would probably have to go private in the end. All I needed was the assessment data to send to Northapeadics. So, perhaps a little cynically, I made sure my answers reflected the severity of my problems. I scored 20 and was told I would be referred to the next stage.
“How long?” I asked.
“Ten to twelve weeks,” came the reply.
I was deflated. Ten to twelve weeks just to be asked much the same questions all over again? Really? Roll with it I guess, at least I had the evidence for my Baltic option.
As I got up to leave, the physiotherapist mentioned something that immediately caught my attention. I would have a choice of hospitals. He gave me a list of four and suggested I research their individual services and outcomes. Great advice it turned out. Now we were getting somewhere.
29 July 2026 — A stroke of luck
I’d researched all the possible hospitals. Our local hospital, just down the road, had a waiting time of around 52 weeks. The private hospital in Plymouth was quoting nine months. The same applied to Nuffield in Exeter. Then there was Shepton Mallet.
An hour and a half away, but with a waiting time of just 10 to 16 weeks.
Could I get the operation done before Christmas and have the whole winter to recover? It seemed a realistic possibility.
Then, out of the blue, came a call from the triage team.
“We’ve had a cancellation. Could you be here in about an hour?”
“Yes! Yes!”
It was only 20 minutes away. I couldn’t believe my luck.
The clinician I saw was technically a trainee. Don’t get me wrong, he was efficient, professional and had a great manner. But you know that feeling when you’re directed by a policeman who looks about 12? It was a bit like that. Anyway, he put me through my paces. I walked, he prodded, and he flexed my hips and knees. Fortunately, all that work I’d been doing in the exercise group seemed to be paying off.
Then came the good old Oxford Knee Score again. It was like sitting an exam at school when you already knew all the answers. This time, I scored 18. I was clearly getting better at this!
He then explained in considerable detail how the scoring system worked. I made a point of looking suitably surprised at the relevant moments, displaying a complete lack of prior knowledge. I’m not entirely sure whether he bought it, but he seemed happy enough with my answers.
Then, looking at his screen, he asked, “Where would you like me to refer you?”
Brilliant. In just over a month, I was already heading towards the surgeon stage. He scrolled through a list of four hospitals, concentrating on those closest to home. He read out the waiting times to see a consultant and the estimated times to surgery.
I let him carry on. If Shepton Mallet appeared on the list, I already knew what my answer would be. It was.
“Would you like to go away and think about it?” he asked.
Hell, no!
“Shepton,” I said. “It’s not that far.”
More importantly, it was a fuck site closer than Kaunas, where I’d been contemplating having the whole thing done!
Choosing — Do your homework
The most important thing I’ve learnt from this process is that you need to know what you want and do your research. Use AI if you like, it’s a tool make sure what it is saying makes sense cross check its sources. Check hospital waiting lists, look at the options available under the NHS Right to Choose arrangements, and investigate the published statistics on surgical outcomes.
If you’re prepared to travel, it can be a real game changer. Of course, everyone has an opinion, and some people are only too happy to share theirs. After making my choice, I told a friend which hospital I’d selected. She looked genuinely horrified.
“Someone told me they had a bad reputation,” she said.
That was enough to plant a seed of doubt. Had I made the wrong choice? I went back over my research, checking the information again. A little later, I bumped into the person who’d apparently supplied this damning information. As it turned out, they were recounting an experience from more than 25 years ago. I breathed again.
It’s amazing how quickly a bit of hearsay can undermine weeks of careful research. Don’t let it!
4 August 2026 — Things are moving
Bloody hell!
A call from Shepton Mallet Practice Plus to arrange a consultation. I was on the railway now, and the train was gathering speed. There was no stopping it.
They wanted to see me on the 18th. For the first time, I had to say no. My wife was particularly busy that day, and I wanted her support. No problem, the helpful lady said. How about Saturday morning, the 22nd? Saturday? They worked Saturdays too? Apparently, they worked every day.
So, 10.30 on Saturday morning it was. I could even pop in and see my son and his family afterwards.
Things were finally beginning to happen.
22nd August – Consultation Day
It was a warm day. We were directed from the main reception area to a more temporary building across the road. Everything was clean and tidy, and there were plenty of others waiting to be seen.The receptionist was brusque but efficient. She ran a tight ship. The air conditioning was set to cold. Very cold, in fact. I thought about mentioning it but didn’t. Instead, I put my coat on. I felt a bit of a coward, but this wasn’t a day for unnecessary stress. Looking around, I suspected others felt the same way.
My name was called. I got up and motioned to my wife, asking if it was OK to bring my chaperone with me. When you have a consultation like this, it’s very wise to have someone with you. It’s an emotional time, and it’s so easy to forget something or not hear things properly. Take a second pair of ears.
Yet again, I found myself looking at the X-ray. The surgeon flexed my knee, flexed my hip and watched me walking. Then we sat down and looked at the X-ray again. It was getting as much attention as the Mona Lisa.
“See this area?” he said, pointing to the back of my knee. “You have a bone-on-bone situation. We can operate, but a partial replacement isn’t really an option. It would have to be a full replacement. Alternatively, we could wait and see how it progresses.”
So, this was it. Decision time.
The surgeon went through all the risks associated with the operation, and there were, of course, many. It’s a major, invasive procedure. I asked how many operations he had performed and what the likely outcome would be. To be honest, I can’t really remember his answers.
What I remember most vividly was him pulling up his scrubs, showing me both his knees and swinging them around like a lunatic. He told me this was what was possible if I put the appropriate work in afterwards.
If he’d been selling the operation, he couldn’t have done it better. (He wasn’t.)I asked how long I might have to wait, wondering about the New Year break I was thinking of taking.
Looking back at his screen (it’s all on screen these days). He said, “Maybe eight to ten weeks.”
I did a quick mental calculation.
“The Halloween event will have to be all yours,” I said, looking at my wife. We organised a Halloween event in our village every year to raise money for charity. I turned back to the surgeon.
“Yes, OK. I’ll go for the op now. I’m fit and well at the moment, but this problem is slowing me down. I think I’d rather get it done now, get over it and be able to enjoy more of life for the next few years. I guess the current situation isn’t going to improve.” It was meant to be a question.
He didn’t respond, but printed off a form, signed and dated it, and presented it to me. It confirmed that I had been given all the information about the risks and asked for my consent to proceed.
I hesitated for a moment, signed it and handed it back.
“I’ll get the nurses organised to do the pre-op,” he said. “Go and take a seat in the waiting room.”
I was stunned. I still can’t really remember wandering back to the waiting area. Shortly afterwards, the receptionist came over with a pile of paperwork, pre-op scrubs and instructions. By now, I was feeling a little more emboldened, so I asked if she could turn down the air conditioning. She smiled, nodded and turned it off.
I was a hero to my fellow waiting-room companions.
The nurse arrived, and we scurried off to another consulting room. I’m a bit needle-phobic. Not the sort who’s going to keel over and faint, but I’d rather avoid them if you know what I mean.
Anyway, the two nurses sat me down and went through all the questions I’d already answered in the waiting room. It felt a bit like one of those police interrogation series, where they make sure you tell the same story twice. In fact, they were simply entering my responses into the IT system.
I explained that there were a few questions I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. They were too ambiguous.
The younger nurse looked across at me, completely straight-faced.
“So, are you male or female?”
My wife promptly fell off her chair, and I was chastised. It was all good humour.
I had my blood tests, my blood pressure taken (which, by now, had risen considerably) and a full ECG.
Lastly, the younger nurse approached me with a smirk and two swabs.
“One up the nose, and one tight up in your groin, both sides. And don’t get confused when you change sides,” she said.
“MRSA, just to check,” the nurse in charge explained.
Five minutes later, we were back in the car and heading home.
We didn’t go visiting. Time had passed and, to be honest, I just wanted to sit down and take it all in. I didn’t feel very sociable.
4th September – Results
Another nurse called. She was friendly and kind.
“Almost everything fine,” she chirped. “Just one of the MRSA tests came back positive, only up one side of your nose.”
I must have known once what MRSA was, but it sounded like a problem. It isn’t necessarily, but it can be if you don’t take precautions. It’s a type of Staphylococcus aureus bacteria that is resistant to several commonly used antibiotics.
“According to my notes, you have the Hibiscrub,” she continued. “I’ll send you some cream. You’ll have to smear it up your nose every night after you’ve had your shower.”
Sounded simple enough to me.
16th September – Surprise
I had done the mental calculations based on the visit to the consultant. I was imagining being operated on sometime towards the end of October. We both knew it would clash with the annual bash we promoted, but our village is close and there would be plenty of others to help or take charge.
We had all the decorations, the DJ was already onboard, and our high-ranking Army officer and Chairman would help manage things. I normally do a curry or chilli. Renee put her hand up for this task.
Then came the call.
“Hi, I’m in the admin team for Practice Plus, booking operations. We have a slot for you on 29th September. Can you do this? We will need you to come up for more blood tests on the 24th?” a dulcet voice asked.
Fuck me. I didn’t think about it. I was taught never to turn down an opportunity, and said, “Yes to both.”
I didn’t even look at the diary.
I am sort of semi-retired, but I do have commitments, and so does my busy wife. I knew I could always go back and see if I could change things when the dust settled. To be honest, I was also in shock. Mentally, all the thinking, all the wishing, all the planning. Now, suddenly, reality. My emotions were swinging backwards and forwards. I’m pretty hardcore male, stiff upper lip — except in weepy movies. I laughed and cried at the same time. I think.
That day I had been thinking about planning a short holiday for mid-September, and was on the verge of committing. That could wait.
The next eight days were manic. Buying ice wraps. Searching Vinted for suitable wide-leg joggers. Wondering what to pack for the hospital, not only to wear but to entertain myself.
24th September – More Bloodletting
We arrived on time and, knowing where to go, wandered off to the Portacabin, sat in a remodelled reception and waited and waited.
No receptionist appeared.
Eventually, we found someone who told us we were in the wrong place. I was firmly told to go back and report to main reception, as I should do every time.
I’m a man. I’m not too good at reading instructions.
So, simply more blood and blood pressure taken. Apparently, the reason for coming back was to check my blood group again, in case they needed anything special on standby. It was all over very quickly.
I had the full interrogation about using Hibiscrub and the nasal ointment.
The ointment had arrived that morning. I was expecting a spray. Another example of my not reading everything fully. I vowed to go home and correct that! Apparently, I was supposed to put a pea-sized blob on my finger and sniff it up my nose. Scary. I tried but found wiping it around and sniffing easier. Just hope it works as well!
Five days to go.
28th September – The Day Before
We were staying over in Shepton the night before. I had to be there in the morning at 6am. Apparently, they like to get all the patients in because inevitably there are cancellations, and they want to be able to move people around if that’s the case.
I have sleep apnoea, and one of those CPAP machines that keeps your airways open by positive pressure. I’ve never thought of it as a problem. It really did me good as soon as I was diagnosed and started using it.
However, it makes the anaesthetist twitchy. They aren’t keen on the potential for collapsed airways. Bonus for me, though: I’m on first tomorrow morning.
We had been pushing a fitness routine for a few years. An hour-long fitness class twice a week for the village, which my wife runs. I’m the only man. I would say pain has its benefits, but I already have them. My wife is the “fittest” of them, if you know what I mean. Coupled with this, once or twice a week I did strength training at the local Pure Gym.
As soon as I had started down the replacement trail, I joined Renee with a personal trainer at her gym, specialising in joint rehabilitation, specifically working on legs and core. I was told to get myself fit for this, and I was going to do my best.
So, Monday nights were fitness nights, and we were not going to miss it. Renee brought it forward an hour, so we managed to get to our hotel before it got too late.
Not really knowing what to take, I packed night clothes (not used), wide, loose-legged joggers (not used), shorts, underwear, socks and a T-shirt (used). I took my iPad, which I used after my wife left the hospital, two power packs (not needed), and several charging cables for my phone and watch. Of course, my CPAP machine.
The room was hot. I was hot. Totally unsettled.
I was awake well before I needed to be at 5am the next morning.
29 September 2026 — Operation Day, Day 1
The apartment was hot. It had been a sticky night, and I finally woke just before the alarm. I got up, did the Hibiscrub again, applied the ointment up my nose, and threw on some clean clothes, leaving the dirty ones in a heap for Renee to pack. I sat in the chair and mulled over the day ahead.
We had to be there by 6 am. We were a little early, and ours was the only car in the car park. It was a little like 28 Days Later, without the zombies. The entrance doors were locked. Evidently, being there by 6 am meant at 6 am! Cars began to drift in as we waited, and on the dot we walked into reception, where we were directed towards the ward. That day, I was to give my name and date of birth at every step.
At the upper desk, I gave my details.
“Ah-ha,” the nurse said. “2B.”
“Or not 2B,” grinned her co-conspirator, winking at me.
It sounded like a rehearsed icebreaker, so I rolled with it. She led me to a room just next to reception. It was a nice room. I had the bed by the window, one of two, with a great view over open countryside. In the end, I was actually the only occupant.
“Put this on, keep your underwear on. Your locker is next to your bed for your things, and there are sockets for your CPAP and devices.” Efficient, sharp, no nonsense.
There was also a TV above the head of the bed, which I didn't notice until we left. The robe was one of those clever ones with three armholes. I held it up, befuddled, wondering where to find a spare arm. Renee took charge and dressed me. This would amuse many people later.
The nurse then came back and labelled me up.
The surgeon popped in to say hello and look at the notes. He checked I wasn't some imposter off the street coming in for a free operation and kindly marked my left leg with a big black arrow.
“We'll be on just after 8,” he said, then looked at Renee. “You might as well pop out for a few hours and have breakfast. I'm afraid though, there's not a lot going on in Shepton.”
Renee decided to go and find a snack, ensconce herself somewhere with her laptop, and do some catching up.
They came for me soon after. Getting to point of no return soon.
Downstairs, in a kind of pre-op area, they sat me in a nice recliner, took a warmed-up blanket from the cupboard and tucked me in. Then came a load more of the same questions. My blood pressure was checked again; it had dropped a bit since upstairs. I must have started to settle down, as it was back to my normal levels.
The nurse put a cannula in, sat down, asked me all the questions I'd been asked before, and put a red band around my wrist. This told everyone not to give me ibuprofen or other NSAIDs, unless, of course, they wanted to have me violently spewing everywhere the next day!
The senior nurse looked me up and down, tutted and redressed me. Apparently, I had the wrong arm in the wrong armhole. A few minutes later, another nurse came and changed it back. I couldn’t really see what difference it mad.
Someone next door to me was having the same treatment. I realised then that this was a production line, with two operating streams. Bloody amazing.
The anaesthetist was next door asking questions. Great, I knew what was coming.
Meanwhile, three of the nurses were complaining about the price of fuel. I couldn't resist joining in, explaining the cost of fuelling our electric car. One of them was Chinese and came over to tell me how revolutionary the car trade had become in China. Almost all cars in the cities were electric. Coming in on the aeroplane, she told me, you will notice that the roofs and car parks were full of solar panels. You learn a lot if you engage in conversation and probe a little.
The anaesthetist popped in, made sure I wasn't an infiltrator, then went through all the usual questions. He told me how the spinal block worked, and we talked about sedation. I said, “Yes, please. Lots.”
“Unfortunately,” he said. That’s not a word you want to hear. “I can't give you heavy sedation because you have sleep apnoea. I'd have to hold your jaw back throughout the operation, and I don't really want to do that. You'll be fine. If there are any problems, we can turn it up as we go.”
Seemed fair, I guess.
He then described the process of giving the spinal block using a very thin needle. I explained that years ago I'd had a lumbar puncture and that it had been pretty shit. He explained that the needle they used was very fine, that I wouldn't feel much, and that it hardly ever caused a problem.
I hated the percentage game they always played. What if you were the one patient in a thousand? It would be the rare occasion for me to win any lottery.
Shortly afterwards, I was walked into the room outside the operating theatre and asked to sit on the side of the bed. It was narrow!
“I'll give you a little prick, a bit like a bee sting. Bend forward, push your shoulders out in front, and then we'll get under way with the spinal.”
His aide helped position me and to hold me steady.
Then they helped me lie back, centred me on the bed and waited until my legs started to feel warm. They sprayed cold liquid up both legs, asking me when I could feel it. I didn't lie! It was just above my hips that I could feel the temperature drop.
Next, they wheeled me in. It felt a bit like the dentist's, only more crowded. Someone pulled my knee up to about 90 degrees, and that's the last I saw of it for a while. They pulled a big paper screen up from my midriff.
“So,” the anaesthetist asked, “what music would you like?”
They tell you that you can take your EarPods and phone in to play whatever you want. I'm glad I didn't. I would have had them scrabbling around under the bed for one I had dropped. We had some '90s pop music.
I have never had such a surreal experience in my life. Listening to Madonna, Robbie Williams and others, while discussing films with the team at my end of the bed, whilst down the other end I could hear buzzing, grinding and drilling, followed by some bashing with a mallet.
To be honest, if someone had said they wanted to take my leg off, I would have offered them both.
The hour went quickly, and soon afterwards I was back in recovery, where they monitored my blood pressure until it rose to an acceptable level. Around 11 o'clock, they wheeled me back to the ward, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
The scary part was over?
Someone appeared with a menu for lunch, dinner and breakfast. Good choices. I was starving, having not eaten since 7 pm the night before, and I hadn't even had coffee that morning. It was still a few hours until lunch, but they kindly took pity on me and brought me a perfectly made black tea and some biscuits.
“Take plenty,” she said.
I did. Renee had some as well. Never did a ginger nut taste so good.
A few minutes later, the drugs nurse came around, stabbed me with a blood-thinner injection and dished out some painkilling goodies.
“Need to get these in before the anaesthesia begins to fade,” she advised.
She adjusted the bed and placed the call button by my hand.
“Any problems or pain, press here.”
Nice tuna sandwiches arrived for lunch, and with some treats from my wife, we settled down with the iPad and watched some films. The feeling began to return to my legs, and the urge to pee started to appear.
Now, as the anaesthetist and I had discussed earlier, there is something about a man's ability to pee in bed. Over many years of misspent, alcohol-fuelled youth, we've trained ourselves that this is simply not done. You should be standing up, so the wardrobe or out of the window are all fair game, but not the bed.
That's all very well, but I was more than a bit nervous about the idea of getting up. I'd also heard stories of catheters being inserted if you couldn't pee. Something else that wasn't on the cards.
So, I sat myself up, wedged the cardboard bottle between my legs, tucked my you-know-what into it and hoped. And waited. I squirmed about a bit, tucked everything back where it should be, and waited some more.
My wife, realising where my hands were moving around, asked rather inquisitively what I might be doing. We can talk about everything, so I explained. She sniggered, I sniggered, and I started to pee.
That was it. No problem after that. Through the night, it was bottle after bottle. No one was sticking a tube up my private parts.
Dinner was great. I begrudgingly shared a small bit of cheesecake with Renee. We're both keen to eat healthily and avoid sugar, so I spared her this atrocity.
More tea, more biscuits. I think they had a contract with Fox's.
So, we passed the evening, and around 8 pm the nurse came around with medication.
“What are you still doing here?” she quizzed my wife. “Visiting hours finished at 7.30. You can come back in the morning, but he won't be ready until around 2 pm to go home. We have a busy morning: tests, X-rays and physio.”
Sometime during the evening, a young physio managed to get me out of bed and standing. Getting the bad leg out of bed was awful. Severely painful. That worried me.
They got me back into bed, settled me down, gave me the buzzer and sorted out the lights so I could turn them off when I was ready.
It didn't take long. I was determined to sleep. Every time I felt pain starting to creep in, I buzzed. I think they played me a bit; sometimes the response was a little slow, but they generally managed the pain.
I had lots of monitoring equipment attached, but it was hot, and I moved around. Combined with my hairy chest, they eventually gave up on monitoring my heart. Then the blood pressure and oxygen monitors went. The monitoring was necessary because I had sleep apnoea.
I think it's important NOT to grin and bear it. The night will reveal your pain tolerance, and you don't want them to think you have a high pain threshold at this stage. That was my philosophy. I might be wrong; it's not unknown.
In the morning, I discovered that most patients hadn't slept that night. I managed around four hours.
Result!
30 September 2026 — Day 2
Awake since around 5.30 am, I was ready for breakfast.
Although I'm being treated by the NHS, this is a private hospital. A bit more civilised, unless, of course, you're hungry and making up for all that lost eating time.
A man came in for a chat and outlined what was coming. I didn't listen too hard; it would happen when it happened. I was more interested in the missing breakfast. He wanted me to work out what I wanted to wear.
“Right, I'll get your washbag,” he said, wandering over to the cube storage.
And there you are. That was what I'd forgotten. No wash bag.
“Ah well, I'll bring you some water and a towel. See what you can do,” he smirked.
Medication next, then he came back with some water, which I splashed around a bit, soaking more of the floor than myself. I managed to change my pants and put some shorts on by the time he came back.
Still no breakfast! I couldn't help mentioning it, just in case they'd forgotten.
“Soon,” he said, retreating.
There was a knock outside the curtain.
“Can we come in?” a stentorian voice called.
It was the ward round: a tall, imperious doctor and his acolytes. The physio was there too. They asked about pain, looked at charts and had a short discussion about driving. An interesting topic, with inconsistent answers. Google it and you'll find out why.
The physio told me she'd be back. The look said, “be worried.”
Breakfast arrived shortly afterwards. Thank God. I was going to need all my strength for the rest of the day.
The physio came back, first to get me out of bed. She brought over the Zimmer frame. I couldn't believe life had come to this.
She helped me get my legs out, and both dangled over the side of the bed for a moment.
Fuck me sideways, that hurt! The moment of pain as my leg stretched and my foot reached the floor was monumental.
She smiled and told me it would get better as I started moving. She walked me up and down a bit. I had pegged her as a relative of the Marquis de Sade, but no, she was quite helpful and empathetic.
“I think you might do better on crutches,” she said. “This seems to get in your way a bit. Want to try?”
I did. At 72 not yet ready for a zimmer frame, I’d crawl first. She adjusted them for me; we were the same height. We tried them, and it was so much easier.
I walked backwards and forwards to the WC, where she asked whether we had a standard or high-rise toilet. I'd wondered for a while and asked her whether I needed a raised seat. She shook her head and showed me how to get up and down, pushing myself up with my hand between my legs on the seat.
I tried it. Quite simple.
I was to discover later that this was NOT so simple when your trousers were down and restricting your leg movement. So, sit down first and then work them down, or remove them beforehand. It's fine. Just don't be in a hurry!
Sitting me down in the chair next to the bed, she pushed my leg until I yelped and checked the angle. Ninety degrees.
She told me this meant I could go home later. Leaving me to rest for a moment on the bed, she promised to come back and teach me how to manage stairs.
I was lucky. We have a bungalow, and two steps were all I needed to manage.
The nurse returned after an hour to wheel me down to X-ray to see how everything was working. By this time, I'd worked out a hack for getting in and out of bed. Some people use a leg lifter or a dressing-gown belt, but I'd worked out how to slip my good foot under my operated leg and lower and raise it gently.
That helped.
While I was in the chair, I was wheeled into the physio room to practise the steps. Piece of cake.
On the way back, I got the orderly to stop outside the ward so I could walk in, stopping on the way for a trip to the loo.
Number two at last!
I made sure the nurses knew. They seemed to have to record everything. I think they might have guessed.
I got myself back onto the bed, and a sandwich arrived, along with Renee. All done, just the wait for discharge.
The medicines lady came around with all the goodies for discharge, along with a neat spreadsheet listing the times everything should be taken. Renee took charge of this and rifled through it to check what was there.
Actually, she told me, “Let's see how long they've given you.” I think she meant medical supply.
The Actimorph would run out by the weekend, which would make it difficult to get the prescription extended. So, she tasked the nurse with going back to the doctor to make sure there was enough to last me a whole week.
Eventually, she came back with another week's supply. That was enough.
A good lesson, though: don't leave yourself running out of medication at a time when it's difficult to get a doctor to replenish your supplies.
A friend who'd recently had a hip operation had told me to make sure I had plenty of codeine. I'd ordered some from my helpful doctor two weeks before I went in.
I'm not offering this as advice, and I don't advocate doing it. But it's what I did.
The nurse came around with my lunchtime medication and asked if I wanted some of the good stuff before the journey home.
Of course I did!
The journey home was uneventful. We got back, I put my leg up and applied an ice pack. Nurse Renee was great. We watched a bit of TV, then I went to bed.
I sweated buckets during the night. It's not unusual for me when I'm healing. I managed about four and a half hours' sleep, so not too bad.
1st October 2026 — Day 3
Directly after the op, while the spinal block was still working, I could lift both legs off the bed. Once the block wore off, the right one was fine, but the left just bloody refused. I had to raise it with my other foot or use a strap. Very frustrating.
Determined to keep moving, I got up periodically and walked from one end of the bungalow to the other. We have a long corridor, so it's ideal for this. Afterwards, though, I spent time sitting with my leg elevated. You're supposed to do “toes over nose,” but sitting like that becomes hard on your bottom and back after a while, so I do the best I can. Then it's the ice wrap.
Some people have fancy ice machines that pump cold water around your knee, but I decided on the simpler method. You're only supposed to keep the wrap on for 20 minutes; any longer can slow your recovery. That's just about how long they last anyway. I have four in the freezer. Getting up walking to the freezer and back, its in the garage, keeps you moving. Win, win?
The ice is supposed to bring the swelling down. Exercise makes it swell, which makes it harder to bend. It all sounds counterintuitive. It isn't. Medication reduces the pain, get the exercise in, ice and repeat. Just short routines, and yes, it hurts. The ice afterwards, though, is relaxing. Just don't skimp on the painkillers yet!
This is the time to catch up with all those series you've wanted to watch, but perhaps your better half wasn't so keen on. I'd planned mine!
Today, I learnt what it's like to be disabled.
2nd October 2026 — Day 4
To be honest, a bit like Day 3! More icing and more TV. Will I run out of TV? Bruce Springsteen sang about 57 channels and nothing on. These days there are thousands, and still nothing on. I've resorted to YouTube, watching travel videos and contemplating holidays once I've recovered.
With my legs up on the settee, I can sort of slide the operated leg up sideways. It's very awkward, but I can do it. It's easier to lift it with my good foot.
Today, I walked outside in the fresh air, had a little wander around the bungalow, then came back in for rest and ice. Feels like a big step.
I have a friend who's about nine weeks out from hip surgery. I imagined his journey back to full mobility would be easier than mine, mainly because I've seen others do so well. I think, though, that what you see isn't necessarily what's going on behind the smile. We've been corresponding on WhatsApp, and it's great to have someone you know who's in the same boat.
Renee is getting back into sewing and rediscovering her interest in dressmaking, so we started watching The Great British Sewing Bee from the beginning. Partway through the series, one of the professionals left and Esme Young came in. Read or listen to her book; she's fascinating and had a great time in her late teens, doing all the things many of us might wish we'd done.
It's been five weeks since alcohol last passed my lips. A glass of beer, red wine or a smooth single malt would go down a treat. It's not the craving of an alcoholic, just something I really enjoy. Of course, it's not really an option while I'm taking opioids, and that makes me want it all the more. I talked to ChatGPT, suggesting all sorts of combinations. It's been quite sensible and firm about it, just like your mother would be.
Maybe I'll take two Actimorph tonight.
But I didn't.
3rd October 2026 — Day 5
Wahay! My first shower for a while.
They don't like you showering for two days after the operation, worrying that the heat might make you dizzy and more susceptible to falling. Something you definitely don't want to do! A friend in the village had her operation a few months ago and had one of those waterproof protectors for her leg.
Until now, my leg had been swollen, and there was still a sore band around the area where the tourniquet had been applied. This was where the elasticated waterproof cover went.
Deep joy!
It went on OK and wasn't too uncomfortable. It was great to feel the warm water over my body, followed by a nice, soft, fluffy towel when I got out. Thank you, Renee, who provided the towel and watched over me to make sure I was safe.
I managed to get my own breakfast and coffee this morning. I had one of those sippy flasks you can slip into your pocket, which helped.
Then we had a little adventure going out, mainly to collect a parcel from an InPost locker. When we got home, I worked out that, although we had plenty of Actimorph, the codeine would run out on Monday morning. I didn't want the hassle of trying to get hold of the doctor on a Monday, their busiest day, and then getting a prescription issued to the chemist that same morning.
So, I rang 111.
Of course, you have to go through the triage process to establish that you're breathing, not bleeding and not suffering from a stroke. Eventually, they got to my request and told me a doctor would ring me back. Its hard work, but that’s because you are dealing with a call centre following a script
When the Doctor rang back, she could see the record of my previous prescription and started winding me up, telling me codeine was addictive and I needed to try to stop taking it.
Fuckwit. She seemed to have no idea about the potential pain of a knee operation. Eventually, she prescribed a whole day's worth, and we went to collect it from the chemist.
Why would they treat a 72-year-old like a fucking child? Did they think I was going to sell it on the village street corner?
4 October 2026 — Day 6
Perhaps it was a bit of guilt from last night's call to 111, but I decided to reduce my codeine to one tablet with the paracetamol. I overslept this morning and missed my 7 am doses. Here I am, lying here, cursing 111 and myself. My knee aches, and it's hard to move.
Back on the full dose.
I went to collect my prescription from Boots in town today. It was Sunday, and the car park was full. Eventually, Renee found a parking space, but I couldn't get out of the car. So, while she went to collect the prescription, I did some research.
Why on earth can't you get a short-term, temporary Blue Badge? It doesn't make sense. Half the disabled spaces were empty, but you can't risk using one these days. They have CCTV, and the fines are around £100.
A couple pulled up in the space at the end, got out and walked away. Fair enough, he had a bit of a limp and might have been having a good day. But I knew that, today, I was worse off.
So, I sat there and posted on Facebook about the problem of not being able to get a Blue Badge. Even if you were eligible, it might take ten weeks. Of course, I mentioned that a lot of the bays were unused. I couldn’t help myself. By the time I got home, the notifications were mental. Most of the responses were from people with “invisible disabilities.”
Bizarre, really. I sort of thought wider spaces were for people who had mobility problems. You know, so there was room to get in and out of the car. Apparently not.
I turned off the comments and let it lie. I'm not in the mood for keyboard warriors today.
I felt a bit dispirited. I'm finding movement harder, and I can't bend my knee quite as far without pain.
5 October 2026 — Day 7
Another Wahay! The rest yesterday must have done me good. I feel loads better today, and I have a much more positive outlook. They say you have ups and downs.
I did oversleep and miss my medication time again, though. I got up, showered with the leg cover again and walked to the kitchen. I feel quite able to drop one of the crutches, so I'm now using just one.
I'm able to do my exercises better today, and my bend is back to around 90 degrees.
Chatting to my friend who's had the hip operation, I discovered he's back at the gym, although he's finding it painful.
Renee did the online grocery shopping today, and it arrived early in the afternoon. You always get something wrong. The bag of potatoes that looked large on screen turned out to be a small bag of miniature potatoes. Renee unpacked everything while I watched. A bad knee has its benefits!
It's Monday, and there's an exercise class tonight. Renee is busy this afternoon preparing videos, while I watch more Sewing Bee with her. I might go with her tonight, sit and watch, and perhaps do some upper-body exercises.
In the end, I didn't. I couldn't face it tonight.
6 October 2026 — Day 8
Renee had bought a sewing mannequin, which was a bargain, although it was missing a few adjusting screws.
We have a great hardware store in Alphington where you can buy almost anything, so I had a walk around with her, finding exactly what we wanted. Naturally, we found a few other things we didn't even know we needed!
Hunger took over, and Renee, fed up with working out what to feed me, suggested Taco Bell for lunch. I love a burrito, which, oddly enough, was already on my mind, as I knew where we were heading afterwards.
Renee had bought some pyjamas from Tesco and wanted to exchange them for a smaller size. This time, though, I didn't feel like getting out of the car.
That was until she'd gone. Then I got the fidgets, and guilt about my lack of activity took over. I got out and wandered slowly towards the entrance. It had seemed a good idea, but as soon as I reached the entrance lobby, I started to feel overwhelmed by people rushing in and out. Almost for the first time in my life, I felt vulnerable.
Earlier, I'd said I was beginning to understand how disabled people felt when they couldn't get about easily. Now I was learning how older and frailer people must feel when faced with these sorts of circumstances.
It's humbling.
On Friday, we're due to go to the theatre to watch Ahh Freakout. We're taking friends, but today I feel it's unlikely I'll go with them. It seems a step too far.
I decided to walk a little further along the pavement until Renee came back. Overall, it felt like a good day. My knee flexion is better, and I didn't need the Actimorph tonight.
7 October 2026 — Day 9
I woke up quite a lot during the night. I was more restless than I was in pain, perhaps because I'd stopped the Actimorph. I guess I might have been a little less comfortable.
Finally I woke at 7 am for my medication. This morning, I felt I really needed it. God, I need a shower again. I feel minging.
It's Renee's sewing-class day, so I'm going to hunker down in the other lounge, put my leg up and watch TV, venturing out for a walk to get my ice pack and coffee.
I feel quite stiff today. They say you have good days and bad days. This must be a bad one.
Breakfast and an ice pack! A lazy day today. I'm suffering from aches and sharp pains, with a tight, pinching sensation across the bottom of the scar. I guess the nerves are reconnecting.
8th October 2026 — Day 10
Woke up around 6 am. To be honest, this would normally be my usual time, but it’s darker in the mornings now. Being almost retired, I tend to try to work around when it gets light. Renee likes to lie in, and I like to be with her.
My knee felt sore. I must have slept in a slightly awkward position. I lay there doing small heel slides, then felt the urge to pee. I lay back and rested, and before I knew it, it was 7.30. Now I really needed to go!
It felt as though I’d had a good night’s sleep, although my watch disagreed. It showed that I’d woken up many times, but I couldn’t remember any of it. I sometimes wonder whether technology gives you too much information. Probably best to listen to how your body feels. I seem to be getting four to six hours’ sleep, which isn’t much different from before the operation. We are going to bed a bit later now, though.
We went out to collect some parcels, then needed to do a bit of shopping. We have a local neighbourhood Morrisons that isn’t too big, making it easier for me to walk around. I’m using just one crutch when I’m out now. I could probably manage without it, but I’m very conscious of the need to keep improving my gait. My friend Paul was telling me about the advice his physio had given him on this.
We also went to pick up prescriptions. Renee has been changing her medication and was starting to run out of things, so we seem to be back and forth these days, either her or me!
The lady in front of me wanted paracetamol for her husband, who’d had an operation. Of course, she wanted 100 tablets rather than the 32 that you can normally buy over the counter. The assistant had to go back to the pharmacist for permission. I leant forward and whispered to the lady that she should get them prescribed. It would save all the hassle.
The older assistant served me. I asked for three large boxes as well, having forgotten to ask the doctor to prescribe them. She looked at my crutch, smiled and rang them up. Clearly, she understood!
We got home and went round to our neighbours for a chat and coffee. I needed a bit of socialising.
Later, it was exercise class. I went along and did as much as I could while sitting down, mostly arm and upper-body exercises. While everyone else was walking around and moving about, I did a little work on stretching and bending my leg.
Another good day. Definitely some sort of progress.
9th October 2026 — Day 11
I decided not to do too much exercise today. Just some stretching and bending, plenty of rest with my leg up, and icing. We’re going to the theatre tonight to watch Ahh Freakout. I really don’t want to overdo it. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage, but I’ll dose up before we go!
We left home early, collecting two of our friends who also enjoy this sort of thing. One of them, Val, is about six weeks ahead of me with the same operation. As luck would have it, we found a parking space almost opposite the theatre, which was a real help.
A few days ago, I’d been having doubts about whether I could manage this outing. But getting there early meant we missed the crowds and found a table in the bar for coffee and cake, generously provided by Val. This meant we could sit reasonably comfortably until it was time to go in. By then, things were getting a bit crowded, but taking it carefully, we managed to get to our seats. We only had a couple of steps to negotiate, and I managed to grab the end seat. Just as well, as there was a board in front that restricted how easily I could move my leg.
It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was manageable, and the show was brilliant. Well worth the effort. I went for a walk up and down the aisle during the interval, which helped.
When we got home, my leg had swollen quite a bit, so I elevated it and applied some ice. I took my full set of medication at bedtime and slept. Well!
10th October 2026 — Day 12
I was stiff this morning, which wasn’t much of a surprise, really. The medication soon started to help, but it was a bit of a slow start to the day.
In the end, we decided to take a trip out to the garden centre. Renee wanted to pick up some special compost for her orchids. I thought we already had some, but of course, we couldn’t find it!
Walking around looking at the plants was good for me. The tarmac paving was a little uneven, so slow and steady was the name of the game. It’s a strange feeling having to take such care with every step. Eventually, though, I’ll relearn how to walk with ease.
Back home for some leg-up time and icing.
Renee had been complaining about some unusual sensations with her eyesight. It was worrying, so I persuaded her to call 111 for advice. This was the second time recently that we’d had to contact the service. Interestingly, they seemed to have a script for this sort of thing as well. After a series of questions, arrangements were made for an optician from the hospital to call her back.
It wasn’t long before the call came. After going through the symptoms, the optician said she thought it was age-related, something to do with the vitreous gel inside the eye sagging or pulling away at the back. The suggestion that it was age-related didn’t go down too well!
An appointment at the hospital was arranged for Monday. I remembered having a similar problem about 14 years ago, when I underwent a lot of tests before having replacement lenses fitted. So, it made sense. A few minutes later, we realised we had another problem. I can’t drive, or at least I’m not allowed to at the moment. When Renee has the strong eye drops administered, she won’t be able to drive either.
When she told the exercise class she wouldn’t be able to make it, Val quickly stepped up and offered to chauffeur her. She’s lovely.
Another day in paradise.
11th October 2026 — Day 13
I didn’t take codeine last night. I’m trying to manage without it, although it’s a bit of trial and error.
We were both exhausted and went to bed early. I thought I’d sleep well, and I did until 3 am, when I gave in and took some codeine. After that, I slept and had some vivid dreams, the sort you just can’t seem to leave behind when you wake up. It was depressing, and I felt depressed. A real down morning. After several days of improvement, it felt as though I’d gone backwards. I’m told this is normal.
Mid-morning, I was sitting on the couch, trying to lift my operated leg. I struggled like hell but couldn’t do it. I was having a good moan about it when Renee suggested another approach.
She suggested raising my right leg slowly, really concentrating on how the muscle groups worked, and repeating the movement a few times. Then I was to stop, think about which muscles to use, and try the left leg.
Unbelievably, it worked! My mood lifted straight away.
Encouraged by this new success, I got out the floor cycle I’d bought just before going in for surgery. I managed a few slow backward revolutions.
Things were looking up!
Just DON’T GIVE UP. It helps, though, to have someone there to motivate you.
12th October 2026 — Day 14
Of course, today I’m tired. I suppose I overdid it yesterday. That seems to be the problem: balancing a desperation to succeed with the patience needed to take things steadily.
I’m afraid that’s the story of my life. I’m a restless doer. I used to be a workaholic, and when I decided to retire, I couldn’t even do that properly, like other people! I’m still working odd hours for a favourite client. On the bright side, it creates a bit of extra holiday money and the occasional cracking bottle of single malt. I’ve just got to keep looking at it for a while longer!
Plenty of time on the settee today, catching up with the DIY couple at Dunscombe House. (Watch the Dunscombe House diaries on YouTube.)
Renee had to go to the hospital to have her eyes checked. Val Mackin, who recently had a knee replacement herself, was kind enough to take her and wait. It’s so good to live in a village full of helpful, nice people.
I caught up with series two of The Gentleman. It’s not really Renee’s thing, but I like Guy Ritchie’s films and series: dark and comedic. Maybe that describes me a bit, too!
Later, I peeled myself off the settee, wandered outside and dosed the hot tub. I put it into holiday mode. It needs a good clean before we can get back into it, and I need to be better healed first.
I tried the floor cycle again. Now I can manage a few proper turns, and I think this could end up being a gamechanger. I’d been thinking about sourcing one of those recumbent bikes, but to be honest, sitting back in a dining chair and using this isn’t that different. It’s a good-quality floor cycle.
I walked around a bit, iced my knee, rested and went to bed. No extra pain relief needed tonight.
13th October — Day 15
A fortnight. Two whole weeks have gone by, and it seems to have flown. All those things I was going to do and watch, and not many of them have been done. What have I actually been doing?
I had a restless night. Maybe because I’d kept off the codeine, or perhaps because I kept having to get up to pee. It seems that the codeine might be contributing to this, as I’m pretty sensitive to the stuff. It might just be part of the healing process, though. Whatever the reason, I felt quite uncomfortable this morning.
After breakfast, I decided it was time to up my walking a bit. So, I took myself outside and walked to the bottom of the drive. It’s about 150 metres down, and it’s steep.
Going down was “interesting” and slow, but coming back up was fine. I wasn’t at all breathless, and there was no pain.
Fantastic!
I did a lot more exercises today: floor cycling, heel slides, mini-squats and mini-lunges. It’ll be great to get back to the gym. All followed, of course, by putting my leg up and icing.
There’s still some swelling, but it’s not too bad. I’m moving better and walking better. I have pain, but it’s manageable.
I went out with Renee to collect something from InPost, then we had a quiet evening and an early night.
Big day tomorrow!