Infinitely Precious and Ultimately Unimportant....

Today I received a lesson in humility. 

I don't know why, but I looked online at Bunion blogs. Well, there are are a proliferation of them.

I cannot think why I failed to see them before I started this one. Talk about a saturated market. 

What was I ever thinking of? 

All I read before I started were a couple of super scary, (super-scar-y as well) incredibly earnest accounts and I foolishly thought I might have something different to say. 

But the internet is a many headed Hydra; you never know from one day to the next what will come up on your search. 

Today however, I found one that was sane, sensible and beautifully presented. 

I am now inflicted with the  severest case of Blog-envy which means I have to stretch every sinew of altruism by suggesting that if you want a well-documented, expertly photographed Bunion Blog then go to BestFeetforwards.wordpress.com. (Oh my goodness, I think I've added a link.. all by myself)

This lady had a double operation ( A buy-one-get-one-free job? Probably not. But certainly a WGIGs job "When it's Gone it's Gone!" Lord, I am a marketeer's Dream Punter... nothing to boast about.) 

Anway, she also told us her name and where she lived. 

I have written under the cloak of anonymity and I'm not sure why.

It's not as if I've won the lottery and am trying to avoid Bunion begging letters.

So here it is: I am Lesley, aged 613/4 , a Recovering Bunionista, happily married currently, until Dearest finally sits down to read this, with grown up family, two grandchildren and a very Grand dog. 

Both children  think it is funny that I've put Amy Winehouse as a favourite. 

What do they know? 

(I thought it made me sound edgier...)

Sunshine Almost Always Makes me Happy....

How do you begin to comment on the weather in the South when Storm Gertrude has been tearing apart Scotland and N. Ireland with 90mph winds?

And why should I suddenly become a self-appointed meteorological commentator?

Well, yesterday (Thursday) was highly unusual in that we had sunshine and too good to be blue skies for most of the day. So uplifting. Makes us all realise how relentlessly grey and wet it's been for as long as we can remember. Sorry, can't help reflecting on weather : it's stamped through our DNA like Brighton Rock.

I am not here to whinge about the weather, however, but 'sun' was something my surgeon recommended for healing, together with e45 cream or Bio oil which should be rubbed into the wound. 

If the wound is dry this weekend, whenever there is a lull in the conversation, or I want to hasten my guests' departure, I will be doing just this. 

'Don't mind me, folks. Hostess with the mostest, that's me.' 

Get that? Messing about moisturising only 4 days after removal of stitches...

Marvellous. 

I don't know which old lady's leg my clever surgeon transplanted, but I sure hope this E45 is all it's cracked up to be, so to speak. 

So yesterday being an unusually bright day, I thought it was a bit much to stick my foot out the front window, (even I have my limitations) so I raised my face instead in the hope that vitamin D production would respond to the forces of gravity and reach the afflicted part. (More dodgy science.)

I then used my rubber massage ball (steady!) to tone up those plump and porky tootsies, did a few press-ups ( Just checking you're still with me... This is unutterably dull fare.) and found I had worked up quite an appetite. 

I searched in vain for a Sirt diet reference to a Large Tuna Mayonnaise sandwich. 

There are days when Kale just don't cut it..

Pain is the Release of Weakness....

There is no getting away from it. 

You have to exercise that Big Toe or he is going to end up, if not morbidly obese (imagine swapping a rosy-hued bunion for a lardy overweight metatarsophalangeal?) stiff and horizontal at best, or stiff and erect at worst.

The permutations are horrendous.

It's one way of achieving a 'cracking good pace' I suppose, on your first post op outing in a real shoe. Strewth. I've fainted. 

So no, I put it off, even as late as five o'clock yesterday afternoon for my first masochistic engagement with the Metatarsophalangeal . (Savour that word... So much sexier than Big Toe) 

First of all I slammed down a giant Ibuprofen (one of those 400mg big boys), let that settle, and played Tchaikovsky 's 1812 at full blast. Hear those canons? Hear Mrs Bunion roar.. 

You're only meant to do this toe-waggling malarkey for five minutes at a time. (Three times a day) I had to stop when I was well into the second Movement.

You see, after the initial wiggle-waggle, left foot in ... ( I feel a case of the Hokey Pokey coming on) it actually doesn't feel too bad. 

Dearest generously offered to wiggle it for me at the start of this when I quailed at the prospect of self -inflicting pain, but there are some things I feel I ought to do on my own... 

No one, but no one, is ever going to call me Tubby Toes...

Musings of an Amateur Bunion Blogger

For those of you who, until now, were unfamiliar with the Blog as a means of communication, I must give you some insight into what it is like to be almost in charge of one. 

Throughout the day I receive notification of page viewings, and even more interesting, is a reference to the number of viewings per country. 

I feel impelled to mention this because yesterday I gave a big hello to the Australians and am now worried I have inadvertently slighted my precious readers in other parts of the globe. Mrs Bunion Blogger gets 'nul points ' for this cringeworthy omission.

So while this is most likely what you do NOT do if you are a right proper blogger ( and I am a self -acknowledged dabbler) I am going to welcome the 2 readers I currently have in Poland, 3 in Germany, the 9 in the USA, the 24 in Ireland (patently a Bunion hot spot), the 1 in Canada and the 1 in Spain, with 404 in the UK where it's obviously Bunion Bonanza time!

As you may have gathered, I am unable to enter into any 'dialogue' through interactive posts and this is because I need help from a young person. 

I have my wonderful BlogMeister, of course, but I try to involve him only when I''m truly stuck up a technical cul-de-sac. 

I repeat this in case you think I am deliberately keeping you at arm's length by not replying to comments that you think you may have posted,which are not actually arriving. So reach out and grab the nearest young person between 5 and 25 and ask them to instruct. You do, of course have the right to remain silent -something I've historically found very difficult.

So may I just quietly say that I appreciate you small and select audience continuing to read the ramblings of a stir-crazy retiree who may at times get carried away. 

It's a really good feeling that despite my eccentricities and assorted foibles (diary note: get those sorted next) that at least I am not talking to myself ... 

On not unravelling.....

Last night's post was short and sweet. 

I was absolutely hammered. No, not from celebrating straight toes. Though, truth to tell, I did have a large glass of The Cover Drive Jim Barry, a nifty little 2013 Cabernet Sauvignon all the way from Coonawarra, darlings..

Look, I'm including this detail because I am sure that some of my readers are quietly suffering from bunion-boredom by now. I am also blatantly making a play for  Australian readership, as seemingly I have two new Aussi readers. 

No, I was absolutely exhausted by the sheer exertion of the day.

I did not experience the heady charge of fresh air infused by diesel and sundry carbon emissions, as I stepped outside after my two week confinement and into the car. 

I couldn't say I was holding it all in, as the surgeon unwrapped the thick wadding around my foot. (How could I possibly have worried so much about Rising Damp? No Turkey has ever been trussed so keenly.) 

I was delighted to see the wounds looked tidy,  with tasteful colour embroidery in contrast to my alabastine foot, and importantly, not a trace of swelling. None that I could see. 

That gave me Brownie points with the surgeon as he could see I'd been a 'good girl' (when all my life I've yearned to be blonde and bad...). So all those hours acting as a telephone mast have evidently paid dividends. 

Stitches were removed - not too bad. I found that distraction helped: I focused on listening out for sound of cracking skull as Dearest hit the deck. But no, thankfully, everyone remained alert, fully conscious and lunch stayed put. Result.

A very neat bandage which Has To Be Kept Dry for four days, and then I can take a shower.

Toe exercises have been given and I'm steeling myself to do the first set which involves pressing the big toe down for fifteen seconds and then pressing it in an equally unnatural angle upwards. Hymns and Arias, Land of my Fathers that bloody hurts and you're meant to do that to yourself?

Last night when I returned to the marital bed, I was groaning gently, as the medical manoeuvrings of the day were taking their toll; eechy-ouchy type of pincy-wincy pain ( if you need a specific description). In a burst of heroic altruism I reached for my medical boot :

'I can't subject you to this !' I announced,

'I've come back too soon...'

'Get back into bed, ' said Dearest,

'I'll be fine'. (Yes, that's right.)

And sure enough, the comforting resonance of my dearest Snore Lord lulled me into a dreamless sleep.

I've got my Ten fine Toes to wiggle in the sand..

Well, not exactly in the sand.

I am back from my first excursion after two weeks' confinement post-operation. Jubilant that everything looks tickety-boo and that Dearest did not faint when stitches were removed.

No nurse either, had to be resuscitated as the crepe bandage was unwound: all pretty fragrant, I thought. Must have been that little inadvertent dousing that cleansed the toe region. And not even a merest hint of eau de Gangrene. I am just one lucky lady to have such a good surgeon.

Now, if you are wanting pictures then do please feel free to look at them elsewhere. I could have taken a picture from my unique vantage point but I decided that I simply am not one of those Photo-my-pudding sort of people.

I now, however, have to do big toe exercises: Hup and down (til it hurts) for 5 minutes, three times a day.
Sounds like Boot Camp for the Big Toe for the next two weeks.

My own Super Hero Ninja Turtle: not Leonardo...

We've all done it. 

Thought of something and then forgotten to mention it to the other half. 

In my case, I'd ordered the little Ninja beauty,written about it and then promptly filed it under 'I'll mention that later'.

In fairness, we had decided on a slob-out Sunday: coffee and newspapers, followed by a film from Netflix in the afternoon. 

How utterly decadent. We chose 'Wolf of Wall Street' with Leonardo Di Caprio, that nice young man from 'Titanic'. 

Well now... Talk about Bacchanalian debauchery. Three hours of it. We had to have our lunch in the middle: no, we did not have our packed lunch in front of the telly. 

A pucker Sunday lunch ( salmon en croute, as you're asking.. Dead easy : bung in oven for an hour and Bob's your uncle.)

Felt totally worn out by the end of it, and not a little distracted. So little wonder I FORGOT to mention my little internet purchase earlier that day...

So this evening Dearest comes home from work, laden with treasures from  lunchtime visit to Costco with a present for moi. 

You've guessed: a Nutri Ninja auto IQ model.. 

'I thought we needed something to reduce the kale mountain,' he said.

Skirting round the Sirt Diet..

You might well believe that The Sirt Food Diet book (authors Goggins and Matten) remains abandoned under my bed. 

You would be wrong.
For I have been putting this enforced idleness to good use by studying form. 

I confess I have been seduced by the concept.
The idea that certain foods switch on my body's fat-burning powers has certainly switched on this post-op ex-bunionista, like a light bulb.
I am positively pulsating with enthusiasm.

When Dearest comes down this morning, he will be infused with my missionary zeal. Which will be doused immediately, when he hears I've just spent shy of seventy quid on a Ninja juicer.

'Not just any old juicer, darling, a Ninja one. A dinky little machine, so noisy and so butch that you will actually yearn to use it yourself...'
Actually, it's not the cost, he objects to. 

You see, as the bags of Kale diminish ( I kid a you not, we still have 2 bags left) Dearest fondly imagines that soon he will be in full possession of a Get-out-of-Kale-free-card.

So I can see he is not embracing the idea of yet more kale in leaf or liquid form. 

It's my own fault: he knows about my love affair with Lakeland.
He can see the beautifully compact little manual food processor, pristine and unopened, at the top of the kitchen cupboard. Lakeland has lured me for twenty five years at least, with enticing gadgets that I never knew I could live without. 

I now await the Lakeland delivery and search frantically online for Lovage ( a hard to find herb on the Sirt diet). Could that be good for gangrene ? (Yesterday...shower catastrophe remember?)

You can see how my rampant hypochondria, never far from the surface, has been unleashed. 

Enjambment : Leg in a jam?

Well, it had to happen. 

Everything has been going swimmingly. The scene absolutely primed for a disaster. Been enjoying myself too much, patently. 

Hubris. 

It always get you in the end. 

I decided to shower first thing this morning. I enveloped my leg as usual.

But when I was in the shower, about 10 seconds in, I glanced down to see that I had omitted to turn over the rubber valve at the top. I quickly did so thinking that the gripping fixture was such a snug fit round my ample thigh that I had been in time. Mistake. That trickle of coldness round the covered heel, I put aside as imagination. 

No, no, no, my precious to-be-kept-dry crepe bandage was decidedly damp. 

Letting forth a loud Anglo Saxon expletive, I summonsed Dearest who seemed unmoved by the perceived seriousness of the situation. 

'It's not that damp.' 

'Your stitches are on the topside and are probably dry.'

'Look, it bled when you first came home and blood's wet. Your foot's still attached.' (Warm reassuring tone.)

After the last blatantly ridiculous attempt to calm my rising hysteria, I demanded a hairdryer. 

Dearest went off in search.

'Where?'

'Spare bedroom.'

'Which one is the spare bedroom?'

Have you lost the will to live? I did, while I waited for my husband to identify which bedroom I meant in our 

28 bedroom mansion with room for a pony in the back. Did I fail to mention this? 

I dry off the crepe bandage with hairdryer, by now hyper-worrying that I will get Japanese foot-rot and decide that I will spend the day waiving it in the air to expel excess moisture. 

'Well, you've not much else to do,' I can hear you say. 

Humming along nicely..

Only three days to go before the great unwinding of the Mummy's foot. 

Excitement might break out at any given moment. It's either that or I haven't been sufficiently legs heavenward today. Throbbing, tingling, the hint of pins and needles are indicators that you're overdoing it. 

Overdoing what, I'm not entirely sure, for I am joyfully doing nothing, happy the whole day through, trying to find lots of things not to do...( please hum along... Although that's what I think my foot will be doing - humming- when it is unveiled on Tuesday) .

This won't be found in other Bunion blogs... That you can actually have a jolly Bon time as well as seeing visitors. 

Talking of which, a  visiting friend today peered at the toes peeking from my bandage. They are yellow from the iodine ( I think) used as an antiseptic. She offered to give them a bit of a clean up. Friendship knows no greater love than this. I declined. They are what they are and the surgeon will be fully prepared. (Mask on, check, Snorkel check..)

But it did set me off wondering what this mummified foot with the glorious red stitch work would actually look like? 

Dearest affectionately calls me Lurch. Suddenly I find I'm afflicted by an earworm. Is there an antidote for The Addams Family theme tune? 

Going up in the World?

I probably could have done it sooner. It is now 10 days after the operation.

But I have all I could wish for, around me. 

Access to the bathroom, the Futility room in which to throw a few clothes for washing, a television, a computer, kitchen, a tower of books, and a bed with elevated mattress and a hundred pillows. 

I can now even let in visitors by myself, by swinging the good leg up the step and  into the  porch (we have a very old house..) 

So I lack for nothing ... Except the temperature has dropped and the heating is on Automatic. I needed today to get upstairs to put it on Continuous. (Dearest, oblivious still, to my jottings, will not notice that the Battle of the Thermostat has re-commenced. Ha!)

A woman in search of heat is not easily deterred. Remembering the advice of Leading with your good foot on the way up and with your bad on the way down I made the ascent which wasn't perilous at all. And landed with equal ease, if not with style and grace.

I have felt no ill effects after my little experiment and am happily managing on 3 Ibuprofen a day with very little discomfort. 

You don't want to hear about the drugs though, do you? You want to know about the wine-stained bedroom carpet? 

Well, the affected patch of carpet looks brilliant ( thanks to our secret weapon, Ewelina, our lovely cleaning lady); so good that the rest of the 36 year old carpet looks.. 

How did he put it? 

Leg-in a-Bag

Limb0 consignment arrived the next day after ordering. That's what I call service. 

This is the item that is going to deliver me from the daily rub down with an oily rag.

It is like a plastic pillowcase with a rubber valve at the top that encases the upper thigh to prevent water accessing the bandaged foot. It is a simple but totally effective piece of kit. If I'd known how good it would be it would have been on my preparation list, without a doubt. A very practical present for anyone you know going in for surgery: flowers die; grapes get eaten but the Limb0 enables you to refresh all working parts. Wonderful.
I know that I am capable of going over the top and I have only now realised that I have just done that.
I went back to Limb0 Waterproof Protectors (plumb in full title because you get bizarre alternatives with just Limbo) for a picture to illustrate this post, only to discover they do FOOT protectors.
Blimey, talk about missing the point. At least I can re-direct you. 

The  medical advice that in the first two weeks you should keep your leg elevated as much as possible is sensible. 

My surgeon immediately after the operation described a patient who the day after her op went shopping in Harrods and could not understand why her foot became swollen like a balloon.

That very phrase has resonated and driven me to toe the line, so to speak.

The last few days I have done a little light pottering however, when left to my own devices, but for no longer than ten minute bursts. I wasn't timing myself: could've even been longer. The desire to restore superficial order to the developing Man-cave round the corner is a powerful driving force which enables me to travel at 5 miles an hour when faced with piles of abandoned newspapers and rolled socks. Mission accomplished, I then a return to bed with feet and spirits elevated.

Spending so many hours with indeed both legs raised high ( so much more comfortable than just trying to do the single leg) I have lain and wondered whether all this elevation which obviously makes the blood run in reverse direction (yes darling, I know it's circulating...) will give me thighs that look like jodhpurs?

I am happy to report as I glanced down at my over-trussed left leg today in the shower that the thighs remain reassuringly like tugboats.

Rude Awakenings..

I slept like a log last night.

 That is until I leapt out of bed without first putting on the medical boot, thinking it was Bin-Day. (Are there cries in your house early early morning when you hear the unmistakable rumble of the dustcart and the scraping of wheelie bins? "It's Bin-day for God's sake!" we shout. As if Bin-day hasn't been on the same blessed day since time immemorial; it still takes us by surprise.We, using the Royal We, of course often rush out in our pyjamas to put the bins in the correct positions.)

The unexpected pain, however, sent me right through the roof, from which vantage point I could see clearly there was not a Refuse Collector in sight  and that it was in fact Wednesday.

Unbeknown to me, a whole drama, had been unfolding upstairs during the night..
At about nine-thirty yesterday evening, I suggested to Dearest that he went to bed with a glass of red, and the newspaper.

Just so as you know, we are not the sort of people who take wine into the bedroom. I don't know what even made me suggest taking wine upstairs. As you may recall, I have indicated a late embracing of Dry January, so I felt that last night was the time to break self-imposed Prohibition. Well, as a special treat for the other half; I after all, have my drugs to give me that rosy glow.
Off he went upstairs and I settled down to an almost dream-free stupor.
I slept through all the shenanigins going on above me.

Apparently, at three am Dearest knocked over a glass of water on bedside table which shot over the duvet. As he leapt up, flailing from deep sleep, he sent the un-drunk glass of red wine flying which then hit the table lamp and broke into smithereens. He jumped out of bed, got glass in his foot and limped to the bathroom carrying the remaining shards.
"What did you do next?" I asked aghast (and not a little surprised that I had not been summoned from the study).
"I slept on your side. But the carpet's buggered."
Well, now, I call that true devotion.

Before I wax too sentimental, Dearest did say before he left this morning,
"Now, I don't want you doing anything silly upstairs while I'm out. Like hoovering up the glass."
I am comforted that Dearest thinks that my improving mobility means that not only can I unload the dishwasher, and make a sandwich,  but that I can also swing up a flight of fourteen stairs with my foot in a medical boot,  a bottle of Wine-Away in my hand, and  a hoover slung over a shoulder...

Love him.

Keeping foot drizabone

You'll have noticed if you are a loyal reader from day one, that on Sunday suddenly my amateur blog jottings received a major makeover.
My blog now looks very grown up. A right proper blog. I had help of course. My lovely Blog-Meister came over to keep me company and walk the grand-dog . What larks. It was like opening a box of chocolates. Sheer delight.
Like with chocolates I have to keep my primal urges under control and not try all the technical razzmatazz at once.

Talking of things technical...

It is a week since the late but not lamented bunion received the whopper chop. (What a blokish description of  the fine artistry that went into creating what I hope will be a finely-contoured foot.) 

You have no doubt been wondering about ablutions. But been too polite to ask ( or maybe you already have? Only one comment to date has managed to get through, so I just want you to know that if I have been sent any others I am not ignoring them; they are simply not appearing ... )

Anyway, Bathing ( a generic term which obviously does not involve baths unless you are a renegade from Cirque du Soleil and can swing down into one from a great height) is an issue that you have to plan carefully.

The medical advice is that you do not get your mummy's foot wet. The padded crepe bandage has to remain dry until the ceremonial unveiling two weeks after the operation.

This is not too difficult if you wrap up your foot in a carrier bag (4p  Edited on 21st Jan : 15p in our local Spar) and have a good old-fashioned flannel wash.
If this causes a certain frisson amongst anyone reading this, then be off with you. This is not that sort of blog.
You can (with a short haircut a la Judy Dench: talking of which, The Tracey Ullman Show opening episode is an absolute treat) easily dunk your head in a sink and wash your hair.
However, I have just sent off for a watertight cover suitable for covering plaster casts and bandages. They are made by a company called Limb0. (Someone else who obviously likes a good pun).

It should arrive tomorrow.

I probably should get out more as I am more than a little excited. 

Reasons to be cheerful...

Count your blessings.

Yesterday at 11pm my Dearest arrived back from a mission of mercy. 

He'd taken the family to Cirque du Soleil in the afternoon. Unfortunately, after the show, visiting family's car decided to ignite upon departure from our house.

Car towed home and Dearest drove young family and dog back to their house on a two hour round trip.

I say this because today he will work a characteristically twelve hour day and come home to a frozen supper and a supine reception committee. 

It is not all beer and skittles for the person looking after you.

I am enormously grateful for all he does and count myself extremely fortunate in every way. 

Just as I am sure he did when Lurch the patient had risen from the depths of the duvet to welcome his return with a cup of tea. 

Sunday, Sunday, be good to me..

Sunday morning. A good night.
Fresh coffee, warm toast, Sunday Times spread over dining table. Best morning of the week.
Yet, something missing. Yes, it's the old dear stuck round the corner, groaning gently (for effect) as she reaches for the surgical boot. ( For walking, not weaponry.)  

This alerts Best Beloved. 
In with coffee, papers and Is there anything else I can do for you? type questions.
When I ask for some fresh water, he chortles something about "Butlering".
I find that two consecutive requests provoke similar responses:
"0nly got two hands...".  

Dear Lord, evidently, I have been Butlering for the past thirty six years and patently have many more than one pair of hands....I am actually painting my toe nails as I type.( I jest, as only five are showing it doesn't somehow seem worth the effort.)

But I have Best Beloved's attention now, and he is watching as I swing in ungainly fashion back into bed. In an attempt to impress husband with my youthful flexibility, I land on top of duvet . 
Normally I would have sorted myself out, once I'd got over the exertion of hauling myself back into bed. However, I now have the full attention of spouse . 

"Allow me, " he says, as he takes charge of the duvet which is firmly pinned underneath me.

I assure you, there is no greater confirmation that one is no longer a spring chicken than when a strong man heaves and strains to remove duvet from under 78kgs of too too solid flesh. 

A salutary lesson to us all. Lopping off body-parts ( and a small bunion barely registers on the Salters) is no answer to weight reduction. 
The Sirt Diet book, however, is already under the bed. The safe haven of homework, I recall. 

I have, however, a blackthorn walking stick at the ready. Very useful for reaching inaccessible items. 

I might have to put one of those on top of my Listicle. ( I know... you want one too.)

Stop all the clocks...

or Being Practical about Pills

When I emerged from hospital on Tuesday with a fistful of 
Co-codamol tabs I didn't actually take any notice of the number I received and divide them by the number of the days I might need them. This would come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, as Maths has been a life-time anathema. I am a true aMathma. I like that: new definition of a mother who has no maths skills. 

So come Friday afternoon at a time when we know that anyone who has a pulse is tying up lines to doctors' surgeries.. this innumerate realises she is in Co-codamol countdown. 

6 left. ( I am good up to ten).
I immediately whistle up supplies but of course you can't get the Good Stuff over the counter. You can only get the weaker stuff. (Boots Paracetemol & Codeine ).

Anyway, reassuringly this arrives with next visitor - Please don't bring me flowers... 

First thing I see:

big warning on front of packet: Can cause addiction. For 3 days use only. Well this is Saturday, my fourth day. It's happened! I'm already interviewing for a drugs mule..
Anyway, last night I thought I would ration myself. Only one of the lovely whoppers before I settle to sleep about midnight. 
Well now, prematurely, I am awoken by  Beethoven's Ninth coming from the nether toe region. Lord, what time is this? Bong, bong: ah yes, 2am. 

Yes, you know those chimes I've been zizzing happily through the past three nights? Well on one co-codamal you get pain and chimes on the hour every bloody hour. So do not reduce painkillers if you are sited near a grandfather clock would be my advice. 
If you find yourself in similar predicament, harvest your good painkillers and balance them with the weaker ones, saving two good ones for night time. But better still, do your Maths and contact your GP in good time for a repeat prescription.  

If you're wondering out of idle curiosity how to stop a Grandfather clock. Easy. You hold its pendulum.

Little brothers...

I didn't mention pain yesterday. At least, not of the bunion kind. 
I have to moderate my desire to appear brave and heroic with giving actual updates to inform those contemplating similar operations. 
I need first to set the scene  regarding my sleeping arrangements:
I am sleeping in a single bed that is positively awash with pillows, next to a grandfather clock that ticks and chimes on the hour. I could stop the pendulum but I find the noise curiously comforting and sleep-inducing. 
On Night Two I took the pills and lay there. For a few minutes, it felt as though someone was applying thumbscrews to my toes... Then the pain receded and I drifted off and slept through a chiming clock till morning.

I might keep a couple of Co-codamol back for when I return to the Olympian gold Medallist Snorer upstairs. If I don't actually swallow these marvellous knock-out pills, I could at least stick them in my ears. They are big, but not like some others I've mentioned. So that was the night before last. Last night was much the same, minus the thumbscrews, and again a peaceful seven hours, awaking to no pain.  I did practise with pillows

prior to the event, to get a sense of elevation, but what I hadn't realised was that you can shove an additional cushion under your thighs. With your jolly jambons thus supported, you can achieve near Nirvana. ( Keep this hot tip  under the duvet, if you wish sympathy-factor to remain constant. Practise yowling when others are in ear-shot. Smile bravely with tragic eyebrows, when they rush round.)
A friend visiting yesterday immediately asked, "So would you have your other one done?" (Great opener. Use with caution, I say.) I wasn't thrown, however.

I haven't actually mentioned the other one, as I was hoping that if equilibrium were restored then maybe it wouldn't grow into its bigger brother. 
However, I could genuinely say that as far as pain goes ( to date) I would have no problem in contemplating a re-play.
I am also just beginning to understand what it means to luxuriate in supreme indolence. 

(Grow little Bunion, grow....)

Pillows courtesy of Hanabi by mottoWASABI.

Support comes in various shapes and sizes...

Human support.  Pretty damn vital. If you are only meant to hobble on your surgical boot long enough to go to the bathroom, or the kitchen to make a cup of tea, you really do need a Gopher for replenishment of water jug and light snacks. ( Kale sandwiches? It'll be curly up and died kale if I don't get to it soon...) So I have been immensely grateful for domestic and social support so far. 
However, I have discovered that a secret supply of Low Cal snacks secreted away, is very useful for those in between hours. 

Now I'm assuming that while there are Boy Bunions amongst my readership, small and select as it is, my readers will consist mainly of women. So with apologies to my male ( and even more select) readership, this is a spoiler alert. References to brassiere coming up... Well, we've done bloomers and we know for a fact that Best Beloved has totally tuned out.. So carte blanche say I.

By way of preparation for incipient banana-shape positioning on bed, I ordered a cotton bra: no underwiring. Brave move.
It has taken a couple of days to arrive. I tell you, ladies : this is an absolute must for the generous bust.  I didn't like to mention it earlier, but have been in imminent danger of piercing a lung with my usual iron upholstery. Now this is absolute bliss. 

Regarding bathroom support. Toilet roll holder has a little more "play" in it than it did previously. But find chair support on other side adequate. Dearest produced a Blackthorn walking stick in loo (too obvious, sorry) of toilet roll holder. Too much support  and useless for stacking toilet rolls. But a fierce-some looking item, nevertheless.  Who needs a "Do not disturb sign on the door" when you have one of these?

Confessions of a Lotus-eater...

The pain train arrived about midnight last night.
I could feel it was on its way by the vibrations as sensation slowly returned to my toes. Inevitable. I felt a curious hint of relief when it finally arrived. Let's just do this and see what it's like. 

Pain is personal. It's a bit like describing a colour. It is, of course, relative and requires a context. 
We all cope with pain in different ways. I like to think that I am a toughie. I had always coped with dental pain so thirty odd years ago I sailed into childbirth thinking it would be a breeze. After ten minutes, I decided it was not, and put in an immediate request for drink, drugs and rock and roll .  

 Whilst I hope my daily accounts have provided riveting reading over the cocoa, this is really what Bunionistas truly want to know about. What is the pain like? 

At the moment, not 24 hours after the surgery it feels as though a ten ton truck has reversed over my left foot .. ( A bit of guess work going on here... a close encounter with a wheelie bin once is as close as comparable in terms of wheel-life experience. Strewth! Even I didn't see that one coming. Boy, these co-codamol are good. Did you know they were opiates?  Not major league, but..) 

Sensation has returned to my toes but wiggling them isn't an option at present. I can however flex my finely-turned ankle (opiates still in evidence).
So in all seriousness, overall pain is being well-managed with the  use of Co-codamol and Ibuprofen. 
The surgical boot is light, easy to put on and enables me to walk on my heel. 
No Crutch on offer. Shame really. I had envisaged a lot of Crutch-pointing as part of my recuperation. 

Post-script: Glucosamine arrived. Anyone know any horses?

Home and Leg-high

Photo credit: Jojo Norris 2012, The Art Group

I would like to make a public but brief announcement that Bunion and I are formally separated.

During the operation I remained awake throughout. Had a very nice chat with the anaesthetist whilst my foot was being remodelled, talking loudly over the carpentry -type noises that were going on just out of vision.

My surgeon showed me the foot, bloodied, stitched but with delightfully straight toes before wrapping it in crepe bandage until it resembled an ancient Egyptian mummy.

This ancient mummy is currently resting at home with elevated foot. We've shoved a wooden magazine rack under the mattress to gain an incline. We found that such is the weight of this mummy's leg that three pillows were squished to a three inch height.

Dearest's patience is being stretched as it seems I am rather demanding. It's been a long day for both of us. This morning whilst waiting I noticed that he was doing a lot of pacing. I was touched as I took this to be a manifestation of anxiety.

No, he had just discovered the steps app on his new phone and was trying to increase his record.

Kale and Hearty...

I think I might have overdone it on the Kale.You might recall that the Sirt diet involves  Kale, Mejool dates, turmeric and capers amongst quinoa and other more pronouncable things. In the protracted wait for the Sirt diet book I have been attempting to reduce the Kale mountain by  serving Kale with every meal.

"I am a little bored with Kale, " says Best Beloved, a little tentatively; "I never realised  I could yearn for Broccoli."

Best beloved's boredom with Kale is about level-pegging with  Blog-boredom. He started keenly, and dutifully listened to my posts read aloud (useful, but not foolproof way of proof-reading) but now I can see that this has become white noise to him. (Many women will recognise this symptom.) So I hope that the diet book comes soon or else I will be putting turmeric on his capers.

Realistically, of course, I will not be in the kitchen over the next two weeks.
My husband has never tired of his love-affair with fishfingers. It was what attracted me to him.  His love of fishfingers was commensurate with my lack of interest in things culinary. It was, you might say, a perfect match. It is quite possibly the one meal he could produce,when by himself ,without worrying that the  slight indigestion ten miutes later was a sign of incipient food-poisoning.
The freezer has however, been filled to capacity with gorgeous meals by my family to relieve the potential calorie overload of Big'uns (aka Charlie Bingham's). I will of course be at hand, round the corner ready with shouted instructions and a very deep well of patience.

I had a sleepless night last night. You know the kind, when thoughts like ticker-tape flicker in front of your eyes. It is not because I am worried about tomorrow as I trust I will be in good hands. It is rather a reluctance to be dependent on others.

I will endeavour to maintain updates. Thank you for the thumbs up.
Tally ho, at seven o'clock tomorrow morning off I go.

Vitamins, vittals and things you find at the back of your drawers...

No, not those drawers. For goodness sake, desk drawers. I will come to them anon.

I caught up with some old friends recently who told me that there has been some interesting research done on dogs and arthritus. Their four year old hound had been suffering from arthritus and the vet had recommened the use of Glucosamine. Well, the dog was transformed; it worked an absolute treat.
This was enough to spur me into action. I know that Glucosomine, and indeed Chondroitin have been said to free up joints in humans, so I went in search. I ended up buying some C0-Q10 which is described as "energy's spark plug". What a fantastic phrase. I began to quiver in anticipation as it pulsated on the page in front of me. I could do with a sack load. Good for those taking statins too. (As a recent arrival at the statin-taking Ball I am obviously in need of this). So the truth of the matter is that I have ordered supplies by the barrel-load. If I end up with a wet nose, a glossy coat  and bark at the postman, then I know who to blame.

In fairness, I have bought these upplements before ( I like that typo... could be the opposite to downlements?). And like Gym memberships that give an instant sense of gratification by the sheer hideousness of the expense, I have been tempted on a previous occasion by Boots' offers 3 for 2. The pills, once purchased, have sat reproaching me in my kitchen cupboard right up until they have reached their expiry date. The reason being is that they are like HORSE pills. Now, I have to confess that I have never taken a horse pill or even given a horse a pill, but they must surely be enormous? Because those ones were whoppers. I remembered this as I pressed the  Order button. Hey ho. I am determined that this time I am going to sharpen up my pill-swallowing prowess.

The year before last I has a cholecysectomy which is commonly known as the removal of the gall-bladder. So I have experienced surgery before.
This impending operation has  made me tidy up a few things, including my desk drawers. I found a rattling receptacle at the back. My gall stones no less. Not unusual for patient to be sent home with a special souvenir. So I binned them. Didn't want anybody in years to come (hopefully many years to come) to stumble upon these and turn them into maraccas.

It got me wondering as to what you could do with an ex-bunion. Pickling seems too obvious.

Support from an unexpected source...

For two weeks after the op my left leg will be in the air. Not waving around looking for mobile phone receptivity (which is poor in our house) but rather to keep blood flowing in the right direction for healing purposes. This might understandably be a little tiring so you support it with a number of pillows. (Now is the time to make sure that you have plenty and that they are in good condition).

If you are going to be banana-shaped for two weeks you do not want to be facing overgrown horny toenails.
So before the operation I would suggest a pedicure. There are however, a number of things that should be on your personal check-list; this is my proposed list:

1. Pedicure from beautician (cheaper than podiatrist and better level of banter). However, if feet have been seriously neglected, plump for podiatrist.
2. Attend to personal flora and fauna. 
3. Get your haircut as short as vanity will allow. (Dear Gustav with his fabulous flair, cut mine as short as he could, right down to the wood.)
4. Get teeth looked at. (No, not like Farmer and horse) Go to dentist. I know this is not what many many people want to hear. However, you do not want to end up with a sensurround of foot-ache and face-ache.
5. Check you have a trainer at the ready to wear on the good foot. (This is an easy one for me as the other one is normally at the back of the wardrobe.)
6. Review night attire: you might have visitors... does it pass muster in public?
7. Check that you have some additional support in the loo. I have a big fear of being stranded there, so I have already tested out the strength of the toilet roll holder fitting and placed a chair the other side for additional  leverage. Both are holding nicely after a few dummy-runs.

I will of course, review this list  after I've put it to the test.

Someone asked me how the diet was going. Not terribly well. Mountains of kale to get through: an embarrassment of kale, really. I thought I would be busy juicing it, but diet book was out of stock and so I have to wait til next week. Pretty sure that Kale and Kiev is not on the diet plan, and that it won't say to wash down with a half bottle of fine red. As abstinence is on the horizon,  I'm taking a brief but belligerent stand against government advice.

Don't hang about...

I have been chastised. For going off-piste yesterday. Far be it from me to piste-orf the dedicated hard-core ( or should that be hard corn?) Bunionistas who are reading this blog in hope of insight or useful information. So tonight I will be serious.

If I ever found myself in the unfortunate position of finding my foot ensnared in a trap, say in the middle of the Cotswolds, with no hope of rescue, I would probably without hesitation, grab the nearest sharp object and hack off my foot. (Still with me? Good. I've actually passed out.) To my mind this would constitute Emergency Surgery. Everyone who has remained conscious during that last paragraph would surely be in agreeement.

So my problem at the outset of this current medical issue was: do I really need this operation? You will have gathered by now that teetering around in unsensible shoes has never been a predilection. So it's not for vanity.
I have with some success accommodated Bunion in wide soft shoes (a la Gabor- good make,
by the way) and Birkenstocks ( brilliant in the Summer), but the problem remains with the metatarsal. It is that which has given me "gyp" as Grandma of the champion bunions would have said. It is like walking on a jagged golf-ball. A certain amount of podiatric padding can relieve pressure ( an alliterative phrase can only take you so far and sadly it does not ultimately relieve pain).

I continued to hobble for a number of months until a good podiatrist told me that this was not going to get any better unless I had the bunion removed. I then made the decision to have the operation at some point in the future when it would least inconvenient my then employer.

Mistake. By putting off the operation by  four months I have actually developed a debility that affects my groin, thigh and shin. I saw a physio today who confirmed that the pain I experience daily (much worse than Bunion on a bad day) was due to my extremely uneven gait.

So my advice to anyone in a similar position is: don't wait. Get things in motion. These things take time to organise. Look out for yourself. Feet first.

Big bottoms and little bunions...

Rejoice big-bottomed women everywhere! Glorious news this morning. Haven't been so happy since first reading that red wine was good for you (until I realised it was a wee glass, not a half-pint mug).

"Big bottoms are good for you," says an eminent doctor on the BBC newsfeed (so it must be true) with delightfully convincing authority, citing all sorts of research. Just imagine the lark he's had over the past few years:
"What are you doing at the moment?"
"I'm researching big bottoms."
"And what's that magazine you're reading?"
"Er, research ."
I've always been a bit self-conscious about my backside. Standard joke on Christmas cards I send, " A little behind this year - patently not mine!"

But how do you define "big bottom"? I suppose if challenged, I would describe mine as being low-slung: it is big vertically, not horizontally. If it were unrolled horizontally it would be big enough to take two suitcases and a birdcage.
The thought that my ample derriere has been given some validation today by the medical profession is surely the rubber stamp on the bottom I've craved all my life.

So it gives me some small satisfaction that as a fully paid-up member of the big-bottomed brigade, and despite having only a small (but immensely troublesome) bunion, I am doing rather well in the nether regions. Make the most of your assets, say I.

We're not yet ready for your close-up Mr Bunion...

Big event of the day. Major preparation for recuperation period.
A single bed was brought downstairs by two very able-bodied nephews who achieved this with remarkable ease and an astonishing lack of  bad language. This was in stark contrast to the scene that would have taken place if dearest husband and I had attempted it. There is, of course, only one thing worse than having a gammy foot: it is having a husband who develops a bad back. Thanks to this kindly intervention we both have been spared this plight.


It has been suggested that before the operation a little before photograph would be useful. Presumably to be superseded with an after photograph. Maybe on the basis that I will be enjoying a drug-induced euphoria at the time of the operation, I would probably be unable shoot straight anyway, so there will be no during. I suppose, however, I could take a photo of my surgical boot to complete the triptych.

This leads me to be a bit coy about the Bunion. It is a little on the small side. I state this with faint embarrassment on the basis I have endowed it with the grandiose moniker of  The Great B.B. When I asked my surgeon, Mr Dishan Singh, where it came on the spectrum of Bunion problems, he said it was "moderate". This satisfied me way back in November, but I hadn't intended, at that point in time, to share this intimate journey with you.
So I tell you this now  to avoid a Big Let-down. If you are expecting to see something straight from "Embarrassing Bodies" (never watched it; got one at home; imagination sufficient) then may I direct you back to the Daily Mail web-site. There you will find girls for ghouls aplenty.

Anyway, no photographs tonight, folks, as preparation for Bunion's close-up involves a pedicure on Friday. With no nail varnish, of course, in readiness for the op on Tuesday. So the toes will be well pruned but totally unadorned. In readiness for the ultimate pruning of  them all.

A fine time to get sentimental..

It may by now be apparent to those wordly wise that I am new to blogging. Blagging is the  nearest I have ever come to it; that is merely a play on words, and hopefully cannot be applied to these entries.
A dear friend upon hearing I was about to embark on this venture, thoughtfully sent me abook on How to Blog and I have dipped into it so I got the gist.
That is me all over, I'm afraid. .. Recipes, a quick scan through to check I have the ingredients, a quick zip through the method and off I go. (Ah, a moment of blinding insight as I write: I now fully understand  my dearest's love affair with Charlie Bigham. Mmmm... salutary.)
Same with foreign languages: get the gist and then leave a trail of bemused foreigners in my wake.(The best I can recall was asking for a take-away chicken : let's say un coq pret-a-porter did not exactly fit the bill.) This idiosyncrasy has never bothered me unduly. However, the subject of the Bunion required some dedicated research.

This involved looking at other Bunion blogs. I have to confess that I looked at two and they so terrified me that I had to go to the rear entrance of the Temple (no, not for an enema), to that little teensy weensy wine bar round the back, remember?

When this operation was first discussed with my surgeon he described two options: a local anaesthetic, or a general anaesthetic. When he mentioned the first, it was on the tip of my tongue to say, "Are you having a larf?" Fortunately I am blessed with an inbuilt sense of occasion and respect for medics, so I nodded contemplatively whilst thinking loudly, "Not bloody likely".

Why on earth would you want to be AWAKE when somebody takes a saw to your poor wee Bunion?
Dear Lord, what sort of spectator sport would that be? What happens? Do they say, "Bite on this bullet, Madam, it'll be over in a trice?"

Seemingly one is given a sedative which keeps you awake but unconcerned. I have been told that it's like having several gins. Now that's all well and good, but do these people know what happens to me when I have a couple of Hendricks? The filter fails to work that's what. My innate disinhibition which my son likes to call it, might run rampant whilst under the influence..

However, further contemplation made me think seriously, for once, that maybe a local was better than a General and carried fewer risks. So that is what I have decided. It also reduces my level of anxiety in a stange way because if it can be done it this way then I could regard it as dentistry for my foot. (Dentists are fine with me... important to note.)

You'll notice the sentimental reference to the glowing carbuncle. It's just that my research took me via the Daily Mail website where I saw a whole inglorious line-up of celebrity bunions. Now these were bunions who were celebrities in their own right. Not their fault they happened to be attached to an array of beautiful, lean and famous women. These were pictures of feet that were seriously crippled being given an airing in six inch strappy instruments of torture. Those poor abused bunions.
I look down at my bijou bunionette with something resembling affection.

In Praise of Not Getting Plastered

Good news today. I will not be increasing Damart's profits after all, with a large consignment of Granny pants.  It seems that my operation will not require a plaster cast, merely a surgical boot. This can obviously be removed at strategic moments while getting dressed: another fear allayed.
I also asked about a device for maintaining the foot in the air (above heart level). Apparently this can be achieved with the use of pillows and cushions. So simply a question of piling 'em high, I imagine. I'll keep you posted.

So today, the first day of retirement which should really be marked in some way with a little something bubbly and alcoholic, is being toasted with a cup of tea. I have decided that until I am fully mobile my body is to be a Temple (with a teeny weeny wine bar round the back).
Seven pounds in seven days ... a new diet in The Times this morning. Whilst I accept I am a sucker for a new diet regime, I actually think that 7 pounds less of me to put pressure on my feet at this critical time would be very advantageous.
Anyway, I have placed an order for all the ingredients I require which actually include red wine and Lindt chocolate. I am quite unusually excited.
I assure you this is not going to turn into one of those dieting, Bridget Jones type blogs but obviously when one is about to become laid-up one has to plan ahead foodwise. My children have kindly promised to bring supplies of home-made dishes as they fear their undomesticated father needs support.
Meanwhile his eyes have glazed over at the thought of a week's supplies of Charlie Bighams ( or Charlie Big Uns as we fondly call him). These are ready made meals of an exceptionally high calibre. However Charlie puts cals into calibre. And very yummy they are too. After a week of Big Uns I'll probably need a pair of surgical boots and maybe a zimmer frame... So I intend to ration these. I read Killjoy in my husband's eyes.

One red bauble remains...

When waving someone off at the station, I have never been one to linger. Confront the inevitable. So it is with Christmas decorations in the New Year. Painful as it is to undecorate the house, there is no point in waiting til Twelfth Night. So today was the appointed day for dismantling, deconstructing, boxing, and humping many boxes up the stairs.
Dearest husband at the merest whiff of intense household activity heads for the office to take the curse off Monday morning (applying same principle as outlined above). This doesn't trouble me in so far as this is the way it is and has been ever thus, but it is not a good day for Bunion.
The energetic forays up and down stairs have left Bunion red and bulbous, resembling, with a hint of poetic licence, the baubles that I have carefully wrapped. Could that be a sprinkling of sparkle around the big toe? More than likely, as the whole operation was conducted barefoot.
Part of the determination to return to normality is that preparations have to take place to ensure the house is ready for my post-operative return.
It was when my husband recently caught me practising my backward bum-shuffle up the stairs, and noticed me developing my upper arm strength by raising cans of Baked beans during the Ten o'clock news (what an old girl has to do to get noticed these days?) that he suggested that we brought a bed downstairs to save me the effort of negotiating stairs.
This of course, is an excellent idea. Although it did take a near miss with a can of Heinz for me  to realise it.
So I have to be ahead in order to orchestrate the rearrangement of several pieces of furniture, and turn the study downstairs into a temporary boudoir whereby my drawer for tablecloths becomes a knicker drawer. Too much information? Sorry, but one has to be practical and I have to tell it how it is. Entre-nous, I am a little bit concerned about how one gets a pair of knickers over a socking great plaster cast?
Do I have to put in a special order to Damart for whopping Mammy Brown type bloomers?
These are the sort of issues that need to be addressed; and this of course, is why I imagine this blog to become a trove of useful information such as this.

Ten Day Count Down.

Let me introduce myself: I am the person attached to the useless yet extremely painful protuberance called a bunion. There is in fact, nothing great about it, but it is truly British. And in 10 days time I intend to remove this hallux valgus with a surgical intervention.

Hallux vulgaris - I've just made up this new name because it is more descriptive.  I rather like the sound of this new one. At least I prefer it to the the more common bunion.
Bunion is such an ugly word, curiously appropriate, however, for the glowing bulbous barnacle attached to my left foot.

I now understand why when I was young, women would refer self-consciously to their "enlarged toe-joints". Whilst my metarsal bone is actually more painful than the bunion itself, I was rather tempted, briefly, to say I needed an operation on my metatarsal.
After all, this hitherto unknown bone gained fame some years ago when David Beckham injured his. I felt that if I went round saying metatarsal, I would be associated with the sporting fraternity. This was pure fantasy on my part as my rotund frame gives lie to the remotest association with sporting activity past or present.

Having been built for comfort and not speed, I have always been attracted to safe comfortable shoes.
I was a Start-rite/Clarks child who always wore shoes that fitted, and even when old enough to choose my own, always wore sensible shoes. Any experiences of even small kitten heels have resulted in painfully throbbing pieds... So you could say I have actually tried to look after these plates of meat.
But it's all in the genes.

My grandmother had a pair of champion bunions.
I remember watching fascinated as she tackled her corns, and asked her why she didn't have hers removed. The answer was that some woman down the road had had hers done and it had left her crippled.
It was an indelible image.

So the reason for writing this blog is to chronicle my experience in the hope that it is informative to others contemplating the operation.