I’m getting seriously stir-crazy now.
I can stroll casually about the ward (which I used to great effect this morning).
I don’t get head-aches any more (not counting the tight feeling of the staples, but they’re coming out in a couple of hours anyway).
I’ve got a window bed and am now bored of training sparrows to dive-bomb people in the square below my window.
I don’t enjoy listening to the git in the bed oposite watching a portable telly (QI damn him!) until midnight and then spending the rest of the night waking us all up by yelling at the loony screamer (who can’t help it) on the ward.
It’s no fun cadding nurses any more: I’ve been here long enough to become well-known by all shifts so they all know what to expect.
Southampton, much as it has a fantastic hospital, just ain’t home no more.

So, it’s just as well I’ve been told I can go home today then, isn’t it? WOOHOO! I feel I could conga all the way up the M3 to home! No idea what time it’ll be but not late cos the pharmacy (who will issue me with a whole new sackload of pills) closes at midday on a saturday so there hopefully won’t be any major holdups this time

If you’ve ever read Wind in the Willows and remember the particularly emotional chapter in which Mole rediscovers his old home, you may get a inkling of how I feel right now. Same goes for Tammy, who’s been a real brick and had undertaken a lot more suffering than I over the last 3 weeks.

Home! We bloody can’t wait a minute longer!

My parents have got a highly refined knack for taking the piss out of me, for which I’m aways grateful. Examples from yesterday’s visit:

Dad - ‘Here, I’ve got more hair than you now! Baldy!’
Mum - ‘Why have they given you orange pyjamas? You look like you belong in Guantanamo bay!’

I know, shocking isn’t it? I just hope they remember that I’ll be choosing their nursing home one day.

In more important news, I had a chat with the docs and the nice physio lady this morning. I’m quite capable of shuffling to the lav unaided, they’re happy with my description of my home environment, my staples are deffo coming out today (which will stop my head throbbing so much) and they recommend I spend aout 60 to 70 percent of my day upright (sitting or walking) so i get used to how I feel in different positions. Think they’re thinking of kicking me out again soon. Still, at least this time they’ve found _and_ fixed my brain, so no worries about going home too early. I’ve been told I’m only allowed to potter about for the next couple of weeks. With further questioning from me, I discover that pottering about means:

Short strolls to lav to attend to toilette
No gardening of any sort
No lifting/carrying of bulky items
No racing to the front door if the bell rings
Ideally staying on one floor; stairs only if unavoidable

I can see I’m likely to go mad over the next two weeks. Still, after that time I should be able to very gently give the garden the good digging over it so badly needs, ready for planting out at Easter.
I have lots of similar goals to look forward to, all of a type of activity that I previously took for granted. And no, sex in the bath is NOT on the list

My Brane ‘Urts!

Making reasonable progress, apparently, although I have to be told on a fairly regular basis (i.e. whenever I burst into tears out of sheers frustration) that it’s going to take a long time before I’m completely recovered.

I just want to go home and recover there. i can look at our fabbo garden and day-dream about what we shall grow this year. I can have some fuss from our cats. I won’t have to be kept awake by a chorus of snorers, gurglers and screaming loonies. Think I gotta stay here a few days more so they can take the staples out of my skull.

What I’d really like above all else, though, is a nice white knotted hankie to go on my hideously disfigured head. I do have some piccies; when i feel a bit braver and can get ftp access, I share them with y’all.