Yesterday was the appointment to assess the treatment for the aneurysm. I was nervous, wondering what would happen next.
I understood all of the drawbacks, even the ones that made my blood run cold, and the risks involved, so I held my breath as the vascular surgeon appeared.
His hands were warm, and he had a gentle, kind face. He asked how I was, although he could see I was in a wheelchair, as I still can’t cope with the amount of walking needed to get around in the hospital. This place seems to get bigger every time I come here.
He listened to me, and he looked thoughtful, but no clue as to what he was thinking. He explained again at what stage the aneurysm was, and then proceeded to tell me that I was nowhere fit enough to survive the surgery needed to put me right again.
He also detailed how much time we had left before I ran out of time.
He told me they would schedule my next appointment for six months, and that he hoped I would be fit enough by then. I needed to be able to walk unaided for at least fifteen minutes, and I would also need to pass a fitness test on a treadmill.
Not if I don’t get some help with the inflamed nerve in my spine, I thought. I had already waited long enough.
Cheekily, I asked if there was anything he could do to speed that part up, and he agreed to try.
Leaving the vascular clinic, I made it as far as the lift before the realisation hit me. If I couldn’t find a way to get really fit again, this blessed aneurysm was going to kill me.
All the way home, sitting in the car, I could barely hold back the tears. I had to get fit again, but how? I was already doing physio several times a day. I determined to find out why I haven’t had an appointment to help tackle the pain, and while I was at it, I would check out a better exercise programme, one that would be better than the one I have been doing for the last twelve months…
A hell of a way to start the week, but I am determined to make this work. I mean, my life kinda depends on it now, doesn’t it?
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