I’ve always enjoyed the festive season; mind you, every season tended to be festive for me, as before I was an invalid (just look at that word!) I was a wild one. But I didn’t enjoy this one because last month, on Friday the 13th, I was taken to A&E in an ambulance and whisked into surgery for an emergency operation on an epidural abscess. Had I not finally caved in and admitted I wasn’t tough enough to never, ever need medical attention, I would probably have lived for no longer than 48 hours.
For about a week after the operation, everything was a beautiful blur due to the amount of superb drugs I’d been given before and after my spinal surgery (‘It’s like a five-star hotel here – I don’t ever want to come home!’ I excitably, if inaccurately, messaged my husband from intensive care) but I gradually pieced my missing week together, albeit foggily.
I had crawled from my flat at around 5pm, lain on the floor of my landing and cried, ‘Help me! Please help me!’ My lovely neighbours…
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