“Il faut marcher, marcher, marcher,” said my surgeon. So that is what I am trying to do.
If I can manage to get a nurse to come and put on my compression stockings and adjust my horrible corset in time, I try to march up and down the long corridor as often as possible before breakfast arrives.
I normally try to go up and down 20 times, but often forget how much I have done. This morning I realised rather belatedly that I can simply record my progress on my Apple Watch.
So I now know that about 20 lengths there and back is roughly three kilometres and that I took nearly 45 minutes to do this – including a stop to have my blood pressure taken and be given my medication.
The trouble with the grounds surrounding the clinic is that only one side is inspiring – the lovely little garden – while the others are dreary – carpark etc – and often not easy to walk steadily. In theory I am not supposed to go beyond the gates without signing out, but I have done so two or three times. Again, this means walking along a rather busy road, but at least one escapes the hospital environment.
On all other visits my day has been taken up with physio, but this time the ban on anything which puts a strain on my abdomen muscles means I cannot even have treatment for the sciatica in my back. So my nights are not good: I wake about every hour, have to get up and walk around before trying to get back to sleep, so I have to waste part of the afternoon catching up on sleep.