April 28th - D+70 Agent Orange’s Miracle

WARNING: This post contains a graphic surgical image. No blood though.

I’m running out of grandiose metaphors to describe my progress and journey back to fitness. Lazarus – tick. Phoenix from the flames – tick. Nelson Mandela – tick. So I am reduced to using Eddie Murphy in the film ‘Trading Places’.

Since first using the G-Trainer four weeks ago, the progress has been amazing. I gradually increased my bodyweight and combined with a punishing series of daily stretches and exercises, the improvement in flexibility and strength has been rapid. Two weeks ago, the Aircast boot was removed for good as I returned to work, and replaced with an Aircast stirrup (I’m expecting a Christmas card from Aircast Corp.) which is essentially a structured ankle brace that can be worn with shoes, and prevents my ankle from rolling over e.g. falling off a kerb, on the tube or breakdancing at a party.

Normally, the removal of the boot would mean a return to crutches but despite being tentative and a little nervous at first, I was able to walk unaided and barefoot at my first attempt (under physio supervision of course) – it was a fantastic feeling. It was at that point that I suddenly felt like Eddie Murphy’s ‘Agent Orange’ in Trading Places: “I can see! It’s a miracle!....I...I have legs…I can walk! Praise Jesus, praise Jesus!”

For my first 2 days back at work I wore the boot to commute to the office, then removed it altogether. Now, less than 2 weeks later, I am walking without any limp. My stride feels normal and not at all restricted. When no-one is looking, I sometimes do a little moonwalk across the carpet followed by a chimney sweep kick, and double-barrelled pistol shot in sheer glee at my mobility (I don’t really, but I feel like doing it).

There was however, a brief period of panic where for three or four days I was experiencing immense and sharp pain on the inside of my ankle – this was where the scan had showed additional ligament damage that the surgeon hoped would self heal through being immobilised. The alternative he said, would be keyhole surgery. I immediately feared the worst, picturing myself having to go through another bout of surgery once the lateral work had healed, this time succumbing to booze during my time off, growing a greasy beard, quitting my job and becoming a rambling alcoholic in my Brixton local: “I yooshed to play football you know.. yessh, fooball….I was rubbishhh…”. My fears were short lived – at my follow-up appointment with the surgeon assured me it was most likely due to reactivation of the ankle and foot and the daily activity it was going through. Sure enough, the pain has slowly ebbed away and I will see the surgeon again in 7 weeks.

The surgeon was also very pleased with my progress, describing me as well ahead of schedule. I have no doubt that this has largely been due to the intensive physio and the use of the G-Trainer which meant I was walking well before my Aircast was due to come off for good. I was amazed when Regan told me that most insurance companies don’t recognise it as a rehabilitative tool and won’t cover the cost of using it.

Slowly but surely, muscle tissue is returning to my legs and particularly to my left calf. Whereas four weeks ago I had the hairless leg of a young boy, I now have the hirsute leg of a skinny teenager. Progress.

A by-product of the daily exercises for my ankle and legs has been considerable soreness and tightness in my foot and calf. The solution to this was a deep tissue massage by Regan which almost brought me to tears. The only way to adequately describe the sensation was that it was as if each muscle fibre was being crushed into my shin bone, which itself was covered in small metal thorns. The extreme wincing and pained expression on my face went unnoticed (I think) and the alpha-male in me insisted on forcing out “Yes... I’m fine” through gritted teeth and a clenched jaw, whenever I was asked if I was ok. Imagine Alan Partridge trying to carry something that’s far too heavy for him, with a hernia, and being asked if he was ok – that was me.

I did have to attend my friends Dave & Laura’s wedding still wearing my ‘space boot’ (or Robo Stump as Jon R. calls it), but felt unencumbered by it after a few, ahem, social lubricants, and had a fantastic time. Next up, my brother’s wedding in Yorkshire this weekend, followed by Stevo’s stag do in Barcelona next weekend. I think I might keep the stirrup on for now.

And finally, my surgeon sent through a photo of my ankle mid-operation, which gives me a ghoulish sense of pleasure. Not in an erotic way, you understand, just as a reminder of how far I’ve come on the long road back to fitness. Opinion has been divided, with some people (mostly men) describing it as “cool”, “mad” and “mental” and some people (mostly women) describing it “sick” and “disgusting” and me as “weird”. There’s also some consternation at the complete absence of blood, with suggestions that I might be extra-terrestrial. Make your own mind up (and check out the split in the middle of the tendon):

For reference – my current rehab exercises:
Daily
1. Balance on left leg on uneven surface, rotating right leg: 5 x 20 secs
2. Calf raises, 70% of weight on left leg: 3 x 20 reps
3. Two leg squats: 3 x 20 reps
4. Calf stretch – leg straight: 3 x 30 secs
5. Calf stretch – right leg bent: 3 x 30 secs
6. Theraband stretch – inverse: 3 x 12 reps
7. Theraband stretch – lateral: 3 x 12 reps
2/3 times a week:
1. Thigh stretches: 6 x 15 secs per leg
2. Hamstring curls with ball: 3 x 15 reps
3. Leg press: 3 x 12 per leg, ~50kg
4. Bike: 20 mins at ~130 bpm

Stats & highlights:
Days back at work: 10
Current reading – Provided You Don’t Kiss Me: 20 Years With Brian Clough
Music: This Charming Man (The Smiths)
Reasons to be cheerful: 3

April 9th - D+51 I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

A lot has happened since my last post, and reviewing where I was 4 weeks ago, a lot of progress has been made. Around 3 weeks ago (4 weeks post-op), I was able to start walking without crutches within my Aircast boot. The extra mobility felt amazing in comparison to previously having to carry and fumble with crutches.

My physiotherapy has also progressed significantly – initially I had exercises to flex my ankle vertically and horizontally to reactivate the ligaments, tendon and muscle. Along with this were a number of static or low movement strengthening exercises to rebuild the leg muscles, particularly the hamstrings and quads. This has all now progressed to extended stretching exercises for legs an ankle (my flexibility has improved greatly) and additional strengthening exercises including using the leg press.

Most significantly of all, last week I started using the G-Trainer, a zero-gravity treadmill designed by NASA. This allows me to start ‘walking’ far earlier than normal, by creating a weightless environment from the waist down (see photos). Under Regan’s supervision, the weight was adjusted to around 20% of my bodyweight – and I started walking barefoot. It was a strange and unsettling experience, particularly since my left side is now very flat footed and over-pronates severely – I am essentially learning how to walk again. Progress has been quick; today I was walking at moderate to fast pace carrying 55% of my bodyweight.

The next steps are for the Aircast boot to come off next week, replaced by an Aircast ankle stirrup (I’m doing my bit for Aircast Corp. during the recession). Frustratingly, this means a return to crutches at first as my ankle will be highly vulnerable and less support.

One note of caution for anyone else who suffers a similar injury – last week, I hit the wall mentally and it will probably happen to you too. Until now I had been very matter of fact and positive about the 6-month slog ahead of me but it got the better of me last Wednesday. Despite the progress, I had set my expectations unrealistically high, expecting to be running soon. Instead, I was cautiously taking flat footed steps on the G-Trainer. Coupled with the sunny weather outside and the sight of lithe blonde joggers around Clapham Common, I suddenly felt frustrated and angry at having such a long recovery ahead of me and being unable to join in. This is, apparently, quite normal. I’m now determined again. Determined to be running in a month. Determined to be football training in late July and playing again in August. In a couple of weeks, I will be getting a personal trainer too. My goal for the end of the summer is to be bigger and stronger, and carved from mahogany.

Other news:
Suit fitting
My brother, his other best man and I had second suit fittings for the wedding. The tailor was highly amused by the apparatus on my leg, making a glib remark about “one flared leg” on my new trousers. He did however, describe my shoulders as “powerful”. That's good enough - when he measure my bakcside last time, he said "Ooh, you're not fitting into your last trousers anymore, are you sir?".

Stag do
Four days in Puerto Banus that were an outstanding tribute to the stamina and endurance that a male body can produce when it has to. Watching the game of volleyball in the pool from sun lounger was frustrating but the Aircast came into its own on nights out, attracting plenty of useful attention. Even more so, when I replied “Shark attack” to anyone who asked what had happened.

Albion Semi-Final
My team (http://www.albionfc.co.uk/) had a cup semi-final which I watched from the touchline with a cantankerous demeanour. We lost 5-2. I'd rather not say anymore. Except that my mate Dave managed to quite comically, break his wedding ring finger into a crazy shape - 2 weeks before his wedding.

Stats & highlights
Days until Dave & Laura’s wedding: 2
Current reading: On Chesil Beach
Music: One Day Like This (Elbow)

Liver & brain cells destroyed in last 7 days: ~1.5 billion

March 23rd – D+34 The Long Walk To Freedom

“Thou shalt enlarge my steps under me: and my ankles shall not fail.” Day by day, I am rising, Lazarus like, to be reborn as a mediocre Sunday league footballer. Not bad for an agnostic. The progress over the last two weeks has been exceptionally pleasing. Probably not enough to cite the Bible and compare myself to a man resurrected by Jesus, but who cares?

I have now almost weaned myself off crutches altogether, allowing me to hobble short distances in my pressure boot. Just over a week ago, I found myself awkwardly using my left crutch to support my left ankle and using a kind of hopping gait which meant I only needed one crutch. This was made a lot simpler when I visited my physio, Regan, and she politely pointed out I was using the crutch on the wrong side. “Ah... of course” I muttered sheepishly.

Beyond recognising my alarming lack of common sense, I was given a number of exercises to do daily (with beautifully drawn diagrams*) to rebuild some basic strength in my legs which have wasted considerably. Notwithstanding the likely challenge from friends that my legs were never particularly muscular in the first place, they were at least a sufficiently coherent collection of muscle fibres to constitute rounded thighs and calves – if not trunks of oak, at least healthily thick branches of willow. Now, however, they resemble several autumnal sapling twigs, rattling around inside an oversized sleeve. The gym ball based exercises and static cycling are designed to rebuild the hamstrings and quads, and it seems, to give me cramp. It’s all progress.
(* I was specifically instructed not to mock the drawings)

So ‘walking with boot’ is another milestone reached. I pondered some of the upcoming milestones on the road to full recovery (that long walk to freedom... ahem), and came up with the following:

• Running on G-Trainer (a zero gravity treadmill) – 5-6 weeks post-op
• Running on a normal treadmill - ???
• Leg press and lunges - ???
• Avoiding dancing / injury at Dave & Laura’s wedding – 8 weeks
• Embarrassing dancing at Sat & Charlotte’s wedding – 11 weeks
• Running on hard ground – 14 weeks
• Embarrassing dancing at Steve & Laura’s wedding (optional tie around forehead) – 20 weeks
• Football training (no ballwork) – 22 weeks?
• Kicking a football! – 26 weeks?
• Full football - Pre-season tour – 28 weeks
• First 50/50 tackle – 28 weeks + 1 day
• Back in hospital – 29 weeks

Stats & highlights
Days until brothers stag do: 8
Current reading: Inverting The Pyramid
Music: Redemption Song (Bob Marley)
On request (cheers Keeno) I have added some new stats:
Number of times I’ve wanted to scratch my leg beneath the cast/boot: Approx. 792
Number of Google searches in last week: Approx. 56
Top 10 Google searches (work-safe version):
1. ‘liverpool+Manchester+united+transfer+spending’
2. ‘london+weather+forecast’
3. ‘liverpool+versus+Manchester+united+highlights’
4. ‘buy+private+islands’
5. ‘puerto+banus+restaurants’
6. ‘puerto+banus+bars’
7. ‘comic+relief+Kilimanjaro+climb+faked’ (0 results – it’s a conspiracy)
8. ‘how+to+make+a+mojito’
9. ‘pamplona+bulls+running’
10. ‘doves+tickets+brixton’

March 11th - D+22 The Audacity of Hope

‘The journey of a thousand miles must begin with just one step’. Lao Tzu clearly had reconstructive ankle surgery at some point in his life. I saw the specialist yesterday (3 weeks post-op) and I am now tentatively taking my own steps on my emaciated ankle.

I guess the next six months will be about small victories and yesterday was rich in them. Whilst waiting for my appointment, an elderly lady on the sofa next to me, leaned over, pointed at my Aircast clad foot and said “Oooh, is that the ‘Beckham Boot’?”. I puffed out my chest, spread myself a little wider across the sofa and replied nonchalantly “Yes, I guess it is...” So this is what it’s come to – attempting to claim some reflected glory in the fact that I have the same widely available medical appliance as one once worn by a famous footballer (and one that I dislike too). A miniscule victory.

The news from the follow-up was promising though – the joint looks to have recovered well and by the middle of next week, I should be fully weight bearing (FWB) although still with two crutches. In 3 weeks time, I can take the Aircast boot off at night and in 5 weeks time I can take it off all together. Most importantly, I specifically asked the specialist about my likely mobility for my brother’s stag trip to Puerto Banus – he estimated that I could be walking in the boot by then so it should not cause any problems. He went on to say: “You will want to keep the boot on at all times though. You know, stag dos ... a few drinks, high jinks and all that...” I suppressed a smile as he hastily added “Not that I’m suggesting anything of course!” We understood each other perfectly.

My first visit to my physiotherapist is scheduled for tomorrow, with a detailed referral from the surgeon. Apparently, for the next two weeks, the therapy must be ‘passive’ on my part – which means I’m not allowed to actively move my ankle. Instead my foot will have to be manipulated by the hands of my physio while I lie back in comfort. It’s a shame I don’t have a foot fetish. NB: I’ve just re-read the last couple of sentences and it’s clear that I’ve spent too much time indoors and on my own recently.

I am now back in London, safely ensconced in my own home again which is pleasant. I’ve devised an ‘ankle safe’ dumbbell workout to take the edge off the small paunch I’ve acquired; this morning, I managed to burn 950 calories... which I guess is about half of the enormous supper I had last night. Small victory. A daily to-do list keeps me occupied. I’m an obsessive list maker and in my current predicament I find it provides a reassuring structure and purpose to my day which enables to me to tick off important personal errands such as: ‘order new curtains’, ‘paint bannisters’ and ‘buy wedding presents’. All small victories.

Stats & highlights:
Days until brother’s stag do: 21
Days until Dave & Laura’s wedding: 29
Current reading: Anyone Can Do It
Music: Walking Away (The Egg)
New films watched: 1 (Zodiac)

March 4th - D+15 ‘RoboCop 4: The Crippled Cyborg’

Rejoice! Yesterday my plaster was removed, 2 weeks after the op. I gave an inordinately loud groan of pleasure as the nurse cut open the cast and released my twig like limb; sufficiently loud in fact for the nurse to eye me suspiciously as if I might have some sort of niche hospital related fetish.


My pleasure was short lived though. My left calf is covered in saggy skin with much of the muscle underneath having wasted away. My ankle has virtually no flexibility and no strength at all. There was also a significant amount of dried blood in the area, presumably from Towel Rail-Gate (see Feb 22nd). I was slightly bemused by the arrow drawn in permanent marker down my left shin, which was applied pre-op to avoid any confusion in the operating theatre. And even more bemused when I realised the lower half of my leg had been shaved - and not with a Gillette Venus judging by the uneven stubble.


The good news though, is that the incision has healed well and all seems to have gone according to plan. More will be known when I visit the surgeon next week. I was then fitted for an Aircast boot, a plastic version of my cast that looks like RoboCop’s lower leg. This is inflated and deflated using a small pumping bladder. For a few seconds I had flashbacks to my youth, recalling Reebok Pump basketball boots and my first pair of Nike Airs.

At this stage, I had assumed that I would now be able to start bearing weight, perhaps even with just one crutch. Unfortunately, it became clear that I had been very over optimistic. The nurse gave me the low-down on the next stage - the cast will stay on for 4-6 weeks essentially just as a more comfortable and removable version of my plaster cast; it has to be worn most of the time and always at night; I still need to keep my leg elevated much of the time; and most importantly, I cannot put any weight on it and need to use both crutches.

What I do need to start doing is just touching the base of the boot to the floor as I walk and rolling it forward without putting any weight on it. I gave this some practice with the nurse watching and must admit, it was an unsettling experience. I had no confidence in touching my foot to the floor and was terrified my ankle would somehow give way, even though I wasn’t putting weight on it. With a bit more effort though, it has become more intuitive. It has now become brutally clear to me just how long it is going to take to fully recover, starting with several weeks before I can even walk.

Undeterred and somewhat laughably, I have recently invested a couple of hours putting together updated playlists for my iPod labelled ‘Gym’ and ‘Running’. Highlights include Magic Carpet Ride (Steppenwolf), Highway to Hell (AC/DC) and The Reflex (Duran Duran). These might actually be retro kitsch remixes by the time I’m exercising again. I am unashamed.

My plan is to return to London on Sunday. Although still fairly immobile, it makes practical sense to be able to get to appointments with my surgeon and physiotherapist. My mum, of course, was visibly dismayed at the news having enjoyed playing mother to me again for the past 2 weeks; I probably haven‘t been this dependent on her since before puberty. She even bought me new underwear from M&S yesterday, clearly unaware that a fully grown man finds this a little embarrassing and somewhat emasculatory. I’m starting to feel like James Caan in ‘Misery’. Sometime between now and Sunday, I expect to wake in the middle of the night to find my mum standing at the end of the bed, smiling maniacally and framed by a flash of lightning, preparing to smash my ankle to pieces with a heavy duty rolling pin.

An observation, completely detached from all of this, is the current Comic Relief challenge to climb Kilimanjaro. I read a few weeks ago that several B-list celebrities are climbing Kili to raise money for the charity event, including Chris Moyles, Gary Barlow and two members of Girls Aloud. The idea that my 7-day ordeal last October could be completely undermined by the gluttonous and slothful Moyles reaching the summit, made me feel physically sick. However, a rudimentary Google News search reveals that Cheryl Cole has been crying, Fearne Cotton is struggling with altitude sickness and Aleasha Dixon tumbled down the mountain whilst urinating behind a bush. I feel better now. Is that wrong?

Highlights & stats:
Cups of tea per day: 4
Days until brother’s stag do: 28
Current reading: Free Lunch
Music: True Skool, Coldcut / Roots Manuva
New films watched: 1 (Death Note)

February 28th - D+11 The Smell of Victory

My 'embroidered cage' (see Feb 22nd post)

WARNING: The following post contains graphic descriptions of personal hygeine that may make you view the author with contempt.

World Exclusive!: Nothing has happened. A friend castigated me recently for the lack of regular activity on my blog and I pointed out that these first two weeks with plaster on have been a curious twilight zone where time stands still and nothing of any note happens. I plan to write this blog until I start playing football again in late August (that‘s right, literature fans - 6 more months of bilge!) during which time, I am reasonably confident something interesting will happen. I also hope it will usefully chart my recovery for others who have the same operation; I have come across a couple of other blogs that proved useful to me.

My leg plaster is removed on Wednesday, two weeks post op, and I will be put into an aircast - one of those plastic boots that Gerrard and Rooney wore to protect their metatarsals. That’s world famous footballers Steven Gerrard and Wayne Rooney. The difference is that the Sunday tabloids won’t be taking pictures of me hobbling out of my mock Tudor mansion to get into my Bentley. The aircast should be on for 4-6 weeks but is removable for physio and bathing (I pity the poor nurse who has to remove my plaster cast to face my withered limb, unwashed in 2 weeks). During this time I have my brother’s stag trip in Marbella and a friend’s wedding to attend, looking like a cheap cyborg - quite a ladykiller. Perhaps I could pass myself off as a professional footballer?…

So there really isn’t much to write about at the moment unless I start giving a daily update on my personal hygiene. And while I’m on the subject, I seem to have developed superhuman body odour that is relentless in the face of repeated showering. I’m sure this must be some sort of medical condition as a result of doing nothing but eating home cooked food and literally sitting on the sofa all day. I’m mildly disgusted by the acrid and pungent smell I permanently emit. Even on Kilimanjaro after 10 days without a shower, I don’t recall smelling so strongly of what can only be described as spiced petrol. I have found myself absent-mindedly sniffing my armpits during the day like some sort of wild chimpanzee or lazy adolescent curious at the smell of his own flatulence. I am also re-growing my luxurious ‘mountain beard’ although at the moment its ragged appearance gives me a startling likeness to Adrien Brody in ‘The Pianist’.

So, I’m a hopping, one-legged and bearded slob, who looks like a WWII refugee and smells like a canister of 4-star spiked with garam masala. Mothers, lock up your daughters…

Highlights & stats
Cups of tea per day: 3
Days until plaster removed: 3 long, long days
Current reading: Cat’s Cradle
Music: Beggin’ (Pilooski Re-edit), Frankie Vallie & The Four Seasons
New movies watched: 3 (Brief Encounter, The Player, The Rainmaker)

Feburary 22nd - D+5 The Descent of Mann

I was dreading this. The inevitable onset of lethargy and a jelly like mass around my waistband. It’s hardly surprising since I’ve spent the last 5 days sitting on a sofa, the main ‘activities’ of the day being mealtimes and periodic trips to the bathroom (which take a surprising amount of effort – doing anything on one leg requires considerable concentration and balance control).

I’m obliged to keep my leg elevated for the first 2 weeks to prevent pain and infection which further limits me to the same sofa which has cushions and pillows arranged accordingly. Which means my entire world consists of a 15ft by 20ft room with occasional trips to the bathroom. Or should I say ‘latrine’. For this is starting to feel like a prison. True, I have my mum’s finest food, tea and snacks delivered to my lap but I’m confined nonetheless. It’s a gilded cage – or rather, an embroidered cage.

And just like a ‘correctional facility’ or ‘penal institution’, I had my own unsavoury episode in the shower block (ok, the ensuite shower room). Fortunately, there was no-one third party involved in my mishap. Sans crutches as I stepped out of the shower, I leant on a towel rail for support. Underestimating my own weight (or strength?...) the rail promptly came away from the wall bringing fair sized chunks of plaster with it. I held the rail in my hand and looked at it for a couple of seconds before realising I’d put all of my weight on to my plastered foot – which was now in agony. I dropped the rail, cursed and hobbled out of the bathroom.

Something didn’t feel right under the plaster. Nonetheless, I dressed and hobbled downstairs to my cushioned cell, calmly telling my mum that I’d detached some of her bathroom furniture from the wall. As I lifted my leg up to the sofa, I felt something warm and damp squelching under the plaster. Blood. I was pretty sure I’d burst a stitch. Unfortunately, I have prior experience of bursting stitches under a plaster cast thanks to an unsavoury episode in Tenerife some years ago. And this felt the same. I plugged myself with painkillers as my brother went to upstairs survey the damage.

The upside of my ‘incarceration’ however is the ample opportunity to make inroads into the mini skyscraper of books transported from London. As well as having plenty of time to organise stag-dos, arrange pre-season football tours and other personal errands. Daily ‘visiting time’ has also provided light relief with my 9-year old nephew popping round regularly with his PlayStation football game. Yesterday I thrashed him 11-1. And then 7-2. As I said to his dad, it’s important that he learns how to take defeat.

So here I am in my own personal prison. Lying on the sofa worrying about my expanding waistline, turning away larger portions of home cooked food and bemoaning the lack of football on TV during the daytime. I imagine it’s exactly how Mandela felt.

Highlights & stats:
DVDs watched: 1 (The Departed)
Cups of tea per day: 5
Pills per day: 22
Stag weekends missed: 1
Days until plaster removed: 8
Current reading: A Most Wanted Man
Music: Rags to Riches, Tony Bennett

February 18th 2009 - D+1 "We can rebuild him..."

I feel euphoric. That’s not a personal opinion, it’s medical vernacular. According to the leaflets accompanying the cocktail of painkillers that I’m filled with, ‘euphoria’ is a likely side effect. And I do feel incongruently pleased with life.

I finally had my ankle operation yesterday. Having had the original appintment postponed by two weeks due to snow(!!!), I had a peculiarly macabre sense of excitement and anticipation at being sliced open. I imagine it’s the same ghoulish glee a serial killer feels prior to finishing a victim. But really, I was keen to get it out of the way so I could start on my recovery. With weddings and stag weekends on the way, I’m not enamoured by the thought of dragging a useless limb around dancefloors like a bad impersonation of Verbal Kint in The Ususal Suspects.

Nevertheless, my surgeon clearly thought I was a tad unusual when I asked if he could take a photo of my exposed ankle joint mid procedure. His quizzical look prompted an explanation: “Just morbid curiosity, you know, and something to use as a motivator in recovery.” He raised an eyebrow and laughed nervously, probably making a mental note to self – ‘if there’s a spate of surgically themed murders in London, report this guy to the cops’.

Everything seemed to go remarkably smoothly. Arriving at The Hospital of St. John & St. Elizabeth at 7am, my surgeon and anaethetist visited my room to explain what was going to happen. The surgeon’s explanation was more appealing than the anaethetist who highlighted some of the potential side effects of going under: dizziness, sore teeth, vomiting, death.

Shortly after discussing the likelihood of death (about one in a million apparently), a nurse handed me a gown and a pair of thin paper underpants. Yes, paper underpants. I was beginning to wonder if the anaethetist had missed a scatological risk from his briefing – massive potential for a loss of dignity. I was being wheeled into theatre at about 9.30am and found myself waking up around an hour and a half later. Confused, I thought I was still waiting for my op and sat up only to see my foot encased in plaster and bandages. I looked at the nurse next to me. “Will I be able to dance the tango?” I croaked. She gave me a weary and polite smile, but declined to respond. She probably hears that gag twice a day.

Half an hour later, I was in my bed devouring the enormous breakfast I had ordered. I was inordinately pleased that I hadn’t vomited. A friend who recently had knee surgery had managed to fill two cardboard bowls expelling the contents of his bowels post-op. His shame was compounded by the grimacing “fit nurse” holding the receptacles to his dribbling face.

The next few hours were hazy and surreal. I drifted in and out of sleep, trying to read whilst awake and having strange dreams and hallucinations in sleep and semi-consciousness. My blood pressure and pulse were checked regularly, seemingly by a different nurse every hour. “I don’t feel any pain at all” I said to one, “Did they give me some painkillers in post-op?”. She smiled. “Oh yes. You’ve had all sorts! Particularly morphine.” No wonder I felt so good/strange. By early afternoon, I had already made several garbled phone calls to friends and family, delivering rapid one-minute rhetorics before passing out again.

Later on, my surgeon popped in to let me know that all had gone according to plan. My peroneal tendon had been flattened so was stitched back into a tubular structure. Small metal pins were used to secure the retinaculum ligament back over my tendon. Finally, sutures were used to reinforce this and reconstruct the lateral ankle ligaments to stabilise the joint. “Oh, and I took some photos for you”, he said on his way out. Lovely.

Having popped enough brightly coloured pills to make Shaun Ryder blanch, my final medication for the day was an injection into my stomach to prevent blood clotting overnight. The nurse commented on how eagerly I was watching ‘The Silence Of The Lambs’ whilst this was administered - probably adding to my reputation as the weird sicko in Room 4.

I managed a few hours of sleep, more often finding myself in a strange no-mans land between sleep and awake, having more strange visions and dreams. It probably wasn’t helped by the nurse who measured my vitals during the night and told me my heart rate was worringly low. I concluded it was the blood thinning injection.

After another enormous breakfast, I was discharged this morning to return in 2 or 3 weeks to have my cast removed. My brother drove me to my mum's home in Kettering, trying to engage with my jumbled stream of consciousness. During a pause on the motorway, he suddenly said “So, I guess that’s the end of football for you then.” I glared at him. “What do you mean? Of course not. It’s the pre-season tour in six months. That’s my target.” He laughed. “You’re an idiot.” I like to think it was meant as a backhanded compliment on my bravery.

This wasn’t the end of it. As I finished my last mouthful of the vast lunch my mum had cooked, she said coyly “I think it’s time you stopped playing football”. I bit my tongue for a few seconds. “I’ll be fine in a few months, this was just bad luck”. She sighed and started reeling off the number of times she’d heard me say that before. I tuned out.

Finally, my eldest brother came over for dinner later on. After he’d settled himself on the sofa, he said “Well, that’s the end of your football days then.” I erupted. “Is this some sort of conspiracy???”

Highlights & stats:
DVDs watched: 0

Cups of tea per day: 5

Hours of football watched: 0.5 (Luton Town vs. Brighton)

Current reading: Fiesta – The Sun Also Rises
Music: Let Your Love Flow, The Bellamy Brothers
Annoying: Trying to have a shower on one leg.
Pleasing: The artificial high from my painkillers. I’ve got to get some more of these.

Early December 2008 - Diagnosis

Unconvinced by the NHS diagnosis, I booked an appointment with a private physio I had used before and trusted (Regan at Balance Physiotherapy in Clapham). It was back to square one – a wincing and concerned expression on her face at the abnormal shape and colour of my ankle, a reaction I was now familiar with. After a thorough assessment, she asked me to run barefoot across the gym, an experiment which lasted two steps. I was in agony. She suspected tendon and ligament damage, and potentially an internal fracture, and referred me to a specialist at the London Foot & Ankle Centre.

Finally, two days before Christmas 2008, I saw the specialist at LFAC. Within minutes and using a simple test, he diagnosed a sublaxed peroneal tendon. An x-ray and MRI scan confirmed it – there was damage to the peroneal tendon which runs on the outside of the ankle; the ‘belt’ of ligament holding it in place (the retinaculum) was ruptured; and the lateral ankle ligaments needed reconstruction. The medial ligaments were also damaged at their anchor points to the bone. The surgeon explained that I needed an operation that would open up the outside of my ankle to make the necessary repairs. This will mean two weeks in plaster, four to six weeks in an aircast boot, a return to running after 3 months and if all goes well, playing football again in six months – August 2009! There is a standard 5% chance that I won’t be able to play sport again, but I prefer not to think about that. I couldn’t believe one tackle had done so much damage! I had put in what Big Ron would call “a trademark reducer”..... on myself.

October 26 2008 - "Give me a minute, I'll run it off."

Full of euphoria having successfully negotiated the Machame route to the summit of Kilimanjaro the previous week, I played only my 3rd game of football of the Sunday League season. I felt invincible, invigorated by my high altitude fitness and impassioned by the usual pre-match tub-thumping tune - 'Smack My Bitch Up'. My 'invincibility' lasted approximately 70 minutes when I went sliding in for a loose ball at full stretch. As luck would have it, an opposing player was simultaneously attempting the put the ball in the back of the net from 30 yards with alarming fury, as if the ball itself had just insulted his mother's honour. With my left foot right behind the ball on impact, I felt it snap back in excruciating pain.

It didn't feel good and looked like the sort of ankle you'd expect to see on an elderly shopper sitting outside the Derngate Centre in Northampton (see above). I hobbled off the pitch and tried to run it off...some urgent medical attention was required. Yes, that's right - a small bag of ice, some Thai food and several pints of lager in the post-match local were exactly what the doctor would have ordered (assuming the doctor was Alex Higgins). Unsurprisingly, the beef massaman didn't contain magical joint healing spices although the Kronenbourg was sufficiently analgesic to ease my journey home.

A visit to the doctor the next day was worryingly curt. I hobbled in and took my sock off. He winced, handed me an x-ray form and urged a swift visit to St. George's. Unfortunately, this short episode was a sufficient window for a parking attendant (or Jobsworth Blood Sucking Nazis as I prefer to call them) to ticket me for parking on a single yellow line. A conversation with the said Nazi yielded little: apparently, the sight of me hobbling out of the surgery, visibly in pain and clutching an x-ray form was insufficient reason to park directly outside. The dispute with Lambeth Council is ongoing (NB: I drive an automatic so didn't need to use my left foot).

The visit to St. George's was less curt but with a similarly frustrating outcome: 1-hour wait, hobble into assessment room, take off sock, nurse winces and says cheerily "If that's not broken, I'll eat my hat" before advising “you'll probably have to wait several hours to be seen”. Three hours later: hobble into emergency room, take off sock, doctor winces and sends me for an x-ray. Another hour later: doctor frowns at x-ray, declares it inconclusive but that the ankle is not broken, hands me a pair of crutches and books me in for physio the following week.

To cut a long and tedious story short, after several weeks of NHS physio, I was given the all clear and told I would be running within a week or two (mid December). I knew my ankle didn’t feel right. The whole joint felt as if it had been encased in tar and left to dry, and the tendon on the outside was periodically ‘flicking’ around my ankle bone accompanied by piercing pain. And I was making it worse by running in the gym as part of my ‘recovery’. I pointed this out to the hospital staff and was told it would clear up in due course...