It happened

HELLO I'm back again talking about my back again.

Sorry for my extended hiatus*; a cocktail of painkillers really stifles your creativity, I honestly don't see why celebrities are always getting addicted to them.

Before I start my rambling there's some things I should cover:

1. I am not writing this posthumously, I survived. Big shout out to my surgeons for that.
2. My irrational fear of waking up during surgery surprisingly didn't happen.
3. I can walk, with a posture so straight that it gets admiration from old people and gets others asking 'You OK hun? Looking a bit uptight'   
4. I grew. Two inches. Take a minute to let that sink in. The view from up here is incredible.

THE HOSPITAL STAY

Waking up 

• Apparently I refused to wake up post surgery.  I don't remember this but my anesthetist tells me that I reverted back into a teenager, pushing them away and trying to go back to sleep. Old habits die hard, I pre-warned them that I love to snooze. It's my sloth heritage.
• So the second time I wake up, I thought it was the first time and panicked. It's happening like I knew it would. I'm awake during the operation. I decide to lie there, eyes closed until they say my name. But first, I'll just wriggle my toes. OK good they work. Oh my god, wait, I cant move my toes individually. Oh I could never do that. Then I get bored of waiting, so I figured I'll just peep my eyes open slightly. 
• WOW what a vision, I'm hallucinating, I can see pretty flowers and a blue sky on the ceiling (I learnt later that this was not my imagination and actually a fixture in the hospital)
• My face hurts and what is covering my face. Cue the nurse who reassures me that this isn't a dream after I've asked her for the 100th time and takes off my oxygen mask. Then she hurries to get another nurse. 
• Next thing I know, they're telling me these things happen sometimes, the hospital can't take liability for it and they're sure it won't scar.
• I'M SORRY WHAT. In my head all I can picture is Two-Face from Batman.
• Later I see that I've been cut under my eye, presumably from the eye tape. But listen, these guys have just spent hours straightening a spine, they're allowed to get a tad impatient when finishing up. It was probably a last resort to wake me up.

DAY 1

• I'm alive, I feel fantastic, not a bone in my body hurts. I've made best friends with the nurse in extensive care, she is amazed at how perky I am. I'm pretty amazed, why do people go on about recovery, pack a bag, I'm ready to go home.
• I call my mum to tell her I feel fantastic, she's slightly bewildered but relieved. Apparently I'm a bleeder and lost 2 litres so my surgery lasted longer than expected and I had a blood transfusion. (Thanks Ella, on the off chance I was given your donated blood and that)
• The surgeons come round to see me, say it went really well, my ribs didn't need to be broken, news everyone wants to hear. I'm nodding enthusiastically, trying to thank them for fixing me, not paralysing me nor killing me. In hindsight, maybe the nod wasn't good at conveying this gratitude.
• The rest of the day in intensive care was pretty chilled all things considering and then it all changed.

DAY 2

• I've been moved downstairs to the ward and this is where it starts to go downhill. 
• I'M IN AGONY. The anaesthetic has left my body and said a final goodbye by forcing me to throw up in celebration. This really isn't fun when you're purposely trying not to move any muscle in your body.
• I have my morphine button but it's obviously malfunctioning because I have never felt pain like this.
• One of the surgeons came into see me and did a sympathetic laugh saying he predicted this when I was telling them how fine I felt yesterday. I scream at him to get out and throw my pillow at him. Just kidding, I deserved it for being a cocky shit. 
• I won't go into much detail about this day because I'd rather forget it to avoid future traumatising memory recalls. 
• However I will say, It is a strong contender for the worst day of my life, competing with the dark day in the 90s when The Spice Girls broke up.

DAY 3-5

• To emphasise how difficult it was, I couldn't talk which is rare for me. The nurses were great though and tried their best to converse. One even showed me her ear infection and complained how painful it is. I guess it was to make me realise I wasn't the only one suffering or something...
• What was even less like me, was the lack of appetite. Physically I couldn't sit up to eat and two bites in and I'd be full. Kept ordering three courses every day though, gotta waste those NHS resources.
• I realise I'm moaning a lot about the pain but it all honestly, things improved dramatically after day 2 and being in my particular ward, I soon realised there were much more patients deserving of real sympathy than I was.
• So it's day five and I decide I'm going home, I act unnaturally perky trying to convince the nurse. And it works, I pass my stair test and I'm allowed to leave.

I'm going to wrap this up now as nothing significant has happened at home. The turning point for me was week 3, I know this because that's when I stopped googling 'Will I ever feel normally after scoliosis surgery again'.

Every now and again I research whether I'll be able to bend again because my toenails desperately need painting.

So now I'm at home and to give you a good comparison I would say my situation is extremely similar to uni life; the pain and aches (reminiscent to hangovers) the drugs and the lying in bed watching TV all day.

Oh and now I have a 15inch scar, I'm currently working on a good story to explain it to strangers, preferably one that makes me look all heroic and a badass.

*This apology is solely for Anouj, my blog's 'single biggest fan'

How people treat you before going into hospital vs everyday.

By nature, I'm not a hugger. Especially with my intermediate family with whom I share DNA. But as it turns out, you are hot property before you check into hospital. Everyone wants to hug me, to tell me they love me and promise they'll be the Lou to my Andy when I'm recovering.

I've lost counts the amount of times I've joked to friends and random acquaintances that the next time they'll see me I'll be taller...And then ensues the awkwardness. Bumping into them again on a dog walk, receiving compliments on my speedy recovery. One lengthy discussion later on why I am still without titanium rods infused into my spine and everyone involved is now wishing they never asked. 

It's a genuine concern I have that people think I'm a fantasist, making this whole 'wonky spine' situation up for attention. My mum is also wary that the neighbours think she has Munchausen syndrome by Proxy. 

BUT if I was giving out hypothetical Oscars for the dramatic change in attitude, it would have to be awarded to my youngest sister. 

The night before hospital, I'm truly spoilt. I get one passionate hug, a teary goodbye and a cute well-wish. Also an adorable A4 letter explaining how I'm the 'best big sister ever'. Extracts as follow;

'You make me smile uncontrollably even when I'm in a foul mood'

'You've made these past years so much better and very entertaining' 

'I think you are incredibly brave and I'm so proud of you' 

AWW sweet, at times a tad patronising but at 14 she is much more mature than I am, her prospects are way stronger. I mean, she gets up and leaves the house everyday to go to school! I'm in awe of that work ethic. 

It's lovely to know I could be of service, providing her with entertainment whilst we're locked away in the countryside. 

So, the night after my planned operation, I was understandable tired (crying in front of strangers and running around partially naked around Leeds will do that to a person) I go into the sitting room, planning to unwind in front of trashy reality TV.

But, God forbids, I've only gone and sat in the wrong place on the sofa. My sister opens the door, and sternly tells me to get up now and how I should know that that is where she sits to have her tea.

Here we go. I won't delve into the specifics here, mainly because neither of us came out looking good for arguing over a sofa seat. But I'm pretty sure she regretted proclaiming her love for me hours earlier.

Luckily I have it on paper, ready to indoctrinate her with incase she ever starts thinking she's cooler than me.

Unprecedented setbacks, unemployment and disposable pants (part II)

Here's how the planned operation day panned out.
(Feel free to skip to 4.30pm- that's where shit starts happening)

5.30am
I'm up deliriously early, so early in fact that for the first time I've escaped being awoken by the neighbour's donkey's weird jurassic wail. 

7.00am 
Bloody freezing walk from the station to the hospital. I made one tiny comment about it being a bit nippy and then get informed by my mum that it might be the last walk I ever do so I should enjoy it. Yes, that has changed my outlook on the situation. 

7.30am
The nerves are disappearing and now I'm feeling pretty pleased with all the attention I'm getting. I mean, my name is in CAPs on the whiteboard. In hindsight, I probably should have been worried when the nurse kept saying 'fingers crossed' an awkward amount of times when I walked in...

8am
My anesthetist is one cool lady. She knows all the right things to say. No longer do I think I will be secretly awake the whole time, feeling everything. She also tells me that I will be able to administer myself pain relief HA HA fools. AND I get Ket, maybe this won't be too bad after all.

11am
My irrational fear about being awake the whole time is coming back. I curse that stupid horror film I watched when I was younger... Mum is ignoring me and listening to smooth radio that's on in the background. Apparently, it's the 'soundtrack to her life' 

1pm
GOOD NEWS! I have a bed with my name on it in HDU.

2pm
I'm reminiscing about the times I used to drink and eat. Oh, I get a text from a concerned friend. Wait, no, she's sent me a pic of her lunch. She's having a veggie burger. I can't even begin to think of a sassy response to her insensitivity, the dehydration is kicking in.

2.30pm
My friend sends a worried text asking if I've gone 'in' because I've become unresponsive. No fool, I just don't want to compliment your food when my body is shutting down from the shock of not eating every ten minutes like it is used to doing on a normal day. 

3.00pm
I'm in my gown guys, it's happening. No backing out now, no turning back (pardon the pun) One quick au revoir to mum and I'm in the room before THE room AKA theatre. 

4.00pm 
Right, an hour has passed, but it's OK, I can see the surgeons in the room, I'm so close.

4.30pm
This one surgeon is literally on Tinder right now. I can see him swiping right on his iPhone. Little unorthodox but needs must I guess. Surgeons are human too right. 

5.00pm 
Look at all these important doctors come and surround my bed. I'm ready, put me to sleep guys. WAIT, no no no. And the crying begins. Mixed with laughter. But mostly crying. Something extremely rare just happened with the last patient so I'm being told to go home, which is an hour away, and my mum took my clothes. God works in mysterious, but mostly annoying, ways. 

5.30pm
So here I am, sobbing into a cheese and pickle sandwich the nurses gave to me to break my 20 hour fast. Wrapped in a blue NHS blanket and disposable pants to conceal myself.
The nurses were all extremely kind and considerate, albeit slightly worried about my mental state. I did look v.deranged. But now's not the time for vanity, I need to go and find my ride home. 

6.10pm
After walking out of the hospital, half expecting someone to try and escort me back in against my will (I can not emphasise enough here how much I looked like I was escaping) I realised my friend was in a different pick up point. This is where it gets real low, I think all is doomed after being outside for fifteen minutes in Antarctic conditions. The tears start again and I'm ready to run into the rush hour traffic. Then, I find her car, open the door, get a hug and a box of Jaffa cakes.

8.00pm
I'M HOME FINALLY. I'm feeling less dramatic at this point, and later I get told by mum that there was one plus to waiting all day; she got to listen to some cracking tunes on the radio. 

Unprecedented setbacks, unemployment and disposable pants.

Ok firstly, I am incredible naive. Yes I follow the news duhh, I've read the headlines about the NHS cancelling a record number of operations and pointless strikes blah blah but I didn't see my part in that statistic so when I got told that my operation will happen within a three month timeframe. I happily quit my job, moved back home and revelled in being able to kick it back for a couple of weeks. Needless to say, the weeks turned into months and my date kept being pushed back.

Not knowing when I would be hospitalised isn't the greatest asset an employer is looking for or so I assume... I can't say I even looked for a job. Look at it is this way, when in your adult life can you have the perfect excuse for being a bum? I love the sympathetic nods from my neighbours and strangers when I explained the story of my tragic spine.

However the Christmas period wasn't so delightful. Explaining to my old school friend's my current situation was pretty dire. Nobody wants to be that girl, moaning on about her operation* but I also didn't want to be that girl who people assumed had a mental breakdown and is now living at home avoiding Facebook and getting a job.
Such a predicament I found myself in. So the dreaded question; "Rosie! Haven't seen you in so long! What are you up to these days?"
Do I say:
A. I'm unemployed and try to move the subject on to the weather
B. I'm unemployed BECAUSE I'm having a back operation wahh wahh
C. OMG is it snowing??

I opted for B, I tried A but it always failed, people are darn insistent around the festive season.

The first cancellation was pretty standard, phone rang the night before. My mum crept into my room with her 'I-have-bad-news-distorted-smile', I was secretly hoping someone I didn't know had died, a random celebrity from the 70s perhaps.

The second cancellation, now that was MUCH more dramatic. TBC.....

*Yes, I do know that this is the sole purpose of the blog but nobody is forcing you to read it.

HOW DID I GET HERE?

To Lydia, for whom this couldn't have been possible. I love you, and I'm so grateful that you suggested I start a blog. I was minutes away from taking my third nap of the day.

'BLOGS ARE LAME'

Yes they are, for people who have jobs/lives/real interests etc. Unfortunately I have a lot of time on my hands. Too much time. So I'm joining my fellow self-indulgent, millennial fashion graduate peers and starting a fucking blog.
But here is the twist, this blog will not contain the following;

• FASHION TRENDS
• MOTIVATIONAL QUOTES
• GOOD LIFESTYLE ADVICE 
• HEALTHY RECIPES 

Instead it will consist of the following;

• MOANING 
• ANECDOTAL ACCOUNTS
• CAUTIONARY TALES 

'IS ROSIE DEAD?'

Short answer: No. 
Just because I avoid Facebook at all costs, doesn't mean that I've bitten the dust, shuffled off this mortal coil, fallen down a hole... I'm still here guys but you won't see me posing with a daiquiri or sharing cat videos anytime soon. 

I've not taken an extended hiatus from social media for ethical reasons. I wish I could say I hate how all consumed society is by it or the superficiality of it. But alas, I'm avoiding it for the simple reason that I hate seeing people have fun when I'm not having fun. 

Which leads me to the next instalment...

'WHY AM I NOT HAVING FUN?'

To answer this question, I'm going to have to take it back, throw it back to 1992 when I was a foetus. My spine decided not to follow the mainstream, it wanted to rebel against the natural course of human evolution and grew wonky. YAY.

Flash forward 23 years and I've been living at home for a year waiting for an operation to correct this. This time at home has taught me so much, for example; it is actually possible to revert to being 15 again! Who knew. I'm like Tom Hanks in 'Big' but in the reverse order... 

I know I know, I am incredibly lucky to be able to live back at home, rent free and have unrestrained access to the biscuit and crisp cupboard. But it is trying at times, especially for my parents who have to cope with an adult child who boomeranged back into their home. (And yes, I am unemployed. Not claiming benefits though, too lazy to have to rock up to the meetings every week...)

SO living at home, in the North Yorkshire moors isn't exactly where the notion of fun originated. There are some pretty funny moments though, ones that I hope I don't forget when I've rejoined society and become an ordinary adult, commuting to work and all that shit. And seeing as my memory is shocking, one cell away from emulating a fishes (Doc's words, not mine) This blog will be a reminder of the period of my life that I have entitled; 'WONKYSPINEGATE'