A Retirement Blog by Caree Risover

 

  I don't like to feel totally helpless, but events at the other end of Europe over the past 24 hours have created that torment regardless. Somehow it seems absurd to post a blog entry updating you on my cushioned way of life whilst others are forced to fight for theirs or else leave everything to flee for safety. It is hard to appreciate just how much we take our freedom and comfortable lifestyles for granted and how ineffective we potentially are in protecting the liberties of others. There again and at moments like these it is easy to have our own "What if it were us?" moments or to feel guilt when putting something pleasurable in the diary for next month. Are our lives really going to proceed as normal or is a vile dictator on the verge of spoiling life as we know it for everybody? So much for the Universal Declaration of Human Rights when at least one of the five permanent members of the UN Security Council can just disregard its contents at will. A 21st century act

  I don't think I'm really cut out for this rest and recovery malarkey. In addition to the fact that the slightest bit of activity seems to justify a rest that's more than twice as long as the period of action, my sleep pattern too appears to have extended itself by an extra 30 minutes or more at both ends. A short walk as taken yesterday and the day before was thwarted today by Storm Dudley. That was a shame, as getting out into the fresh air, even for just a brief period of time, really energised and enlivened me although the effect was not sustained. There's a lot of truth in that "Blow the cobwebs away," saying. Unfortunately, had I ventured out today, it might have been more than cobwebs that became windswept. My attention span too is limited, so once the day's Wordle is completed, time is filled flicking through a magazine rather than reading a gripping book; chatting on the phone with friends and family or watching television, the trashier the bette

  I made the most of my Get Out of Jail Free card (after negative lateral flow tests on Days 5 and 6) to wander up the road to the postbox this afternoon. Actually I could have escaped my incarceration by doing exactly that yesterday but this egregious restriction on my liberty, unwarranted though it may have been, wasn't exactly limiting anything I was looking to do and bearing in mind it poured with rain all day on Sunday, I decided to postpone my sniff of freedom for benign weather conditions. After 11 days of indoor recuperation it was a strange feeling going out by myself, even if it was just for 10 minutes. I was interested to see how my heart might react to the sustained effort of a short uphill stroll. Fortunately I think any elevation in its rate has been more than offset by the intake of fresh air by my lungs, so the jury remains out pending the outpatient monitoring as to any ongoing effects. Importantly, it set up my confidence for more tomorrow (fair weather dependent

  Following my return home, I hadn't expected to be hounded by NHS Test and Trace. However, since Monday afternoon I have received e-mails, text messages and yesterday a telephone call. They all essentially say the same thing: You have tested positive for Covid and must isolate! Now it's not exactly likely that somebody recuperating from abdominal surgery with the added complication of an emergency admission to hospital with heart issues, particularly wants to go out and party. I can't deny, however, that a short walk in the cold sunshine or a socially distanced visitor or two might go down a treat.  However, and with time on my hands (surprise!), I thought I'd best check the actual legislation for what appears to be an outrageous situation bearing in mind that the medical consensus is that I do not have Covid when the swab taken for the contemporaneous PCR test was negative. The Health Protection (Coronavirus, Restrictions) (Self-Isolation) (England) Regulations 2020 a

  I clearly enjoyed last week's overnight stay in hospital so much, that I went back for another one on Sunday. On this occasion, however, it was far from pre-planned. I've been doing really well with my post-operative recovery and have ditched the pain killers. I've taken a peep at the surgical wounds and they are healing splendidly on the outside at least. After a wave of nausea and diarrhoea kept me awake overnight on Saturday, I was feeling generally fine if a little fatigued by Sunday morning and went back to bed to catch up on missed sleep. When I awoke my heart was pounding; so much so that I mentioned it to the youngest when we chatted, with me dismissing it as simply a sign of its strength. An hour later, sitting reading, I was aware of that heart beat again and for a moment felt whoozy. I got up and went slowly downstairs, pausing just inside the kitchen door where the same thing happened and I moved to sit down. I could feel my heart racing and out of interest de

  27 hours after my admission to hospital I was discharged. Shuffling diminutively down the long hospital corridor, I clutched a green plastic bag containing a box of opioids and a week's supply of anti-coagulant injections. The opioids have the usual warning not to drive or operate machinery whilst under their influence. I'm not sure if operating a computer counts but on the basis that the original English Opium Eater, Thomas de Quincey, could write whilst floating in a cloud of laudanum, I'm taking the view that it's worth a try. Well I'll be honest I'm not in as much pain as I envisaged and whilst my insides at this very moment are presumably lying on a butcher's block in a path lab somewhere, the surgeon did call onto the ward to tell me that he had seen nothing suspicious only confirmation of a pair of active ovaries! I confess I don't recall much of my first 15 hours in the hospital, save for the first hour of fear when, like all full blooded cowar