I want the boring, pre-surgery days back

TIME has been turning; ordinary days, filled with ordinary stuff, have moved quietly into the past without my noticing.

I’ve planted apple trees, written columns, and grown my bob out. My husband’s made coffee, chopped wood, and fed the dog. My daughter’s gone to and from school, to and from school.

There have been bits of poetry, lots of prose; we’ve put the bins out, kissed, washed-up, bickered. Talked about yesterday’s TV, watched the tulips come up.

And then along came a different day, with neurosurgery in it. We’d known it was coming; felt the wave of anxiety building far, far, out at sea. Felt it travel miles across the ocean towards us, become a towering wall of water and smack us off our feet.

So now, I tell my mother on the phone, I need the old days back; the ones with the normal stuff in them that you can do without looking up at the sky and wondering why. I want days with the luxury of boredom in them, the anaesthetic of the every-day. The sedative of the hum-drum.

“Fat chance of that, love, with a hip-replacement looming,” my mother says.

“Believe me,” I say, “after the past few months, a hip-replacement will be a doddle.”

I’m trying out my husband’s “it’ll be fine approach” simply because I don’t have the energy for anything else.

“A doddle?” she says, “for who?”

“For both of us,” I say.

“But you’re not the one getting your leg chopped off,” she says, “he is.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say, “he says not to think about it.”

“And he’s not the one doing the looking-after,” she continues, “you are.”

“It’ll be fine,” I say, “he says I should just go and dig in the garden while he recovers.”

I’ve never really tried denial before, and if I think too much about how ‘it’ll be fine’ has so often presaged disaster, I won’t ever get the hang of it.

“It’s a shame you can’t ask the surgeon to put him in a coma after the op,” my mother says, “he’ll never lie down by himself. Everyone knows that man’s a maniac.”

My husband returns from hospital, where he’s just had his pre-op assessment. He limps around, cramming tennis balls into his pockets. It’s like watching a diabetic stuffing himself with donuts.

“How was it?” I ask.

“The doctors say I’m fit as a fiddle,” he says. “I’ll be bouncing out of bed after the op. There’ll be no stopping me.” He drops a sheaf of print-outs on the table and picks up his sports bag.

“What are those?” I say, picking up the print-outs.

“Just some info,” he says.

“Have you read these?” I say, scanning the pages.

“Not really,” he says, “and don’t you either.”

“An elevated toilet seat will be required for at least 6 weeks after surgery,” I read.

“We recommend that you use a three-in-one commode. In addition, you will not be able to take a bath for six weeks. Plan to use a shower or sponge bath at home. Wash your feet with a long handled sponge, and dry them with a long beach towel.”

I read on. “Use a sock-donner, long shoe-horn, and reacher for at least six weeks. Donning your shoes can also be facilitated by using elastic laces or Velcro closures.”

“I don’t like the sound of a three-in-one commode,” I say. “What is it?”

“No idea,” he says hobbling faster than I can run to the door.

“This three-in-one commode,” I say, “am I supposed to help you onto it?”

“It’ll be fine,” he shouts from the car.