They tell me I can do things I have never achieved in my life

Well, I’m here in the land of the living, thank goodness. I admit I did entertain some negative thoughts on the way down to the theatre – I think many people do that - but just as I was going under I thought of all the people who had wished me well. I had been quite touched by the number of well-wishers.

So I am here but I won’t say I am in one piece, as that’s not quite correct.

I am missing the top of my femur and the portion of bone that held it in my pelvis.

No sad loss. They were dead and crumbly and were the reasons why, progressively over the last two years, I have sworn loudly and frequently with pain and walked like Quasimodo’s disabled aunt.

Actually I probably did not walk as well as she did.

I have taken no pleasure in shopping, walking, standing, sleeping – you name it. If it involved using my hip, I would pop another pain-killer and grimace my way through the activity.

I have been in my (our) new house for a year, yet I have not walked around my new neighbourhood nor, when Oli has been away, have I taken the dogs for much more than the briefest of walks – weathering their disappointed, reproachful looks as we quickly turn round and head back.

The check-out women at Leclerc’s supermarket have rallied round, appreciating that I could not stand, unload my trolley and then repack into bags in under 30 minutes. How sad is that?

In the two months pre-op, I decided to give us all (not Oli) a break and Monsieur Phillips can now navigate Leclerc’s without aid of a map or safety-net.

Initially, I have to say the image I had of post-operative recuperation was somewhat more pleasant that the reality, for it was briefly harsher than I expected – actually nothing bloody like it, if you’ll excuse my French.

I had visions of slow-mo, abandoned, pain-free gambols in poppy fields and swaying grass. They told me the pain of the old hip would be gone as soon as I was operated upon.

Instead of poppy fields, I had the grey lino of the hospital floor seeming to beckon me as I undertook a knuckle-whitening venture down the corridor with what the French describe as English crutches – trust the English to invent something so unromantic.

I will give the inventor this: the crutches or canes, which reach to the forearm, are vital and they enabled me to undertake a slow but pain-free pace, while looking like Quasi’s auntie with a back-brace (progress, albeit minimal).

It transpired most of my perceived problems were in my mind for each day was a little better and, after being very scared of falling over and having to go through the whole operation saga again, I managed to overcome the mind-over-matter battle and became more confident.

I’ve got a lovely consultant who speaks and delights in speaking perfect English and he explained the positions I must not adopt in the first four weeks, rendering Oli’s post-operative image a no-go area.

He also explained the positions adopted when bending or (and I quote) “wiping my arse” are not good. Somehow that phrase sounded almost charming in a French accent.

It is my right hip so I can be ambidextrous under pressure.

However, what it has all boiled down to is that Oli has had to be my Man Friday (throw in the rest of the week as well) and look after me.

I have sat on my ever-spreading “arse”, as the doctor would say, and direct proceedings. It was not a natural situation for either of us but Oli has been emphatic that I do nothing, bless him. He will probably have earned all his badges by September when, allegedly, I’ll be over the worst.

Gradually I have managed to wrest back some household chores, as I am meant to walk regularly. So I can cook, which, having sampled Oli’s limited culinary skills many years ago when we were young and sound of hip, is probably better for both of us.

So I am on the homeward stretch and only two weeks more of daily thigh-bruising Heparin injections from the visiting nurses.

Also after the magic two weeks I hope to move in a more fluid and flexible fashion, being able to get in and out of a car without fear of my new hip dislocating and ending up under my armpit. Oh joys, I was told before the op that I would be able to ride a bike and swim and go to the gym after surgery. That introduction of titanium and ceramic pieces to my hip must have been a truly life-changing procedure because they are all things I’ve never ever done in my life. Anyway, mustn’t get ahead of myself. Still got to be very careful for a fortnight and then the world is my oyster.

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