The trip home in the ambulance was uneventful, at least from my side. Vanessa had asked me what time we’d arrive, and whether I had any paperwork with me. “No papers,” I’d replied. I’d simply been wheeled out of the hospital and into the waiting ambulance, after being told we’d need to pay upfront and reclaim the cost later from Social Security. It wasn’t cheap.
Back at home, Vanessa had made preparations, including asking a fluent French-speaking friend to be there. She’d also borrowed a pair of crutches from our old neighbour.
The stretcher from the ambulance wouldn’t fit through our narrow front door, so I had to use the crutches to carefully make my way to the bed. Once there, I could finally lie back and relax — so happy just to be home. Vanessa and our friend took care of everything else: paperwork from the ambulance crew, a cheque to be written, signatures exchanged. Then they were gone.
Next stop was the pharmacy, to fill the armful of prescriptions the nurse would need when he began his visits on Saturday. Vanessa was nervous about leaving me alone, but I assured her I’d be fine.
That evening our neighbour came by for a chat and told us to call if we needed anything at all. Vanessa chose to sleep on the sofa in the living room, while I slept like a log — my first uninterrupted night in a long time. No tests, no tablets, no questions about pain. It was absolutely fantastic.
The “highlight” of Saturday was a visit from my nurse, a friendly, chatty guy who seems very efficient. He showed Vanessa how to inject the anti-coagulant into the skin of my stomach — something that had been part of my hospital routine, and now, for the next 45 days, part of our life at home. He’ll handle it himself on the three days a week he visits to change my bandages and clean the wound, but Vanessa will have to do it the other four.
Sunday was glorious in every sense. With the walking frame Vanessa had bought at the pharmacy, I managed to hobble onto the balcony and sit in the sun. I couldn’t stop smiling, even though the grin tugged at the stitches in my lip. Just being outside felt wonderful.
And — apologies for this but it deserves mention — later that afternoon I had my first proper poo in over a week. Opioids are notorious for causing constipation, and aside from a very minor “success” on Friday morning, I’d had nothing to show for it. The relief was immense — in every way. I’ll leave it there.
Our old neighbour dropped by on his motorcycle for a quick visit and kindly offered to retrieve my bike from Nuits-Saint-George, where it’s currently stored in one of the club’s aircraft hangars, sometime next week when I can arrange it.
Over the next few days, we began to fall into a routine. My favourite part was the morning trip to the front balcony, where I could bask in the sun for a while.
On Monday at lunchtime the nurse arrived for his first proper visit. He carefully removed the open-fronted fibreglass cast, applied fluid to lift the old plasters, and was pleased to report that everything looked clean and infection-free. He tidied up, put on fresh dressings, and re-attached the boot. This will now happen three times a week. It doesn’t really hurt, and I’m pleasantly surprised by how good my leg looks, all things considered. The nurse says there will be a scar, but I honestly don’t mind. I’m just grateful recovery seems to be going well.
We’re settling into a rhythm now. Vanessa has thrown herself into her role as nurse and nutritionist, researching the best foods for bone healing. She’s doing an incredible job and continues to amaze me with her courage, stamina, and good humour.
I really believe this shared experience is going to bring us even closer. Even in such frustrating circumstances, I keep thinking to myself what a lucky guy I am.
The first image shows how good it feels to have had my first hair-wash in over a week. Vanessa laughed as she applied her towel turban thingy. She's fully embraced the nursing role. The second is an image from a spam advertising email I received... very appropriate.
