Revenge of the laparoscopy

Is it now six days since I had my laparoscopy and endometriosis removal.

Today, the itching has started. I already had the extreme tiredness and terrible pains, but the itching may well be worse. Because of course, the areas that are itching can absolutely under no circumstances be scratched.

I have managed to have a good nose at the scars and not pass out. One is horizontal, on my left side, and about half an inch. The other comes vertically out of my belly button for maybe a bit more than an inch. They are neat and will probably fade to virtually nothing.

I hate itching. The best painkiller I ever used was tramadol, but I could hardly ever take it because it made my entire body itch, even up inside my noise. When you live alone, and there's no one to help scratch your back at 3am, it's just not worth it. I am not above rubbing my body against the carpet, so I have to protect my own dignity.

Quite a few people have asked me if I am better yet. No. I've just had surgery, and we don't even know yet if it will cure my chronic pain, because the pain of the surgery prevents me from knowing if I still have other pains as well. In either case, after more than a year of pain, I'm not going to suddenly spring back to my old self.

Patience please.

Shortly after surgery...

I woke up in the brightly lit and busy recovery room. It was perhaps half an hour after my surgery had been completed.

I was in agony, and crying. A lovely nurse gave me tissues and water, encouraging me to let it all out. Even then, I was aware that the surgery must have gone without a hitch, and that was something to be pleased about. I had not woken up. I had not felt anything during, or if I did I had no memory of it. These were good things.

Mum was waiting for me in my room. I was transferred from operating bed to regular bed, via some lifting and sliding action, and from then on I was officially in recovery. The worst was over.

 The pain was probably the worst I have ever experienced. Considering I only had two small holes in me, I can only imagine how much worse it gets if you need something more serious done. But that's surgery for you. As much as you can sedate and anesthetize, your body is never going to be happy that someone's been poking it with a scalpel.

I had some good news. My surgeon came up with some pictures to show me my insides. She remarked on how lovely my pelvis was, and how good my organs look. (My organs always get a lot of compliments, the benefit of clean-living).

During the laparoscopy, some endometriosis had been uncovered growing outside my womb. It had now been burnt away, and this could very well be the cure for my crippling abdominal pains. In the meantime, I just had to hang in there and recover.

(This is not one of my pictures, but shows what I had. Alas, mine are in my files and I did not get to take them home for repeat viewing)

It would be great to think that in a few weeks I could be back to my regular, limping self, instead of this new extra pain version, but I will just have to wait and see. Right now, everything hurts, and I am ridiculously tired. I got up for breakfast at 7am, read for a bit, and the next thing I knew I was waking up at 2pm.

I survived!

Monday was surgery day.

I felt ok, but then threw up when I was brushing my teeth, so I guess I was quite nervous. Actually I was so scared that I just did not allow myself to think about it at all. Just before they took me down, I was going to do a runner, and hide in a cupboard until I missed my slot.

Before then, I had to get checked in. Changed into a fetching hospital gown and a bizarre pair of see-through clown pants that did not fit no matter which way I turned them round. Tight on the bum and baggy on the front.

Plenty of people came to see me. At least two nurses, the surgeon, and the anesthetist. My blood pressure was checked, and they took some of my wee away to have a good nose at for the umpteenth time. All did their best to reassure me that there was virtually no risk of death, and that it would be over before I knew it.

Around 1.30pm I got taken down to theater. There I had a half hour wait, as another surgery over-ran, and my bladder became increasingly agitated. As I had my final wee before being taken into the fateful room, I thought, this is it, this is my last chance to run and hide in a cupboard. Alas, the nurse was waiting right outside to prevent any such departures.

And so I went in and lay down on a bed, surrounded by nurses and a bright looking trainee and the anesthetist. He said they were giving me something to chill me out, and injected something into my hand. And that is the last thing I remember.

For all my fears of not falling asleep, or waking up during the surgery, it was totally fine. They cut me open, stuck some cameras in, had a good poke about, and I was none the wiser.

Even better, they actually found something that may explain my chronic abdominal pain. 

Considerably more tired than you

If you get the reference, props to you, if not, watch Harry Enfield and Chums. So many good laughs.

A common theme that runs through support groups for people with chronic illnesses, is that we're all damn exhausted. It doesn't matter what the illness is, if you have constant pain of any kind, the consensus is that you will be drained.

This annoys me no end. It used to be rare to have a day when I wasn't doing something after work, now even getting through regular chores and not working is enough to keep me tired out. For every day that I try to act as if I was still my old self, I have to pay for it with a day in bed.

As someone who is a bit in love with her bed, you might think it's not so much of a hardship. Well you'd be wrong. It's one thing to wake up and think "screw it, one more hour." It's quite another to slide out of bed on to the floor, needing to get up because you're so thirsty, but so tired that you barely feel alive.

Today I have spent at least half of the day in bed. There was just no point in being awake. I had no energy to focus on anything, and enough pain that sleep seemed like the better choice anyway. If anyone has any tips for energy, please share. I have caffeine immunity, so coffee, redbull etc does nothing for me. I know there are some debates on whether that's a real thing, but trust me it is. I can drink an espresso and be asleep an hour later, and that was the case even before I got ill.

To everyone out there sleeping more than they would like, I can only offer this prayer. May your beds be comfortable, and your sheets clean.

Falling in the street

Falling in public must be one of, if not THE MOST embarrassing thing you can do in public. Worse than farting.

I can't even remember the last time I fell before this. I was living in a blissful world where falling is something that happens in cartoons, or just to other people. I remember when I was really little, and my best friend fell in a play park and hurt herself. I burst into laughter. You can't help it. When people fall, it just comes out, it's a weird reaction that is hard to suppress.

So there I was, looking cool as always, when I felt it. My foot gave way on a slippery bit of grate, and I was going down. I managed to land on one hand, so avoided hitting the floor with my face (which did happen once when I was eight), and a sweet little girl nearby asked if I was ok. People around me were giving me that look, waiting for me to nod that I'm fine, ha ha ha, totally fine.

I brushed myself off and carried on, willing everyone around me to just stop looking. Stop looking at meeeee!

It wasn't until later that I realised I actually had hurt myself. My whole hip was aching from the impact with the unyielding pavement, and my hand still had gravel dents. But at least I was alive. Lisa 1, Pavement 0.

Not having kids

Yet another relationship has come to an end. This time, because I don't want to have any children.

This has actually been a major problem over the last six years or so, and I can see it getting worse. As men hit their thirties, they are ready for their first born to be carried by someone else for nine months and then placed in their hands after the birth, but only for the fun stuff not for the cleaning or feeding. Whoops sounding a little bitter there. I'm sure not all men are like that...

People ask me why I don't want kids. Well, it just never happened for me. Simple as. And now I'm thirty, and perfectly happy without kids, and I have zero desire to have any. This is the part people cannot get their heads around. I JUST DON'T WANT ANY! You know, the same way you know if you would prefer to travel by car or sealed inside a lead box and dropped into a river, hoping you'll reach your intended destination.

Even if I did want to have children, the ship has sailed for me to carry them myself, but even that doesn't stop people from going on about it. I'm thinking about getting some slogan tees to hammer the message home, or maybe a tattoo across my stomach Insemination Not Welcome.

Please, let the next man I meet be charming, good in bed, and childfree for life. Or at least childfree until I replace him with a younger model.

The Kodak whisperer

I am a great lover of technology. That might sound a little dodgy, but I don't mean like THAT. Well, only if it's a very attractive laptop...Anyways! I am a great believer that you should treat your machines with love and care, and respect. Otherwise, they will hold grudges against you, and generally wreak havoc on your life.

I have always been a little...eccentric shall we say, in this manner. I am the kind or person that thanks elevators and vending machines. That way, when the machines rise up against us, I will still have a few on my side, ready to take me up and down and give me snacks for an extortionate price.

Watching people mistreat machines causes me the kind of pain that I imagine most people reserve for small, injured children. I watch my mother pick up her laptop by the screen and I wail inside.

And so I did not expect my trusty, ancient Kodak all in one machine to turn against me. It has been my faithful companion for near a decade, printing, scanning, copying, truly a marvel of the modern age. Plus I got it free, as compensation for an ex-boyfriend running off with someone else and leaving this expensive bit of kit behind.

 It had been working perfectly, and now all it would say to me was could not scan, press ok to continue. No, not ok! I need you to scan! I have insurance claims to sort out! I have no end of doctor's invoices to submit! (31 in the last 12 months).

I searched high and low on the internet until I found an unlikely fix. It advised opening a paint program and telling the scanner to scan from there...make sense? Well reader, that is what I did, and, mercifully, it worked.

Still no idea as to why my scanner has decided to play hardball. Now I have to find some way to appease it...

400 views!

Thanks to everyone that has popped by. This blog has now reached 400 views! I am surprised that it has had so many so quickly, and I hope that some of you will continue to read new posts, and maybe even leave a comment or two!

Thanks also for the emails I have received. Don't be afraid to drop me a line!

I wake up every morning, with a big smile on my face!

Actually I don't, but that is such a catchy song.

When I wake up, there are about 5 seconds where my brain does this:

"It appears you have a stomach ache today. Perhaps you are menstruating?"
"No brain, that's the same stomach pain I've had for a year, can you please get with it?"

That is honestly what happens, and it reminds me of something I learnt in a pain management class. Our brains have a fixed idea of what our bodies are like. If you lose a limb, the map in your brain doesn't change, it carries on as is your body is the same as it was. Hence phantom limb pain. Well it seems my brain is reluctant to accept this new reality.

I wake up every morning, and my abdomen hurts. Not actually my stomach. That's a common misunderstanding friends and family have. The stomach is on organ, and mine has been checked with a delightful gastroscopy. It's all good in there.

No, what I have is what is known in the medical community as "we're not really sure, and hopefully it will go away on its own."

For some reason, my nerves are just sending pain signals, all day, every day. So I don't wake up with a big smile on my face. But I get up, I have a cup of tea, and life is not so bad.

Preparing for surgery

On the 23rd May I will be having a diagnostic laparoscopy and a cystoscopy.

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 Laparoscopy is a surgery that uses a thin, lighted tube put through a cut (incision) in the belly to look at the abdominal organs or the female pelvic organs . Laparoscopy is used to find problems such as cysts, adhesions, fibroids , and infection. Tissue samples can be taken for biopsy through the tube (laparoscope).

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Cystoscopy is a procedure that allows your doctor to examine the lining of your bladder and the tube that carries urine out of your body (urethra). A hollow tube (cystoscope) equipped with a lens is inserted into your urethra and slowly advanced into your bladder.

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 I just had a rummage for any pictures to go with those descriptions, and I don't think there is actually one that I want to look at right now. Those few minutes of browsing have just scarred me. Surgical tools just look so damn horrific.

Today I had to go in for my assessment, to make sure I am a fit candidate and to avoid complications down the road.

All in all, I am still in good health, considering. My bloodwork is nice, my blood pressure remains perfect, resting pulse excellent. If it wasn't for the constant pain, I would be a truly excellent specimen. It's times like that I am grateful for all the chocolate I didn't eat, and all the exercise that I did. It's still paying dividends now.

 So all is well, and the surgery is set to go ahead. The only thing that is still freaking me out is the anesthetic. Being asleep whilst someone cuts me open is probably my deepest fear, a phobia if you will. One that I never thought I would actually face, or not until I was old and having my first hip replacement surgery.

I will do what I always do in such situations. Picture time skipping until the day after the surgery, when it's all over, and I'm telling everyone what a breeze it was, and people call me brave and give me sweets.

Things you should never say to someone with a chronic condition

People tend to be traditional when it comes to greetings and smalltalk. They have a certain set of phrases and they stick to them, often failing to recognise when these are not appropriate.

I've had my chronic abdominal pain now since spring 2015. It might have even started before then, and I just discounted it as random stomach aches. It's been constant and known about to all of my friends since the end of last year, when it reached full bloom.

However, people still say to me "I hope you feel better soon," or "I hope you get better soon," or something of that kind.

Well, by this point, I think we can all agree that I did not get better soon. Soon has passed. This might actually be me for a year, or ten years, or forever. So for people to keep saying they hope I get better...that's really a very unkind thing to say. You wouldn't say it to someone with a terminal illness right? (I certainly hope not!)

 What you can say to me is something along the lines of "How are you getting on? Do you need anything?" Basically, anything that isn't just ill-considered and a bit offensive. I understand people are kind and well-meaning, but as someone regularly in a lot of pain, my rage meter is getting quite full...

Finding a new thing

So my life is not exactly the whirlwind of activity that it used to be. I can't go on stage at present, so there's a lot of time to fill that used to be given over to long rehearsals and script learning.

I have a few recipe books at home, mostly gifts, and though I have looked at them plenty I have almost never used them.

 This one, 500 vegan dishes, I have had for years. I can't even remember how I got it. Anyhow, I decided that I would actually attempt to start cooking some new things.

I am extremely lazy when it comes to cooking. I blame years without a long-term relationship. There's no one there to stop me from coming home and eating a crisp sandwich, and I have very little interest in food. Food for me is generally just something you have to get through in order that you don't die.

Not that I don't occasionally enjoy myself with food. A great bar of chocolate, an amazing stacked hummus and salad sandwich, but those times are definitely in the minority.

But I thought it was time to expand my repertoire a bit. I had attempted this before, but this time I am much more likely to be trapped at home with plenty of time to cook.

And so you will see to the right there my first attempt at making something I have never made before. Vegan French toast. Sugar, silken tofu, soya milk, nutmeg, sugar and way too much syrup for dressing.  And yes, it's white bread. Forbidden, lovely, delicious white bread. Full of salt and all kinds of bad things besides.

I know it does not look like a piece of art. It is not photo-ready. This is not instagram. It's something I cooked and ate, not to go up framed on a wall, and by gosh it was good. Though I should not have made a second round....slightly sick now.

Young, Beautiful and Disabled - what's it all about?

I picked the title that I did because I wanted something engaging and evocative. There's something a bit forbidden about grouping those words together. They create a juxtaposition that feels slightly uncomfortable.

On the whole, one is not allowed to refer to oneself as beautiful. If you do, you are an arrogant or prideful piece of poop, that needs to be immediately ground down beneath someone's heel. There's a constant battle between those people, the haters, and the sensible ones who understand that it is an important part of your mental health to love yourself and find yourself beautiful.

What makes someone beautiful?

If you are the kind of person who offers a crying stranger a tissue, you are beautiful. If you see lost tourists forlornly clutching a map and point them in the right direction, you are beautiful. If you've ever given a token gift (their favourite sweets, a cute pair of socks etc) to a sad friend or relative, you're beautiful.

So basically, most people are beautiful. If you look at yourself and you think that you're not, either:

1: Change
2: Accept

Apply as necessary.

The aim of this blog is to explore what it means to be disabled. To live with a chronic, life-changing condition. But also for people who are going through something temporary. Something that is turning their life upside down and inside out, and they want to rant about it, talk about it, or just read something that sounds familiar to them.


If you're out there, and you identify with any part of this blog, get in touch. Share your experience. Be part of this fabulous, subversive little scene.

Guest post - Freedom in Confinement

Hi, I’m Gusty and a neuropathic pain disorder landed me in a wheelchair.

I remember being so depressed when I found out it was permanent, because it felt like my life was over. Being ‘confined’ to a wheelchair seemed to me about the worst fate imaginable. As it turns out, I couldn’t be more wrong.

Life with a pain disorder is hell, but I will never resent my chair. It represents freedom, it represents strength, and I can’t imagine life without it.

“I’d kill myself if I were in your position,” a stranger casually says to me, unaware of how incredibly ignorant that is. It makes me ashamed to know I once felt that way, even if I’d never have said that to someone.

What’s funny is that being disabled was actually a positive for me in a lot of ways. Not only have I learned to be much more assertive, but I also treat myself so much better than I used to. All the crappy fake friends that I held onto for so long, I got rid of them. When you only have so many spoons, they just aren’t worth wasting on people like that.

I have learned to cut myself slack, which is something I was never able to do before. The short-term memory loss and cognitive issues I now deal with seemed insurmountable, but they weren’t. If I couldn’t be great, I told myself, then I shouldn’t even bother. I was wrong. Trying is worth it, even if you end up being terrible.

I’m not perfect, and that’s okay. Sometimes the obstacles I have to overcome prove to be too much of a challenge. There are days where I have no energy and sleep for twenty hours. My body can no longer do so many of the things I used to love.

You know what, though? I have passions to pursue and friends worth using up my spoons on. I have more hobbies and interests than there are hours in the day.

The world may not see me, but that just means I don’t have to worry about what people think. In a lot of ways, being ‘confined’ to a chair has been the most freeing experience of my life.

Winter can f**k right off

I have always hated winter. It's just pointless really. OK, so we get Christmas, which I adore and look forward to every year, but they only put Christmas in December so that we wouldn't all kill ourselves. I can picture the ancient tribal leaders of England and the Isles getting together.

"People are finding winter bloody hard going. They're losing their will to live."
"What about another sacrifice?"
"I think we need to go bigger. Something that will rally the people and help them to forget how crappy this country is for 9 months of the year. Otherwise, I fear we're going to see a mass exodus."

It's dark for most of the day. It's so cold you can barely move for layers of clothing. It's constantly raining or hailing, so you enjoy the great outdoors at your own risk. And then, if you're like me, your bones frikkin ACHE! It's something between feeling like my hip bones are breaking and/or dying. 

All of this is why (as soon as I find a way to make money) I'm going out to somewhere like California. I don't care if every day is the same. I will happily give up seasons if it means that I can wander around outside without a coat and the risk of severe frostbite.

It's just starting to get warm here now after being horrific since November. That's far too long to be wearing jumpers and extra socks. Plus no one can afford to pay for their heating any more. What we need is some kind of massive dome to keep the heat in. Perhaps someone can get hold of the money that Donald Trump was going to use for the giant wall, and send it this way. After all, we do have a "special relationship."

You have been terminated

After being ill for so long, it became clear to me that I was going to lose my job.

Apart from a couple of weeks here and there where I had struggled to go in, I had been signed off since the end of November, and it was now the beginning of May.

Some of my doctors, and a work liaison person who had been assigned to me, were confident that my job could be saved. I was much more realistic than them. I had a long talk with my regular GP to discuss my case.

A few things were clear.

1: I still lacked an agreed upon diagnosis.
2: My pain was still random in intensity. Sometimes I would have a mild ache for a few days in a row, but the excruciating bursts that left me confined to my bed would return eventually. The intense pain could last for an hour, or for days. It was this randomness that prevented me from agreeing even part-time hours.
3: The few painkillers that actually worked on my condition had side-effects that would prevent me from working to the required mental level.

And so it was that on the 3rd of May, I was officially let go.

Even expecting it to happen, I was hit by a wave of sadness the next day. This was a job that I had loved, with good colleagues, and I had planned to make a long career out of it.

Now I was unemployed, poor, and, like everyone, getting older. Only I had just passed 30, which seems significant in the context of employability. (Wrongly?)

To make sure I wasn't about to throw myself off a building, I had a long chat with a mental health community nurse, and we hashed out the things that I need to focus on at present. Career is just not one of them. But the time will come again.

Hospital is the loneliest place

Between Christmas and New Year I spent 3 nights in hospital. I had gone in to see an out of hours doctor, and ended up being admitted (against my will). I had nothing with me, no pyjamas, no book, no contact lens solution. I cried.

Mum and dad were with me, and arranged for my sister to go to my flat and pick up a few things. It was weird to think of her going there without me.

I was moved into a private room, which was nice in the way of a really sterile hotel room, but I was pretty scared. I had insurance through my work, and was grateful to have it, and be out of the chaos of the shared wards. But once everyone left, and I'd finished my drip, and the nurse had given me a painful stomach injection, it was eerie.

It was surprisingly quiet, and I had a lot of thoughts and no one to talk them through with. I cried every night, sometimes for hours. Partly because of the pain, part loneliness, part fear of the future. There was still no diagnosis forthcoming.

When I was discharged, it was with mixed feelings. I wasn't any better, there was just nothing more they could do for me. My pain had levelled off, and I had been scanned, x-rayed, MRI'd and generally prodded about.

Back to the specialists I must go.

Dating - now with new, trickier conversations.

Dating has been a tricky business since I became chronically in pain (on top of the chronic pain I already had). So now I have two pains to manage, and two boring explanations/descriptions to get through each time I meet someone.

When I first became ill, I had just started dating Mr Controlling. He basically decided that since I was ill, I should go and live with him, even though we barely knew each other. I broke up with him fairly sharpish.

Since then I've dated Mr Sweet, who I met in a coffee shop. He was training to be a nurse, so I felt he would have a great handle on the situation. Alas, he just had too much going on in his own life, and so we parted amicably.

After a period of mourning/mooching, I decided it was time to continue the search for someone to watch Community with and rub my stomach. (Among other things). And so I ventured onto the internet. The big question was, how much should I disclose up-front? Should I start with the fact that I was housebound for 1 day in every 2, or try to subtly allude to it? Or just not mention it altogether?

I decided not to mention it on my profile, because I didn't want it to be the focus of the first few chats (assuming that I had any interest). It would have to come up on the first date though. Oddly enough, I've mainly been contacted by guys 5 or so years younger than me. I must be putting out a youthful vibe...or a cougar one.

My first date was arranged with Mr Karate. 26, talkative, nice to look at. He took it well enough when I explained my condition, including the limit on how long I can stay out at any one time. All in all, I was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps my luck is changing?

The very worst thing I've had done....so far.

I have seen a fair few specialists. Doctors at the very top of their field. Alas, they were stumped when it came to figuring out what was wrong with me. They took blood and other samples over and over. I got used to just handing over my arm to be jabbed. 

Finally, it was decided that something a bit more extreme had to be tried. I'd had ultrasounds, an x-ray, and an MRI of my abdomen, and now they had to try something else.  

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A gastroscopy is a procedure where a thin, flexible tube called an endoscope is used to look inside the oesophagus (gullet), stomach and first part of the small intestine (duodenum). It's also sometimes referred to as an upper gastrointestinal endoscopy. The endoscope has a light and a camera at one end.

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They offered me some sedation, but it wasn't proper put you to sleep stuff, it would just make me feel out of it, so I declined. A banana tasting spray was applied to my throat to numb it, and then I had to lie down on my side.

A nurse held my hand as the tube was fed down inside me.

You have to fast beforehand because you gag the entire time, and if there was anything in your stomach it would come up and risk entering your wind-pipe. So you feel as if you're being sick over and over but nothing is coming up.

Mercifully it was only about a 3 minute procedure, but the memory can still make me gag even now.

The worst thing? There were no useful results. My insides were perfect. Still no answer as to my pain, which was getting worse all the time.

Right in the Balls

What I have noticed (and many others before me) is that life is very unfair. It doesn't hesitate to kick you in whatever sensitive areas you might have, and it will kick you repeatedly. All you can do, is stagger back to your feet, and try to brace against the next blow.

So there I am at 29. My body is something like a well-oiled machine. I've been working it hard, pushing on against arthritis, shouting it down with, "You shall not pass" gusto. I had decided that if I ate well, and exercised enough, I would keep everything ticking over indefinitely.

Mostly I was happy with my body. I was miffed at the grinding and clicking and the aches and pains, and the limping, but I wore cute dresses, and I was a UK size 10, which I considered to be the ideal size, and I had great hair.

And then I started to get these other weird pains. Stomach pains.

I cut down on the gluten, ate more fruit, and thought that would be the end of it. But the pains didn't go away. So quite a while later, I went to see a specialist. He decided it was probably just constipation, just me some stuff, and sent me on my way.

The pains started to go away a bit. I ate less and less. I exercised more. I thought no more about it.

At the end of November 2015, I collapsed at work and was taken to hospital in an ambulance. And it just got worse from there.

The Joy of Bed

There is nothing I love more than my bed.

After my most recent break-up, I decided I was done with the whole sleeping on one side of the bed thing. After all, there was a whole bed to use, and only me in it, and I'm quite little. So I decided to go a bit mad with pillows.

Basically I have created a nest. A U-bend of pillows, in which I sleep. And it's fabulous. You should definitely try it. Pillows above, pillows to the left, pillows to the right, and extra pillows to hug. It's a 5 pillow structure.

Even when I can't sleep because the pain is too bad, and I don't want to get up and take something because the side-effects can feel even worse, it is a ridiculously comfy bed. Sometimes I worry it might be TOO comfortable. I've started to linger in it, reading, browsing the web, when really I should make an effort to get up and dressed and pretend I have somewhere to be. In the meantime though, I'm just going to revel in it.

Introduction

I never thought much about being disabled. It was something I was aware of, but such an ingrained part of day to day life that I mostly forgot about it. It was normal for walking to be painful. It was normal to hear my joints clicking, and grinding when a tendon caught, or the joint moved out of perfect alignment.

When I was born, I did not come out fully made. I was early, and worst of all, I was a breach birth.

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In a normal hip, the ball at the upper end of the thighbone (femur) fits firmly into the socket, which is part of the large pelvis bone. In babies and children with developmental dysplasia (dislocation) of the hip (DDH), the hip joint has not formed normally.

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So there I was, without fully formed sockets, being yanked out of my mother feet first. I can only imagine that it was an unpleasant experience for both of us.
If I could go back and project to my baby in womb self, I would have advised that there was really no rush at all. Stay in there and get the finishing touches done. It's only the 80s, there isn't anything so exciting that you have to get an extra month of it.


The doctors did not explain to my parents the long-term difficulties of hip dysplasia. I was put into a leg brace (that apparently my siblings would pull me around by) and we all waited for the sockets to form.


Life carried on in quite a normal fashion, except for the grinding and clicking. And then in my 20s I started to get a lot of pain. A hell of a lot of pain. Chronic muscle inflammation. Spasms. Aching. In the winter I started to walk with a severe limp. Everything was seizing up. I had scans done. They were not good. Then I found out about the link between hip dysplasia and early onset arthritis. That was not a happy time.


But I was never one for giving up. I did physio. I exercised like a fiend. Swimming, badminton, zumba, running, extreme outdoors obstacle courses. One thing was for sure. I was going to make my body work for me, and I was going to put off the bad things (walking with a stick, hip replacement) for many, many years.


And it was all going quite well, until I was 29, and something else happened.