On the comeback trail

As I turned the corner, limping badly, Wembley Stadium appeared before me.  A sea of claret and blue shirts soaking up the atmosphere ahead of the Coca Cola Cup Final between Aston Villa and Manchester United.  I was still in pain from the cortisone injection I'd had a few days before, aimed to push my fractured ischial tuberosity back into place and allow it to knit.  The hard seats at Wembley weren't comfortable at all that day, but then they never were.  I didn't let that spoil my enjoyment of a rare trophy win.

It wasn't the first time I'd been in pain sitting down, owing to my injury.  It wouldn't be the last either.  As recently as the week before my operation I'd endured four long flights that offered me zero comfort and the same amount of sleep as a result.  Wooden benches, driving for more than a couple of hours, even riding a bike - all of these things brought dread and discomfort.  And it's little wonder after hearing what Mr Hoad-Reddick told me the day after my operation.

I checked into the Alexandra Hospital in Cheadle at 11.30am on September 5th, shortly after my last blog post.  In truth it's more like a hotel than a hospital - carpets in the corridor, a pleasant cafeteria with a large conservatory, and private rooms with a flatscreen TV and, importantly, Sky Sports.  A few hours spent lying on the bed, my fiancée Kellie sat in the chair next to me, were only interrupted by assorted medical staff bringing me some forms to sign ("we're not to blame if you die or we accidentally cut your toes off and sew them onto your face") and introducing themselves to explain what their role would be in my own cup final.  I was surprisingly calm considering what was to come, and it was due in no small part to every member of staff I encountered that morning, and throughout my stay.  They were excellent.

After a couple of hours of watching the Pink Panther and Top Gear, Mr Hoad-Reddick came to see me and told me I looked "petrified".  Perhaps I wasn't so calm after all...  He told me that he was weighing up two options, either an "L"-shaped incision below my right buttock, about 5x7cm in size, or a straight incision along my right buttock parallel to my thigh bone.  Either one, for me.  I'm not especially choosy when it comes to being carved up in my sleep.

Shortly before 4pm I was taken up to the theatre waiting room where I would give my details one more time and await the anaesthetic room prior to surgery.  I seemed to be waiting an age.  Perhaps the last operation had gone into "Fergie time"?  I was glad to have my toweling robe to keep me warm, as my surgery gown and one-size-fits-nobody paper underpants weren't going to do the trick.

My traditional Greek military slippers got plenty of smiles and comments too.

Nerves were certainly kicking in at this stage, despite the soothing sounds of Real Radio attempting to keep me relaxed.  Some of the tunes were quite upbeat but once The Lighthouse Family broke into "When you're close to tears remember, one day it'll all be over" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  I didn't have to choose as I was quickly led to the anaesthetic room and had my drip inserted.  I was looking forward to "counting down from 10" and seeing how far I'd get before conking out.  As it goes I didn't even get the chance to start.  Before they'd asked the question I was out.  I didn't even slide into it, it was like an off switch.  I blame the lack of sleep on that flight back from California the week before.

As I awoke a few hours later, surgery having taken longer than expected, I was greeted by Mr Hoad-Reddick's face (I presume the rest of him was still attached too, but I only remember the face) and the news that the piece of bone they'd removed was larger than expected.  Naturally, my instinct was to ask if he'd kept it.  In my post-op stupor I probably thought I could wear it on a necklace, Crocodile Dundee-style.  Sadly he'd thrown it away.  It was only the next day, after a sleepless night, that I'd learn the full extent of my surgery and the piece of bone that had been tossed into the bin (hopefully the green one, for recycling).

My discomfort all these years, the piece of broken bone that was mistaken for a pulled hamstring, was in fact the size of a large thumb - about 7cm in length.  It had pulled away in that fateful moment nearly 20 years ago and had retained part of my hamstring tendon, attached to it.  In the meantime it had been surrounded by scar tissue and fused itself to my sciatic nerve.  Thankfully, Mr Hoad-Reddick had decided to go in from the side, as the "L-shaped" option wouldn't have given him the access he needed.

It meant a c.20cm incision (look below if you're not too squeamish - too late, you've seen it now!) that allowed him to pull my butt muscles out of the way and cut the bone away from the nerve, and out of my body.  He removed the scar tissue too, and stitched the tendons that were attached to the fragment back onto the remaining tendon that was still where it was supposed to be.  It's no wonder I'd been in so much pain for the best part of 20 years, and also why I'd been able to feel it down the length of my leg - the sciatic nerve being twanged and tweaked by my errant bone fragment at regular intervals.

The incision was closed up with internal soluble stitches and surgical superglue.  Neat.

It's been three weeks since my last blog post, and since the procedure.  I'm still on crutches, and will be for another three weeks at least.  I've not started rehab yet as the hamstring still needs to heal, although the wound itself is looking good.  Thankfully the fortnight course of Innohep injections to my stomach, to prevent DVT, ended this week.  My stomach is bruised on both sides of my belly button, from all the jabs, and my right leg has wasted already as it's just not being used at all.  I've also gained some weight, although I rather suspect that's not so much to do with the operation as the amount of takeaways and goodies I've been munching through whilst doing even less exercise than usual.

It's been a learning curve since the op, as there are a couple of things post-surgery that nobody can prepare you for.  Firstly the fatigue.  I've had little energy and have been quite forgetful, unsure who I've spoken to and even managed to lose a pair of Noel Gallagher concert tickets that arrived the day after I got home.  The second is how dependent you are on others.  The notion of being waited on hand and foot sounds great.  The reality isn't quite so glamorous - not being able to carry anything, dress yourself or even get into bed soon gets pretty tiresome.  I'm incredibly grateful to Kellie who has had the patience of a saint for the past 21 days.  Longer than that, actually, because I'm usually a nuisance, but especially so in the last 21 days.

But it's all for a good cause, as they say, and that is the aim of scoring my first goal, pain free, since the first season of the Premier League.  That's before England's latest (injured) prodigy Jack Wilshere was born.  And the good news began with a brief phone call from Mr Hoad-Reddick a few days after my procedure; one that reduced me to X-Factor-esque happy tears.

Four to six months.  That's when he believes I'll play football again.  About the same time as the aforementioned Jack Wilshere, who had an operation on his foot today.  Although I doubt we'll be in the same team when we make our respective comebacks.  Three weeks and a few hours ago I was a man who could never do sport again, couldn't really live a normal life.  And now, all being well, in three weeks time, I'll be crutch-free and on the comeback trail.

Some players don't enjoy pre-season training.  They see it as a chore.  My pre-season starts as soon as the physio gives me the all clear to start hydrotherapy (hopefully in ten days time).  And you can bet your bottom dollar I'll be busting my arse from start to finish.  Although not literally, of course.  I've already done that once.