Silk
stockings?
Compression
stockings do look rather like the silk stockings that were worn on special
occasions by Regency ladies in Jane Austen’s time. That lady reportedly prized silk
stockings above those made from the more usual cotton or wool, preferring to have fewer
stockings, so that those she did own could be of superior quality. It is said
that she even washed them herself, not trusting them to the possibly rougher
handling of a professional washerwoman.
Today, silk
stockings are available at a cost of between £5.99 and £34.00. Most women
probably opt for nylons these days, but what do I know? I’m not ‘most women’
and have no right to speak for others.
I try to kid myself that compression stockings
are attractive as well as functional, but fail miserably. It really doesn’t
matter, as no-one sees them but me. Well, my husband sees them when he hauls
them off me before I have a shower.
Barry
would be the first to admit that nursing is not his natural forte. He is very
encouraging, but not the sort to mop a fevered brow, though I must admit that approach
would drive me insane. He is sympathetic, but robust and practical, a ‘fresh
air would do you a power of good’ sort of person. To be honest, that’s my
attitude, too, as well as, ‘Have you drunk enough water today?’
If
removing the stockings is taxing, putting them back on is a trial of an
entirely different kind. We tried the plastic bag system, whereby the foot is
encased in a carrier bag and the stocking is eased over the top. The idea is
that then the bag can be pulled away from the toe end, which is open, and the
rest of the garment can be pulled up to the knee. Carrier bags are awfully thin
these days and tear very easily. We abandoned that method.
Talcum
powder was tried. Everything smelt beautiful, but the stocking remained fairly immovable.
Finally,
brute force was used. The stocking was rolled down to the extremity of the garment,
stretched as widely as possible, then fed over the toes and eventually over the
heel. Barry wondered why I was yelping, until I told him his knuckles were very
hard. He understood when he saw the bruise on my little toe, bless him.
Meanwhile,
I am making haste slowly. To anyone facing surgery I would advise making sure
you have an excellent physiotherapist. My surgeon was superb, and enjoyed the
challenge my back presented – it was much tougher than he expected, and he was
almost rubbing his hands with glee as he told me that - but, in common with
most surgeons, once his part was done, recovery was my problem. The physiotherapists understand the reality
and bemoan the fact that surgeons don’t see the long post-operative process.
My physio,
Liz, is a sports physiotherapist, married to an ex-professional rugby player,
and she’s wonderful – encouraging, with a pleasing sense of humour, masses of
commonsense, and a wealth of experience. She and my surgeon know each other
well, and she recommended him to me.
Liz was
Barry’s physio, too. When he had his knees replaced eight years ago, it was our
dentist who recommended the surgeon, and that was an excellent fit, too. The
medical world is a small one, indeed.