Silk stockings?

 

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.