The fact I awoke in a different ward some 6 hours later was a reassuring sign. Staff were fussing over me. Charts, uniforms, and a flurry of stethoscopes winked as they caught my eye. Also just in vision, all wrapped up in a shiny new plastic bag with a hospital label appended, were my erstwhile pants. Ah excellent. All went well then in the theatre.
Another sign of surgical happenings were the surgical support hose, curiously strapped to my legs. Had I been attacked by a wandering Nora Batty, keen to support her own leg fashion? The surgical team had been busy and I was now strapped into these tight inflexible calf chambers to limit blood clotting associated with lengthy stays of inactivity, such as recovering from an operation, or a lengthy flight.
As time progressed and I gained more movement and lost grogginess, the change in the stockings became more apparent. When first applied, they gave a lithe youthful appearance, not unlike a handsome Beau from the court of Henry VIII.
After some wear and a little sagging they start to acquire a less glamourous look, a mix of Ronald McDonald and The Wiggles. Finally the stockings loose shape and need to be replaced, in case they lose their efficacy, and instead of the calves of a king we end up looking like a salty old sea dog.....
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