When The Carer Becomes The Patient
Georgia and I, both recuperating after our respective surgeries.
“She Stepped Out and I Stepped In Again”
That line from Lanigan’s Ball has been in my head this week.
I found myself back in the orthopaedic ward.
Not as Georgia’s mum, but as the patient myself.
“Your face looks really familiar.”
“Yes, I’m Georgia’s mum.”
“How’s she doing?”
“She’s doing great, thanks.”
“I saw your name on the board and hoped it was you.”
Thanks, delighted to be here.
First on the theatre list, with little time to think, and that suited me. Having lived with chronic pain for some time, and after several cancellations due to winter bed pressures, I just wanted to get on with it.
A full hip replacement. Young for that, but necessary.
Back on the ward, I had a room of my own.
It could not have been more different from sleeping on the same hospital floor on a mattress only a couple of weeks earlier. I had very little bandwidth for conversation. What I needed was peace, quiet, and recovery.
Day one post-op, I felt alert enough despite not having slept particularly well, but physically pulled in directions that were necessary rather than pleasant, and my leg was making that point very clearly. The physios arrived and time to get to work.
The second night brought proper sleep at last.
Day two arrived with a different lesson.
The morning pain was intense, and the inability to move my leg as I wanted unsettled me, still numb from anaesthetic. The nurses and physios were calm and reassuring, reminding me they were in no hurry to send me home if I was not ready.
That reassurance meant a lot.
In the end, I did make it home on crutches, on Friday the 13th.
My son pointed out the family symmetry: Georgia had gone into hospital on Friday the 13th of February, and I arrived home on Friday the 13th of March.
Two surgeries within a month.
My husband, it must be said, is earning serious brownie points. He knows they have a short shelf life, so he is planning to cash them in quickly.
Months ago, I had invested in what can only be described as a very sensible orthopaedic chair.
Not the most attractive piece of furniture ever purchased. Function over fashion.
When Georgia first came home, she refused to sit in it for me. She would happily sit in it for Laura or Saoirse, just not for me.
But now comes the real household hierarchy: queen bee that she is, she also decided I was not sitting in my own chair either.
So George headed off and bought another sensible chair.
Not matching. Not even close.
But now we have a his-and-hers arrangement of practical seating, ready for the rare moments when we both get the chance to sit down together.
Recovery at home reminds me how much family life is built around small acts that matter a lot.
A big shout out to my children, who have helped me settle back in, helped me to do exercises, and kept things moving.
And especially to my 18-year-old daughter, who is sleeping in beside me for now, making sure I am alright, while my husband remains at base camp downstairs with Georgia.
On the eve of Saint Patrick’s Day, I would usually be heading to #ITEC26 in Birmingham to catch up with familiar faces, conversations, and all things tech-enabled care.
This is the first one I have missed since starting the inCharge journey.
Have a great conference, folks.
It looks like this Saint Patrick’s Day I will be watching the parade on television instead, perhaps humming:
I stepped out, and she stepped in again.
Founders and carers have more in common than we realise. Both become very practiced at carrying on until life insists we pause.
For now, recovery is the task in hand, and learning to accept care rather than organise it may be part of the lesson too.