Finally home after over three weeks in hospital, although I was beginning to think I’d never make it.
To begin with I had been told that I’d be cleared for flying home after Thursday the 19th May, exactly two weeks after my operation (the two week wait being to hopefully reduce the risk of blood clots and DVT on the thirteen hour flight home). I had informed the insurance company of this, and had been assured that they’d be calling me on the day to confirm that I was good to go, after which they’d get cracking on booking flights for me. But as Thursday morning became Thursday afternoon, which in turn progressed to Thursday evening I still hadn’t heard anything. So at about 10pm I decided to call them, and was told by Patrick, their travel nurse, that they’d tried several times to call me during the day, and that the one time they’d actually got through, the phone rang out (presumably during one of my two hour-long physio sessions). However, I was assured that now they’d heard from me they’d start the ball rolling on getting me home. I was told that once they found flights they’d call me back to verify that I would be able to take them.
Now, while I was well looked after in the hospital, and I had no shortage of visitors, I was starting to get a little bit stir crazy. I was happy enough to wait around for the two weeks until the 19th, because that was the date I’d been given to begin with (in my head, I think, this date had also become the day I was flying home), but after that I couldn’t handle sitting around with no idea when I’d be getting out. I was starting to freak out a little bit and I told Patrick as much. He told me that if they couldn’t get me out the following day he’d make a note that I should be moved to a hotel while I waited until they managed to get me on a plane.
The next day I waited once again for most of the day, anxious to get back to my room after physio so as not to miss any calls. But once again none came, and I came to realise that I’d be spending at least one more night in the hospital. Eventually I called them again. It turned out that the number they’d been using to get through to me was the hospital’s old number, which is probably where the trouble came from, although I still don’t understand how they got through to me sometimes and not others. They still hadn’t got anything definite for me, but they told me they’d get back to me the following day, Saturday, which they did. I confirmed that I’d be able to travel on the flights they’d found from KL to Heathrow, and then Heathrow to Shannon, flying out business class with Malaysian Airways on the Sunday at 21:00. I was officially leaving.
After I’d paid up some outstanding bills at the hospital that the insurance hadn’t covered (just over €100 of non-medical expenses – which included my crutches – not much considering that I’d spent three weeks there receiving treatment and surgery) and packed my gear I was helped downstairs and into the taxi to the airport. The driver was a nice guy, and at other times I might have been interested in whatever it was he was talking about, as he gave me information about areas we were driving past, but I wasn’t in the mood for it. He helped me into the airport with my stuff and from check in on I was pushed wherever I wanted to go in a wheelchair by the airport staff.
Long story short, my flight from KL was delayed by two hours initially, but it didn’t bother me all that much because I was quite comfortable in the business lounge, making the most of the complimentary food and wine, and I was confident that I’d still make my connecting flight (although it might mean that the staff in Heathrow would have to push the chair a bit faster). However, after boarding the flight we were sitting on the runway for another hour before take-off. Have to say I was looking forward to experiencing travel in business class for my first time, and it must be said that the seats were comfy with a range of different settings which would have the seat reclining to different extents at the touch of a button. Of course these only work when the plane is in the sky, and so while we waited for the plane to get going the seat remained in the fully upright position, which is fine for the fifteen minutes it usually takes to get into the air, but much longer than that and it gets pretty uncomfortable, pretty fast.
I’d also looked forward to the in-flight entertainment, as when I’d flown out of Japan with Cathay Pacific I was delighted with the range of decent shows and movies I could watch – so many in fact that I was kept busy for nearly six hours of flying time. I could only imagine that a business class journey would offer a wider range of media, regardless of the fact that it was a different airline. Perhaps I flew home in a trough in the standard of cinematic releases, but I was left uninspired by the choices presented to me. On selecting The Green Hornet (2011) a message on the screen informed me that the film had been edited to suit a Muslim audience, some lines had been dubbed over, and scenes deemed inappropriate were omitted altogether. This meant that about five minutes into the film Christoph Waltz’s character is told to, “…kiss my ear. Put your lips to my ear and kiss it.” I don’t know who decided that ‘ear’ would be a suitable substitute for ‘ass’ in this context, but the film did make for more entertaining viewing for this alone. As for any excluded scenes, anything that made the film shorter was fine by me. In the end, the highlight of my viewing experience was the two episodes of Glee that I found (Yogi Bear certainly didn’t make my top ten movies of the year, either).
Landed in Heathrow to discover that my Aerlingus flight was boarding in ten minutes and that no matter how fast my girl pushed my chair we weren’t going to be able to collect my bags, get to Terminal One, check them in again for the next flight and make it through security before they took off. So I had to try and get back onto my insurance people and get them to book me on the next flight to Shannon, as the girls at the desk needed me to cough up £60 if I wanted to do it myself. Eventually we got through the whole thing, and all I had to do was wait for another six hours. A couple I met in the bar told me that they’d spotted Jedward walking through the airport earlier, no doubt flying home so they could sing for Barack “Barry” Obama during his visit to Ireland and, more specifically, Moneygall. Gutted I missed them.
The flight home boarded on time, but then we had to wait another uncomfortable hour while they changed a tyre on the plane. The air industry seemed to want to make me suffer.
I wasn’t sure how I’d feel when I saw Ireland again for the first time in a year, but as we started descending through the scattered clouds I was surprised at the scenery that I hadn’t even realised I’d been missing. I even took pictures of the fields and hills, which I haven’t even looked at since. I'd include them here, but I think they'd complicate things immensely with my internet connection the way it is at the moment.
My parents met me at the airport and brought me home, and that’s more or less where I’ve been for the last three weeks. I’ll be heading back into the hospital in a week’s time to find out if the bone has knitted, and if it has then I’ll be able to start putting weight on it. Fingers crossed.
That should be plenty for now, but there'll be more, promise!
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