Today I was back at the hospital. It was my routine appointment. My swelling was checked out and deemed unconcerning. Although Surgical Spice conceded that it was indeed impressive. And she was positively excited by my peau d’orange skin. Needles were thrust into unmentionable places but only 20mls of fluid was withdrawn which has not had a great deal of impact on my balloon like bosom.
While there I was asked about physiotherapy:
How are you getting on with your exercises?
I’m doing the ones I was told to. When do I move on to the next set?
Oh. You should’ve started them last week. It says quite clearly on the sheet to do so.
Which sheet would that be?
You weren’t given a sheet?
That would be no.
So, the I Must, I Must, I Must Improve My Bust exercises have not been going as well as I had thought. Fortunately, I have been diligent in doing the scaled down version. You do not get to maintain friendships with physiotherapists for thirty years without realising that ignoring recommended exercises is simply Not An Option. Physio Extraordinaire lives just around the corner from me and her regime of back exercises has kept my lumbar back in tip top condition so far. Which is a huge relief given where I was starting from. And if I dared to even consider skipping the I Must I Must I Must Improve My Bust exercises, my bezzie mate from hundreds of years ago would shout so loudly at me that no telephonic devices would be required to cover the great many miles between us for the monstrous telling off I would be subjected to. Basically then, the ease with which I slipped into and found the next stage of exercises, is down to fear of my physio mates. Hurrah, they are probably cheering.
I now have a week to progress to the final stage. Ever competitive, I think this will be fine. My phone has alarms set for three times a day. I have memorised my sheet of instructions. I am good to go.