Mum Sticks (Nothing Like Pooh Sticks. Sadly.)

 

My Mum (pictured above on her wedding day - she’s the one in the posh frock holding the bunch of flowers) has been having a spot of back trouble. She maintains it is actually her hip that is the cause of the current pain, the hip she almost had ‘done’ but then didn’t because of the huge cock up by the hospital. It’s a long story and I shan’t go there. Suffice to say, the words ‘piss up,’ ‘organise’, and ‘brewery’ came in to play to describe the situation and now Mum has declared herself to be too old to be ‘chopped about.’

The G.P, on the other hand, but not her usual G.P so what does SHE know, says it is her back, not her hip that is causing the issue. It might be a trapped nerve. In her back. Not her hip. Sort of sciatica. Well, sciatica. An x-ray of the offending area was duly ordered and then my brother was detailed to bring Mum to the G.P surgery, along with her walking stick so the G.P could see how Mum was using the stick. 

The not-my-usual-G.P (what does SHE know?) told Mum her walking stick was set too low, and that this was causing her to stoop when she was walking. I can see how this would cause a back pain. My brother could see how this would cause back pain. I’m not sure Mum did. Anyhow, the offending G.P raised the walking stick level by a notch, said something along the lines of, ‘That’s better - you’re more upright now!’ And sent Mum on her way, saying the x-ray appointment would be about a week or so. 

By the time Mum had returned to the waiting room, she had lowered the walking stick to its previous ‘stooping’ mode. Mum knows best. My brother then ratcheted it up again because, he thought, perhaps the G.P had a point vis a vis posture etc etc blah blah blah. Mum immediately lowered it again. I do not know the current state of the Mum Stick; I dare not ask. When my brother was relaying this story to me I said perhaps, if Mum was going to be tricksy about it, then it would be best to let her carry on being an old person. It gives her something to complain about at least, and I think it’s the complaining about life, the Universe and too much newspaper space being given to the Beckham saga and Kim Kardashian wearing flimsy bits of material she seems to think are dresses, that keeps her going. 

The x-ray happened last week. Someone from the G.P surgery called to tell Mum she needed to make an appointment for THIS week to see her USUAL G.P (hurrah!) for the results. However, the person who called said that she was unable to make the appointment for Mum now,  so Mum would have to call back to make the appointment the following morning. Insane. This is why the NHS is going to hell in a handcart. Mum does not use the phone because she is deaf. She doesn’t want to bother my brother to make the appointment because, she says, he already does enough for her, so she intends to call into the surgery when she collects her newspaper and make an appointment then. I suspect, even though one is supposed to make appointments by phone or online these days, she will merely standing there, stooping forlornly over her short walking stick until the receptionist capitulates and organises an appointment for her the old fashioned way. 

Mum is going to be 86 at the end of this month. The other day I asked her if there was anything she would like specifically for her birthday. I got the usual, ‘Oh, I don’t need anything these days. Don’t waste your money on me, love.’ Until now, I haven’t been brave enough to take her at her word and ignore her birthday to see what happens, and I don’t intend to try this year either. Therefore, I bought her a book, because she is still an avid reader, and a selection of gift cards for her favourite shops so she can buy what she fancies. There was a brief mention of a new duvet but she talked herself out of that idea within ten seconds. I have included a gift card for the shop she mentioned seeing the duvet in so she can buy it if she changes her mind. Which she probably will. 

Other than that, all is right with the world…