27. The staple extractor

Wednesday had arrived, and it was time to see the nurse at my Doctor's surgery. I had been given a hermetically sealed instrument of torture. It was a combination of scissors, pliers, and eye lash curlers. I sat in anticipation of how this tool would be deployed, presuming that my head would be the likely candidate, and waited to be called by the nurse.

I eventually went in, and sat in front of the nurse as she unwrapped the implement. She expertly used the device to remove the staples one by one, while I sat with my face screwed up. In truth, apart from the incidental extraction of a couple of hairs, and the feeling of a tweak or pinch of the scab on top of my head, the only sensation was mild discomfort. Mentally, I was certain that five days would not be enough for my head to heal, but now unsupported by staples, it held strong. Five days. Now when you bang your head, and break the skin, it bleeds like hell. Fortunately, this same process speeds the healing process immensely, as the blood supply brings in abundance, the building blocks required to knit the wound together.

Feeling a little conscious of my still-unwashed head, and a rather unsightly part-healed wound, I donned my flat cap, and requested a trip to the office. I remembered a quote from my favourite film, "The rumours of my demise have been mildly exaggerated". I wanted to show my colleagues and co-workers that I was back, and would not let this 'minor inconvenience' keep me down. I walked into the office with pride - I had nothing to prove except what I wanted to prove to myself. I was on my own two feet, and my brain was back in working order.

Having shown off my scar, and assured my colleagues that no rogue items had been inserted the gap vacated by Ivan, I went home. I was still under orders, and the morning's events had taken it out of me. I had to realise that my brain was still recovering from an almighty ordeal, and that my recovery would take time. I was happy - I had satisfied my audience, and was a step closer to being back to normal. And of course, I was now allowed to do the unthinkable - I could wash my hair. Yes - a proper shower was on the horizon. I'll let you use your imagination when it comes to the colour of the shower water.

It may seem strange, but I desperately wanted to get back to work as soon as possible. Long had I looked at people at work who had gone off sick, and taken what seemed like an age to come back when the circumstances just didn't seem to justify a lengthy absence. I didn't want to be like that, and felt as though I could inspire people to do better, or shame people into not doing it in the first place. I was proving to myself that I was able to recover, and that I wouldn't be held down. Of course, convincing my bosses of this was a different matter.

I saw out the week trying to find a blend of not doing too much, of accepting the help I was graciously being offered, but also building my strength up. I had accepted a week of pure recovery, but was itching to get out into the big wide world again. I was required to be off work for a minimum of six weeks, and I had no intention of letting the Creme Eggs do any damage.