Frank - part four
Spain - the final chapter
I started by going to The British Clinic in Arroyo. The doctor was an aged deaf Iranian, barely capable of speaking English. He was obviously an utter incompetent, as, after viewing the x-rays he took, declared me as suffering with lumbago.The next step was to go to the Accident and Emergency centre in Fuengirola, who referred me to the Costa del Hospital in Marbella. Here I was x-rayed again, and that doctor diagnosed me with back strain. Another incompetent. He prescribed some painkillers and said if it didn't get better, come back in a fortnight.
Being unsatisfied with that answer, I went to a private GP in Fuengirola, who sent to me to a specialist in Arroyo. He took x-rays, and said I had suffered a broken hip. At last, someone who knew what they were about.
When I asked what could be done, he said I needed hip replacement surgery. Being as I did not subscribe to the Spanish Social Security system, or have medical insurance, it would have to be done privately. The cost would be 12,000 euros.
Naturally I did not have that sort of money. As it was, every visit to these private doctors was expensive, and although my brother sent me some money, I was short of financial resource, as I could not work to the same capacity as previously. He also said, without an operation, I would end up in a wheelchair permanently.
A previous lodger broke an ankle and when he moved on, the crutches he had be supplied with were left behind. Very fortunate for me, as I could not move about without them.
The pain was awful, particularly in my left knee. I decided I would try the Clinico, the University Hospital in Malaga, saying I had this terrible pain and claiming I had no idea what was causing it.
I was x-rayed, diagnosed correctly, and informed that the top of the
femur bone had dislodged itself, and the lower part was now boring
itself a new placement in the pelvis. Because of this the leg was now
4cms shorter, all out of alignment with the knee joint, and the thigh
muscles had collapsed. I asked what could be done, and encouragingly
was told "Oh you will get a hip replacement operation."
Then started months of tests. Why they could not have all been done more or less at the same time I will never know, so it was a continuation of back and forth for this or that test, sometimes even to other hospitals or specialists.
The pain stabilised, but walking was very limited and I took to using a wheelchair to get about the house. By then I had a lodger who was a plasterer and he put me a shower unit in the downstairs loo, and I took to sleeping in an armchair in the lounge. Even laying on the sofa was too painful. The saving grace was, it freed-up the main bedroom with an en-suite which I could rent out at a good price, having the beautiful view from its balcony.
After all the tests were completed, I returned to the hospital, expecting to be given a date for surgery. Instead, the doctor confirmed I had a broken hip, said nothing about any op, and told me to stop smoking and drinking wine and give up salt in my diet. Big deal.
I regularly phoned the hospital to enquire if there was any progress with my operation date, each time being fobbed off with a different excuse why they were unable to give me an answer.
Because of inactivity I developed swollen legs - water retention, and a huge ulcer developed on my right ankle. I went to the hospital, where a sadistic bast***d of a doctor (obviously he had a dislike for foreigners) took delight in dealing with it as painfully as possible. I was almost in tears with the pain, and he just laughed and told me not to be so infantile.
It required daily dressing, this, first time, being done at the local A+E by a doctor, but subsequently had to be treated by a nurse. They would not give me a regular appointment, so I had to turn up every morning and wait in the queue to be seen.
The place opened at 8.30, the queue formed outside well before 8.00, giving you some idea of how long you had to wait. If you didn't arrive at a time to be amongst the first, it could easily be hours - for a simple dressing. After a couple of visits, I decided an alternative had to be implemented. Fortunately, at the time I had a lodger, Sue, who offered to take on the rather odious task, and I will always be grateful to her for that.
I also had a friend, a woman called Karen. I first met her years previous, soon after I arrived in Spain. Our paths crossed from time to time and when Gloria and I split-up, we saw more of each other. Nothing of a romantic nature, but we became very close 'mates'. She would come with me on the hospital visits, as, speaking good Spanish, she could talk easily with the staff.
When the ulcer came about, I was told at the hospital they wanted me to stay in overnight. Not expecting this, we were not prepared, and it simply was not possible. We had no money between us to enable her to get back home, so I had to refuse to stay, and was required to sign a form to that effect. This obviously went on my file, as, afterwards, I received no further information regarding any operation. I had been 'written off'.
Karen would visit every day, do shopping and help where needed, including dressing the ankle, which wept constantly. (I had been told it may never heal, but fortunately it has.)
I
contacted Social Services in England, and was informed they would not
help, as I had left the UK of my own free will, and had been away for
so long, the Spanish now were the responsible authority, but
as earlier said, I was just another foreigner living in their country,
so had no Spanish entitlements other than A&E services.
I contacted the UK Citizen's Advice Bureau to be told they only dealt with people living there, and referred me to the Ex Pats Bureau, but they were unable to help either. I was on my own. I did consider going back to England but not knowing how I would fare, decided to try sticking it out. At least I had the house, and most of the time sufficient lodgers to get the rent and bills paid.
However, mentally I had reached a very low ebb. I'd been down
before, but never like this. I had to lead a frugal lifestyle, but now
I was also physically handicapped, and when that happens to someone who
has always been very active, it is a devastating blow. Although I could
not invisage how things might pan out...where's there's life, there's hope, as they say, so I set about adapting my lifestyle to accommodate my circumstances.
The leg muscles became stronger, so whilst I couldn't walk far, and only with crutches, I could still drive a vehicle. As it so happened, a previous lodger moved on, but owed me a few week's rent, and to compensate, left me his Transit van. So at least I had transport. Although I could get about reasonably well in the wheelchair inside the house, sleeping in a chair in the lounge was hardly ideal, especially with lodgers and their visitors coming and going.
At the side of the building was a terrace, in the early days of occupancy I had part of this roofed, creating a workshop. A builder named Kevin came to lodge, the upshot being, I borrowed some money from Roy at the Bell and Bottle for materials, and in exchange for rent payments, Kevin built a couple of walls and roofed the remainder, (with the landlord's OK), thus creating a 38 square metre apartment. As the front had been in existence for a number of years, and visually only appeared to be a wall providing security, the modification attracted no attention. I already had run electric into the workshop so it was a relatively simple task to extend that, decorate and build a few shelves and worktops, install some furniture, and my own private domain was created.
Because of it being long and narrow-ish, I made the interior with open access all down one side so that I could easily move about in the wheelchair. It didn't have water piped in, or cooking facilities other than a fridge-freezer, microwave and coffee-maker, but by going through the house front door, just inside was the kitchen, and adjacent was the downstairs toilet and my shower.
Moving in here made life considerably more bearable, in fact it was very cosy. I had a bedroom at the far end, the middle was my living area-cum-computer room, this leading to a small kitchenette, and a reduced-size workshop. Outside was the front patio, hidden from view by two-metre high walls.
One of the most significant things I did around that time was to become a member of CouchSurf. This is an international organisation for travellers on a budget, and becoming a 'host' enabled me to meet many interesting people from all parts of the world. (I have written a separate short page about Couchsurf, as it is worthy of a special mention.)
Then started months of tests. Why they could not have all been done more or less at the same time I will never know, so it was a continuation of back and forth for this or that test, sometimes even to other hospitals or specialists.
The pain stabilised, but walking was very limited and I took to using a wheelchair to get about the house. By then I had a lodger who was a plasterer and he put me a shower unit in the downstairs loo, and I took to sleeping in an armchair in the lounge. Even laying on the sofa was too painful. The saving grace was, it freed-up the main bedroom with an en-suite which I could rent out at a good price, having the beautiful view from its balcony.
After all the tests were completed, I returned to the hospital, expecting to be given a date for surgery. Instead, the doctor confirmed I had a broken hip, said nothing about any op, and told me to stop smoking and drinking wine and give up salt in my diet. Big deal.
I regularly phoned the hospital to enquire if there was any progress with my operation date, each time being fobbed off with a different excuse why they were unable to give me an answer.
Because of inactivity I developed swollen legs - water retention, and a huge ulcer developed on my right ankle. I went to the hospital, where a sadistic bast***d of a doctor (obviously he had a dislike for foreigners) took delight in dealing with it as painfully as possible. I was almost in tears with the pain, and he just laughed and told me not to be so infantile.
It required daily dressing, this, first time, being done at the local A+E by a doctor, but subsequently had to be treated by a nurse. They would not give me a regular appointment, so I had to turn up every morning and wait in the queue to be seen.
The place opened at 8.30, the queue formed outside well before 8.00, giving you some idea of how long you had to wait. If you didn't arrive at a time to be amongst the first, it could easily be hours - for a simple dressing. After a couple of visits, I decided an alternative had to be implemented. Fortunately, at the time I had a lodger, Sue, who offered to take on the rather odious task, and I will always be grateful to her for that.
I also had a friend, a woman called Karen. I first met her years previous, soon after I arrived in Spain. Our paths crossed from time to time and when Gloria and I split-up, we saw more of each other. Nothing of a romantic nature, but we became very close 'mates'. She would come with me on the hospital visits, as, speaking good Spanish, she could talk easily with the staff.
When the ulcer came about, I was told at the hospital they wanted me to stay in overnight. Not expecting this, we were not prepared, and it simply was not possible. We had no money between us to enable her to get back home, so I had to refuse to stay, and was required to sign a form to that effect. This obviously went on my file, as, afterwards, I received no further information regarding any operation. I had been 'written off'.
Karen would visit every day, do shopping and help where needed, including dressing the ankle, which wept constantly. (I had been told it may never heal, but fortunately it has.)
I contacted the UK Citizen's Advice Bureau to be told they only dealt with people living there, and referred me to the Ex Pats Bureau, but they were unable to help either. I was on my own. I did consider going back to England but not knowing how I would fare, decided to try sticking it out. At least I had the house, and most of the time sufficient lodgers to get the rent and bills paid.
The leg muscles became stronger, so whilst I couldn't walk far, and only with crutches, I could still drive a vehicle. As it so happened, a previous lodger moved on, but owed me a few week's rent, and to compensate, left me his Transit van. So at least I had transport. Although I could get about reasonably well in the wheelchair inside the house, sleeping in a chair in the lounge was hardly ideal, especially with lodgers and their visitors coming and going.
At the side of the building was a terrace, in the early days of occupancy I had part of this roofed, creating a workshop. A builder named Kevin came to lodge, the upshot being, I borrowed some money from Roy at the Bell and Bottle for materials, and in exchange for rent payments, Kevin built a couple of walls and roofed the remainder, (with the landlord's OK), thus creating a 38 square metre apartment. As the front had been in existence for a number of years, and visually only appeared to be a wall providing security, the modification attracted no attention. I already had run electric into the workshop so it was a relatively simple task to extend that, decorate and build a few shelves and worktops, install some furniture, and my own private domain was created.
Because of it being long and narrow-ish, I made the interior with open access all down one side so that I could easily move about in the wheelchair. It didn't have water piped in, or cooking facilities other than a fridge-freezer, microwave and coffee-maker, but by going through the house front door, just inside was the kitchen, and adjacent was the downstairs toilet and my shower.
Moving in here made life considerably more bearable, in fact it was very cosy. I had a bedroom at the far end, the middle was my living area-cum-computer room, this leading to a small kitchenette, and a reduced-size workshop. Outside was the front patio, hidden from view by two-metre high walls.
The final blow came when my landlord announced he wanted to sell the house. There was no way I could afford to buy the place, even though he offered me a substantial discount, so I decided the only option left was to return to England and get myself back into the system, so after raising some money, I returned.
Looking back, I can recall other unexplainable events that have happened during my life, but, always considering myself as a logical person, dismissed them, either through lack of interest or knowledge. Now, when similar things occur, am questioning why, what and how.
She had to return to Ireland, where she lived, and we parted. That month dragged by. We spoke a number of times on the telephone, but the longer we were apart, the more I missed her. I could not explain it to myself. We had only met briefly, but here I was, to all intents and purposes, falling in love. It was not logical to my way of thinking, but although I am not religious in the normally accepted sense of the word, I do believe in fate, so, what was happening could only be deemed destiny.
The age difference did not matter - me a sexagenarian, she a vibrant forty-something. The restricted mobility aspect was not an issue. I cannot even say it was 'opposites attract' as, although we are certainly different in many ways, she has a brilliant mind and amazing knowledge on subjects I have not a clue about.
Our past lives were completely different. She had spent the previous 14 years without any romance, and a loveless marriage before that. I also did not realise at the time that the feelings I was developing for her were reciprocated.
When she came back, it would be trite to say the inevitable happened, as had been the case so many times before. The next couple of months were total bliss. Getting to know each other. Going places, Just being together and talking was everything I desired. Hours in her endearing company sped past like minutes. Even sleeping was regretted, being deprived of gazing into the face of somebody I had come to see as the most beautiful person on the planet.
Anyway, practicalities had to be considered, and my mobility and
physical capabilities were diminishing. I was receiving no help from
any source, so
Lisa suggested my best option was return with her to
Ireland and go through the procedures to become integrated into the
system there. So, in April, with the new love of my life
pushing my wheelchair, we boarded a flight to Dublin.
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