I was looking forward to 2025. I had been fairly active in 2024. Gregor had got married, and I had watched him win a dozen races as he prepared to run the Tokyo and then the Berlin Marathons and also get selected to run for Scotland in an international event. I visited London on several occasions, and had a trip to Euro Disney and Paris with Eva and family. I had visited my brother and sister, and they had visited me on a couple of occasions. I had established regular lunch engagements with two sets of former work colleagues. I had written several papers and been involved in recorded video conversations for the Mercat Group and had been invited to give evidence at a Scottish Parliament Committee.
I had kept up my regular morning exercise routine of climbing local hills and made good progress towards climbing a second round of Wainwright hills in the Lake District. I climbed more Munros and other hills in Scotland than at any time since 2018. Some of these were alone, some with trips with John and Keith, and I helped Anna climb some of the more remote Munros as she neared her completion. I even managed to keep the house and garden in reasonable shape, including building an entrance wall to the drive in local stone with a profile that was a facsimile of Laithach, my favourite Munro.
My plans for 2025 were evolving. I hoped to complete the Wainwrights, and having reached a 100 Munros on what I had promised would not be a sixth round of Munros, I began to think it might just be worth giving it a shot. John had 12 Munros to go to compleat his fourth round, and they included favourite areas Fisherfield and Glen Affric. Anna had 8 to go, including Glen Affric and Mullardoch, and Keith was charging on towards a sixth round and had suggested that we make a visit to Skye, where I still had 8 Munros to climb. Together with a couple of trips north - South Cluanie and the Fannaichs- I could get to 150 Munros by the end of 2025, the tipping point for what was intended as an unintended round. I had also been hankering for a trip to Istanbul for several years and intended to buy a Gravel Bike to compensate for the fact that I was no longer running very regularly because of what turned out to be a failing hip.
I had a good January, when I was exercising most days, even when it was frozen during the first week. Things turned for the worse in February. I had what I thought was a cold at the start of the month and struggled when I went to the Lakes with Keith and John. We climbed 8 Wainwrights, but I was struggling to keep up; my breathing was difficult. The next week I spent in London, but could hardly raise the energy to go out and shivered in the cold, damp conditions, and all my muscles were aching. Returning home, I felt no better, and the GP thought I had a viral infection; he prescribed antibiotics for the first time since long before Covid. I had also started coughing blood in the morning, and he arranged blood tests for me to take with the nurse at the surgery. Unusually, because of how I was feeling, I had no plans for March, so immediately after my morning blood tests, I went to the travel agent and booked my long-promised trip to Istanbul. The timing was perfect, and I was there 3 days later in a spell of sunny weather before the crowds arrived.
It was a good trip, although it required walking 25,000 steps a day to take in all the mosques, ferries and settlements strung along the Bosphorus. I was following my standard approach on all holidays and trying to maximise activities on every day. On returning, I was referred to a respiratory consultant, who, after various scans and tests, concluded that I had inflammation of the lungs and prescribed steroids. If anything, my muscle problems were amplified, and my GP decided that I should ease off the steroids. I had to apologise to John for not being able to go to Glen Affric or Fisherfield during March and April during spells of remarkable weather.
I decided to do some projects in the garden, like resetting the patio and chopping down some dead trees, but I seldom had the energy or the inclination to make much progress. I bought a robot lawnmower to reduce the need to spend 6 hours a week cutting the lawns, and got a local farmer to cut down th dead willow trees alongside the burn. I had slowed down and broken my lifelong obsession with being a doer, reluctant to bring in people to do jobs that I could tackle. I had virtually given up any attempt to walk/run up my local micro hills and even made my last attempt at Lime Craig. Shopping trips were my only source of exercise other than when the family came up in May, and I managed a cycle ride in Gravelfoyle.
My respiratory consultant had become a friend after he discovered that I had run marathons and adventure races, and we had similar times for the marathon. He was keen to get me sorted and back on the hills. Alas, because a National Treatment Centre extension to Forth Valley Hospital, which would host an extra scanner and operating theatre for hips and knees, had fallen eighteen months behind. schedule, he had to send me to the Jubilee Hospital in Clydebank for my scans. This added another three months of waiting. There had been an impasse between Forth Valley Hospital, NHS Scotland and the contractor over who pays for the additional costs resulting from a badly specified contract. In the meantime, patient flow at the hospital is as bad as ever, and as the year ends, I am still waiting for an appointment.
By June, my GP had concluded that my muscle problems were focused on a dodgy hip that meant I could no longer put on my left sock. I was sent for an X-ray, and it was found that the cartilage in my left hip was worn away. I was referred to the orthopaedics department; the consultant had no hesitation in putting me on the list for a new hip. I was given the impression that it would be 9 months or so, but I could go on the cancellation list, and that might save some time. Walking more than a mile was becoming difficult, probably made worse by climbing hills in the Lake District and Corfu in July, when my mantra had become 'mind over matter'when it came to exercise.
The deterioration was accelerating by August as I began to limp and cut out most activities. I was not going out, confined to the house apart from a visit to the theatre and a couple of lunchtime sessions with former colleagues. It gave me time to write a report on revitalising local democracy that got published by Enlighten, Scotland's think tank, and I was interviewed by Radio Scotland. By October, I was frustrated and phoned to get an estimate of my hip operation. I was 160th on the consultant's list, and it would probably be a year away.
I spoke to my GP, who advised me to go private if I could afford it, as my muscle tone would further diminish over a year, and that could represent a significant proportion of my remaining active life. I asked if he could advise any names, and he gave me a couple whom he knew. I phoned King's Park Hospital the next day, got an appointment 3 days later, and was scheduled for an operation 6 weeks later. I could recuperate over Christmas and hopefully get going in the Spring. The consultant I had chosen had checked my records when I visited him, and he had discovered that I had an X-ray in 2019 for a lower back problem and that it showed my hip would have justified a replacement at that time had the X-ray been properly diagnosed. It may explain why I have found running difficult in recent years.
Family and friends were pleased with my decision, although I felt I was cheating on the NHS, which I had barely used in my working life. Was I being selfish, and why did the Forth Valley Hospital seem incapable of operating efficiently or reducing waiting times? Aileen had suffered the same incompetence when she was admitted to hospital, and it took 5 weeks before she had a scan that revealed Type 4 cancer.
In preparation for the operation, I converted a downstairs room into a recovery ward. You only spend 24 hours after the operation in the hospital before you are released. I asked John, my brother-in-law and retired GP and his wife, Bridget, if they would ferry me to the hospital and back and look after me for the first few days. The operation seemed to go well; the professionalism of the consultant surgeon and anaesthetist was exceptional, as was the care and attention to detail of the two Nepalese nurses. I was made to stand and put weight on my leg within 5 hours of the operation and had to walk a hundred metres on crutches and climb some steps the next morning before I was released.
Arriving home, I was tired for the first few days; the painkillers helped, but sleeping on my back was a trial. I had several visitors, but my sleep-deprived brain fog did not let me enjoy their company. The swelling on my left buttock gave me an asymmetric bottom that made visiting the toilet a bit of a trial. Bridget stayed for 6 days, and then John stayed another week, when, to both our surprises, he discovered his latent culinary skills. Christmas brought my daughter and family for a week, and I was again dependent on others to prepare meals and do all the Christmassy things. I was off the crutches and walking up the stairs by the time they left, and taking a daily walk around the garden, even in the frosty conditions, although I was taking a walking pole to negotiate the path down to the burn.
So 2025 is almost over, let it go.
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