The surgery to amputate my right leg, which I’d hoped would have happened by now, clearly isn’t going to, not least because my surgeon has chickened out (while absurdly trying to blame me for “changing my mind”). That is simply not true.
NB: Ulcer photos – don’t click through if squeamish.
I’ve enhanced the colour to make it a bit clearer. The ulcer is mottled yellow, the leg below and the foot above, pink. Between the two, on the left, there’s a semicircle of deeper pink tissue at which the arrows are pointing – that’s blood. Some days it’s more obvious than others.
Trigger warning – suicide mentioned.
Next Tuesday morning an event that has taken two years of incessant pleading and nagging will finally happen – I get to meet a vascular surgeon who has expressed a willingness, no doubt hedged about by caveats, to possibly amputate my right leg below the knee.
Actually, that crisis was brought about by an unwillingness on the part of my GP to prescribe effective analgesia. In the end I had to go over his head to the senior partner in the practice. By then it had taken a year.
My GP was – probably still is – convinced that a effective dose of morphine would shut down my breathing reflex. True, it might, but might is a universe away from will, yet he treated me as if possibility equalled certainty, and it does not.