16 May 2008
Neyull! Come and feel my leg

We were both gripped by the programme we were watching. My body was tense as I hung on every word. I know when Mrs H is concentrating hard because she breathes intermittently. I'm sure this can't be good for her but at least it keeps her quiet.

But suddenly she leapt up and began running on the spot. Then she started jumping up and down and rubbing her leg.

Ah, I thought, pins and needles. That'll teach her to assume the full lotus position while she is watching telly.

All the time she was gyrating she stared at the screen as if nothing was going to deflect her from the enjoyment of the programme.

When her aerobics persisted I began to lose track of what was happening on the television. It's not easy to concentrate when an adjacent human being appears to be rehearsing for a part in Riverdance so I asked her what was up.

“My foot is numb and right up to above my knee,” she said, pulling a face.

At this point I began to get a bit worried. She paused briefly so I could try massaging the leg to get the circulation going. But it was to no avail and Mrs H took to leaping around like a demented wallaby in an effort to kick start the blood flow.

It was at this stage that options of what to do next coursed through my mind. Should we call the doctor? An ambulance maybe? Leap in the car and rush to A&E?

Mrs H is eminently sensible on these occasions. In the past, when she's been beset by a piercing migraine, I've been about to summon the flying doctor but she has scaled me down to giving it a bit of time. Invariably she is right but this time, clearly she was a bit worried - and so was I.

Mrs H is a walking medical dictionary so she began a self-diagnosis.

“There aren't any other symptoms,” she declared. “I'm sure it's nothing serious like a stroke.”

By now it was midnight. The TV Programme had long since played itself out in the background. Neither of us was comfortable with Mrs H's situation.

“Let's Call NHS Direct,” I suggested.

To my surprise Mrs H agreed. Taking my advice is virtually unheard of at Fortress H so I knew she was concerned.

I was sent from the room while she made the call. Rather than pace up and down I got into bed. I could hear the burble of Mrs H's voice and, to take my mind off what was going on, I settled down to read.

Suddenly I was jerked back to reality as the door to the north wing was flung open.

“NEYULL! Come and feel my leg.”

After decades of marriage invitations like that don't come too often. But the urgency in Mrs H's voice had me out of bed and downstairs in one swift movement.

I arrived to find her clutching the phone with one hand and squeezing her leg with the other.

“You've got to feel it to see if there are any cold or hot parts. And look for any white patches or any of an unusual hue”

There we were, in the Fortress lounge, me on my knees grabbing at parts of Mrs H's leg, her bent double monitoring my every move while giving a running commentary to the lady from NHS Direct.

“No, my husband can't feel anything abnormal,” she reported.

Did she have to confirm it was her husband feeling her leg?

I was allowed to stay for the rest of the call, where Mrs H, under instruction, prodded various parts of her foot and leg relaying the sensations to Florence Nightingale.

Eventually, we were reassured that it was nothing serious but Mrs H was to go to the doctor the following day.

In fact, I should say here that the service from NHS Direct was exemplary. The phone call was some twenty five minutes in length; it was thorough and conducted in a highly professional manner.

Mrs H went to the doctor who prodded far more expertly than me.

“Cor!” Mrs H reported. “When she touched a place on my foot, I nearly went through the ceiling.”

Wonder why I couldn't find that spot.

For those with a thirst for medical knowledge the doctor thought it most likely to be Morton's neuroma. No, we'd never heard of it either. Apparently it is a thickening of the tissue around one of the digital nerves leading to your toes and can be caused by such things as injury or pressure from incorrect footwear.

Mrs H insists it has nothing to do with her persisting in wearing a pair of favourite boots which are long past their walk-by date. Even the shoe mender protested at having to heel them when they last went in for repair.

She is recovering slowly. Meanwhile I eagerly await a reversal of what happened that night; her in bed and me in the north wing.

“Neyull! Come and feel my leg.”