With my hips growing ever worse, I was left in constant pain.
Nothing seemed to ease or take it away. Finally, I admitted defeat – I needed medical intervention. The following morning, I rang the doctor I’d seen a few years earlier and enquired about having a hip replacement.
‘It’s Pat Stewart,’ I told him. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Please could you refer me for that hip operation as soon as possible? I’ve been a complete fool!’
A short time later, I visited a specialist for my consultation and, a fortnight after that, in July 2014, I finally had my left hip replaced. I asked the surgeon if he could squeeze me in before he went away on his holiday because I realised just how silly I’d been to put it off. It felt so amazing to finally be pain-free in my left hip that I asked to be booked in for the right hip just five weeks later. I was worried I’d have to be admitted to an old people’s home but I recovered well. Of course, I also had all my friends and family to rally around after me. With my new hips, I felt like a new woman and now there was no stopping me!
During my recuperation, I had Stephen take me shopping.
‘What for, Mum?’ he said, wondering what on earth an eighty-two-year-old woman could possibly want or need so desperately.
I looked up at him with a steely determination.
‘A pair of stilettos. I want a pair of stiletto heels!’
With Stephen’s help, I pushed my feet into my new shoes and pulled myself up out of my wheelchair. I refused to back down or give up.
‘For God’s sake, Mum!’ Stephen gasped as my legs began to tremble and wobble beneath me. ‘Sit down now! You look like bloody Minnie Mouse!’
A smirk spread across my face because I knew that I wasn’t out – not by a long chalk.
I’m convinced all my years training as a professional ballet dancer did my hips no favours. In fact, when the surgeon finally went in, he found that both my hips had completely disintegrated. But bones or plastic, my new hips had given me a new lease of life. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do everything I’d done before, but at least I would be able to enjoy a pain-free life and all it had to offer.
One day, following my final hip operation, I was given some literature on how look after my ‘new hips’.
‘You’ll need to call Social Services to see about receiving some occupational therapy. You’ll also need some disability aides. Here, this is the number you need to call,’ the medical worker said, handing me a leaflet.
Later that afternoon, I picked up the telephone and dialled the number. The gentleman on the other end of the telephone was very helpful indeed.
‘I just need to take your name and address,’ he asked.
‘Yes, of course. My name is Pat Stewart.’
Suddenly, the man interrupted me.
‘Sorry, did you say your name is Pat Stewart?’ he asked.
‘Yes, why? Do you know me?’ I asked, wondering if he was related to someone in my village.
‘Oh, yes, I know who you are,’ he laughed. ‘You’re the famous Pat Stewart. You’re the girl in the spotty dress!’