Thursday, August 17, 2006
Hospital
Whilst the thought of a woman asking me to take off my shirt before proceeding to rub KY jelly into my chest is a rather exciting one, the nearest this has come to happening to me is during the wee small hours recently, in that tiny gap between sleep and wake. The woman involved was a busty blonde sort, wearing a duck-egg blue PVC nurse’s outfit, and she was attempting to smother me with her ample charms whilst covering me with a cool liquid goo of some sort…. but then of course you wake up to find it’s only your Chillow over your face and during all your writhing around you’ve succeeded in pulling the stopper out and covering yourself in its liquid gel innards…..
And then fantasy becomes reality, and as we all know it never works out quite how you imagined it………
I may already have mentioned how I believe that at 40 your body starts to give up on you. So it was with no surprise that, way back in February my heart decided that it had had enough of its boring boom-boom boom-boom lifestyle and instead decided it preferred to now play the intro to We Will Rock You. It was rather disconcerting I can tell you, and it seemed its favourite time to do this was just as you laid down to sleep. So off to the Docs I went……
Can you believe my surprise when she told me I had to detox for two weeks as she thought I had caffeine poisoning??? Apparently six cups of rosie-lee a day is far too much, added to the fact the I had been celebrating my 40th for 3 months by that point, and she said it was time to stop. So two weeks off coffee (ok), fizzy drinks (pah!) tea (er, what really???) and alcohol (noooooo……) were on the cards. Plus an ECG and blood sample down the hospital..
Two weeks went past and I’m back at the Docs. Blood pressure fine, bad cholesterol a bit high, good cholesterol very good etc etc. But the ECG shows an “incomplete electrical pathway” in my right upper ventricle. No, I don’t know what it means either. Upshot is I require a 24 hour ECG trace and that means a visit to the hospital, four-six weeks to get an appointment. Brilliant, I could be dead in that time, I mean, I’ve got an incomplete pathway fer chrissakes!!
Four to six weeks actually became 4 months and the truth about this is is that it’s deliberate. Face it, if anything’s seriously wrong with a patient, they would have pegged it by then, and if not, there is obviously going to be nothing seriously wrong with them and the NHS have saved a bundle on needless tests. It’s a win-win situation for them. Handfuls of lovely readies to be stashed with all the money they’ve saved not cleaning the wards anymore. Brilliant
So eventually get a letter from them suggesting I go in for the trace was amazing – it means I’m still ok!
Strangely when I pitch up at the hospital, to be given a lovely cup of full caffeine tea served by the even more lovely Doris, I’m shown in to see a consultant. He reads the letter from my doctor, listens to my heart through his liquid-nitrogen cooled stethoscope, and declares “There’s nothing wrong with you.” That’s it. 4 months of waiting for 30 seconds of some bloke’s time to tell me I’m fine. The money they’ve saved themselves must be bulging out from under the mattresses of every patient, if any are allowed in, by this time……He does suggest I come in for an Echo Cardiogram, and the 24 hour trace if necessary, and then I’m on my way. I’m not sure what happened to my incomplete electrical pathway, obviously someone has decided to finish it since my last appointment.
And so my date with destiny arrives via a phone call. Would I be available for an appointment for an ECG at short notice? Of course. Tomorrow night at five o’clock? Eh? No way, during work tome or not at all thank you very much!
So I’m lead into a room where a nurse is standing with her back to me and the fateful words are spoken “Take off your shirt and lie on the bed please.” Wa-hey! I do as instructed and can see she has a tube of something cool and clear in her hands, this seems like it’s going to be fun. And then it all goes wrong. The angel in white turns round and makes her way towards me, lube-in-hand, disposable gloves at the ready to give me a good old massaging. My pulse quickens and the thought crosses my mind that perhaps getting a stiffy could inadvertently affect my reading and self-control is required. Think – all the stations on the circle line in order? Name the Discworld novels of Terry Pratchett in order, including graphic novels? All the league football grounds in order, from premiership down? All this turns out to be pointless worrying as the nurse finally come in to view, and my heart sinks. Please all meet Nurse Molly Malone, 65 if she’s a day, with a face containing more lines than an Ordenance Survey map of the Brecon Beacons, possibly the oldest woman to touch me since my Grandmother caught hold of my arm on my wedding day 14 years ago. As I said, things never work out quite how you imagine.
And then fantasy becomes reality, and as we all know it never works out quite how you imagined it………
I may already have mentioned how I believe that at 40 your body starts to give up on you. So it was with no surprise that, way back in February my heart decided that it had had enough of its boring boom-boom boom-boom lifestyle and instead decided it preferred to now play the intro to We Will Rock You. It was rather disconcerting I can tell you, and it seemed its favourite time to do this was just as you laid down to sleep. So off to the Docs I went……
Can you believe my surprise when she told me I had to detox for two weeks as she thought I had caffeine poisoning??? Apparently six cups of rosie-lee a day is far too much, added to the fact the I had been celebrating my 40th for 3 months by that point, and she said it was time to stop. So two weeks off coffee (ok), fizzy drinks (pah!) tea (er, what really???) and alcohol (noooooo……) were on the cards. Plus an ECG and blood sample down the hospital..
Two weeks went past and I’m back at the Docs. Blood pressure fine, bad cholesterol a bit high, good cholesterol very good etc etc. But the ECG shows an “incomplete electrical pathway” in my right upper ventricle. No, I don’t know what it means either. Upshot is I require a 24 hour ECG trace and that means a visit to the hospital, four-six weeks to get an appointment. Brilliant, I could be dead in that time, I mean, I’ve got an incomplete pathway fer chrissakes!!
Four to six weeks actually became 4 months and the truth about this is is that it’s deliberate. Face it, if anything’s seriously wrong with a patient, they would have pegged it by then, and if not, there is obviously going to be nothing seriously wrong with them and the NHS have saved a bundle on needless tests. It’s a win-win situation for them. Handfuls of lovely readies to be stashed with all the money they’ve saved not cleaning the wards anymore. Brilliant
So eventually get a letter from them suggesting I go in for the trace was amazing – it means I’m still ok!
Strangely when I pitch up at the hospital, to be given a lovely cup of full caffeine tea served by the even more lovely Doris, I’m shown in to see a consultant. He reads the letter from my doctor, listens to my heart through his liquid-nitrogen cooled stethoscope, and declares “There’s nothing wrong with you.” That’s it. 4 months of waiting for 30 seconds of some bloke’s time to tell me I’m fine. The money they’ve saved themselves must be bulging out from under the mattresses of every patient, if any are allowed in, by this time……He does suggest I come in for an Echo Cardiogram, and the 24 hour trace if necessary, and then I’m on my way. I’m not sure what happened to my incomplete electrical pathway, obviously someone has decided to finish it since my last appointment.
And so my date with destiny arrives via a phone call. Would I be available for an appointment for an ECG at short notice? Of course. Tomorrow night at five o’clock? Eh? No way, during work tome or not at all thank you very much!
So I’m lead into a room where a nurse is standing with her back to me and the fateful words are spoken “Take off your shirt and lie on the bed please.” Wa-hey! I do as instructed and can see she has a tube of something cool and clear in her hands, this seems like it’s going to be fun. And then it all goes wrong. The angel in white turns round and makes her way towards me, lube-in-hand, disposable gloves at the ready to give me a good old massaging. My pulse quickens and the thought crosses my mind that perhaps getting a stiffy could inadvertently affect my reading and self-control is required. Think – all the stations on the circle line in order? Name the Discworld novels of Terry Pratchett in order, including graphic novels? All the league football grounds in order, from premiership down? All this turns out to be pointless worrying as the nurse finally come in to view, and my heart sinks. Please all meet Nurse Molly Malone, 65 if she’s a day, with a face containing more lines than an Ordenance Survey map of the Brecon Beacons, possibly the oldest woman to touch me since my Grandmother caught hold of my arm on my wedding day 14 years ago. As I said, things never work out quite how you imagine.
# posted by Bucko! @ 6:29 AM 
