Bucko's World

As I write this you find me in a state of complete and utter shock. A state achieved by doing nothing more taxing then opening a letter and reading the contents therein. So stunned was I after having performed this rather everyday action, that I had to go and lie down with a damp flannel on my forehead to soothe the raging torrent of blood pounding through my temples. And the day was supposed to be one I was so looking forward to…

I was up bright and early and feeling giddy as a schoolgirl at the prospect of the big brown UPS van arriving with my latest purchase. I have, over the last few months, been diligently disposing of several items of unused guitar equipment I’ve accumulated over the years, in order to free up some space in the house, and allow myself a small budget for non-essential purchases that an unemployed layabout shouldn’t be asking his missus to buy for him. In this case it was……er……well, more guitar equipment……

Yes, having sold a guitar, two amps, and several effects pedals, I decided, as only I could, that what I really needed more than anything else in my life was another amplifier. To be fair, I am a little short of guitar amplification options. When the new one arrives, it will only mean FIVE guitar amps in our living room. Luckily, there’s another one upstairs and two in the garage….

So there I am like a small child on their birthday hopping from one foot to the other and trying by sheer will power to make the truck arrive. The letterbox goes and I run to it like an over excited puppy, only to find the usual selection of rubbish that the postie shoves through as if to somehow justify his existence in lieu of any real letters. Nestled amongst the usual tat offering two for one deals on pizza and bogof double glazing is a rather official looking letter. It is the opening of this letter that left me in the discombobulated state you find me in. Because, dear reader, the letter is about…

Money.

Filthy lucre.

The root of all evil.

Now before you get too excited and start writing me begging letters, I feel I should point out that no, my numbers haven’t come up on the premium bonds, and neither has some long lost uncle bequeathed me fortunes in his will. Most surprising of all is that it isn’t from that nice Nigerian lady I was corresponding with who promised to send £500,000 for letting her use my bank account details last year.

No, the letter was from the hospital. The one that spent six hours torturing me last week with needles, disgusting oral tests, and food and tea depravation that left me feeling limper than a Julian Clary handshake. Yes, the hospital that subjected me to all that has decided it wants to charge me for the privilege. It wants to charge me £1,520.88.

And so a day that started with much promise ends in shock and disappointment. When the UPS man eventually arrives, resplendent in chocolate brown and wheeling my long dreamt of amp on a trolley, I shall wave him away, back to the shop from whence he came, to return my lovely new amp untouched, safe in the knowledge that instead of me enjoying the finest tones American boutique amplification has to offer, my hard earned money will be keeping some evil syringe wielding bitch-Nurse in Chianti and fava beans for the foreseeable future. Arse….

I can think of better ways to while away a Friday than sitting there anxiously watching the clock tick by until it’s time to visit the Consultant to get your test results.

To be honest it’s been a bit of an anxious week all round. I had to drop a 24 hour urine test back to The Sloane by Monday, which meant I had to start collecting the sample on Sunday. No problem you, think, day of rest and all that, nice and easy. Except, of course, we had a long standing lunch arrangement with friends in deepest Kent. This entailed taking the containment vessel, already sloshing with a sample that would give a pint of London Pride a run for its money, along with a suitable funnel to aid collection, and package it all up in a rucksack for clandestine use later.

However, as you can no doubt imagine as soon as I leave the table for a pee and pick up my carefully placed rucksack one of the kids asks “Rob, why are you taking that to the toilet with you?” There’s very little option here but to come clean. “I’m taking it because there’s a container in here that I have to collect all my wee in.” Instant pariah status is assured with the hostess, and the chances of ever being invited back immediately reduce to zero. Still, every cloud….

Next up is a five hour glucose test at Chelsfield Park. This has already involved a “Nil by Mouth” since 8 o’clock on Monday night, and having pitched up at the hospital for a start at 8, the prospect of not even a drink of water for the next five hours is hardly enticing. A side effect of so long without water is that the doctor sent in to fit my cannula can’t find a vein. After to several minutes of painful prodding he eventually decides to shave a bald patch on to my arm and insert it just above my wrist. This means that for the entire length of the test the slightest movement of the hand is accompanied by a shooting pain up my arm. Please feel free to insert your own masturbation joke here.

After four vials have blood have been drawn I’m finally offered some liquid refreshment to soothe my parched lips. Unfortunately the drink proves to be a high glucose syrup leaving me feeling even thirstier than before if that’s possible.

I’m finally allowed a glass of water, and then follows a routine of two vials of blood being drawn every half hour, the first of which simply get thrown away, much to my chagrin. 18 of these later and we’re done. But rather than let us go home we have to eat first, and then sit round for another hour before we are released. By the time I get home, I’m exhausted.

Further interaction with the medical profession happens as early again as Thursday, when I attend Boots the Optician to see if I’m going to become a speccy four eyes, and need to beat myself up behind the bike sheds for the rest of my days. I get the most peculiar man checking my eyes out. As he puts various lens in and out of the glasses I’m wearing he asks me if it’s better or worse. No matter what I answer he replies “you’re the boss, it shows I’m listening.” This happens easily two dozen times and by the end of it I simply say yes to a pair of lenses that so blur my eyesight I can’t even see his office wall, just to get out of there.

And so Friday comes and I wander off to the Sloane to get my results. It seems I’m getting a huge spike in Insulin levels linked to my blood glucose levels dropping through the floor. Nice. Fortunately, this looks like it can be controlled by diet and various discussions follow as to what I can and cannot eat (and when) and how this effects my metabolism. “Look, Doc, all I’m really interested in is whether I can still drink wine or not.” Well roll out the red carpet and string up the bunting folks, the answer is a resounding yes! But no more beer, bugger.

However as you may guess, this isn’t the end of things, oh no. It appears my symptoms may be caused by two other problems. More tests will be required. For this, I’m required to do four, yes FOUR more 24 hour urine tests and, yes you’ve guessed it, give even more blood for testing. Really, I couldn’t make this up. I ask the Doc what he looking for with these tests. Surprisingly, he says he’ll only tell me if I promise not to look them up on the internet when I get home, as I’ll worry myself! Fingers crossed behind my back I say of course I won’t. He tells me what they are; one has a long complicated name and the other a long complicated name with the word carcinogenic in it somewhere. Basically it seems one kills you and the other one kills you really painfully. “But don’t worry” he tells me, “there’s only 1 case in a million of this every year, so don’t be anxious.” As the week began, so it ends.

When I became ill last year with heart palpitations and hot flushes, I went to my GP. She looked at my notes and referred me to a cardiologist at Chelsfield Park Hospital. He suggested I come and meet him at Blackheath Hospital where he performed Echo, ECG and treadmill tests and declared my heart was fine. He wired me up for a 24 hour ECG trace and sent me on my way.
When he’d analysed the trace he said I was “running fast” and suggested beta blockers to regulate this. He said he thought it was caused by me suffering from Vasovagel Syncope and packed me off to Chelsea & Westminster for a Tilt Test. All it did was prove I didn’t.
Next up, they think they know the answer – “You have a possible Adrenal Edema” and I was packed off the Queen Mary’s for a blood test, Kidney Echo test and a 24 hour urine test. All this did was prove I didn’t.
Following that, and after further analysis of my 24 hour trace, I’m advised that I have a Right Branch Bundle Block, which combined with my palpitations and fast running possibly means I have a hole in the heart. I get packed off to London Bridge Hospital where I’m given a general anaesthetic and made swallow a camera to look at the back of my heart while some toxic solution circulates in my veins. All this did was prove I didn’t, although on the plus side I did get some extremely nice sandwiches when I came round, and also got to pinch all the Molton Brown toiletries from the private room I was in.
Baffled, the docs suggested I went back to Blackheath and had some more blood tests. In the meantime, they put me on even more tablets for good measure. Lo and behold, once the blood test is back, they think they know what’s wrong with me! It’s low testosterone, and I’ll need to have an MRI scan on my brain so they can look at my Pituitary Gland, followed by a visit to an Endocrine specialist to sort out treatment.
I’m duly packed off to the Sloane to see yet another doctor, who declares that he does not believe I have low testosterone, as the test was done at the wrong time of day, but that he suspects I have Reactive Hypoglycaemia.
I now have to go to Chelsfield Park next week for a blood test, followed by a 5 hour glucose level test and then yet another 24 hour piss test. It’s been 9 months, 6 hospitals, 8 visits to my GP, 7 visits to the Cardiologist and, so far, 1 to the Endocrine specialist. I have had more examinations than a GCSE student, got more needle marks on my arms then Slash and Duff put together and rattle more than a Sally Army collection tin on Christmas Eve and still they don’t know what’s wrong with me.
By now you’re no doubt thinking what a disgraceful organisation the NHS is, but the biggest problem with all of this, is that it’s all been Private and the service has still been shit! If I hadn’t spent hours on the phone, written dozens of emails and letters and basically taken arranging all the treatment into my own hands, they’d probably still be treating me for low blood pressure! They’re sure now they’re on the right track now and that next week’s tests will be the last – but you know, I wouldn’t put my house on it………