Where some uppers may have done the trick my GP, in her wisdom, sent me on a downer: to the hospital. There, the junior doctor thought me interesting. I wished she hadn’t. After reading this, you might agree.
Moments after meeting Little Miss Keen, and her boss, in the Hospital bottom department, both their faces were in closer proximity to my rear end than I was strictly comfortable with. But that wasn’t the low point. It went so much lower. Like when they realised the camera exploring my innards wasn’t working and Little Miss Keen says, in all seriousness, ‘it did that earlier, just wiggle the top to get it going again’. They wiggled. It didn’t respond. For once, words failed me.
“I’ll put a sheet over you while we grab some working equipment” said the boss. Except what with all the cuts and everything NHS housekeeping now only extends to pillowcases. While he was off in search of working kit, and with a pillowcase in place of dignity, and a horrible feeling that I might fall off the trolley at any moment, I tried to be my own advocate: I firmly believed there was nothing much wrong with me, that a sheet and a quick exit wouldn’t fix. They were having none of it. Fear crept in with a machine sounding like an industrial leaf blower, which they assured me, would soon sort me out. It’s a sorry fact that they don’t have a machine to remove embarrassment. I’d pay extra for that.
I quick trawl of t’net is a dangerous thang: I bypassed the You Tube video of the next treat they had in store for me. I saw a line about occult blood and the vampire nightmare made sense. But that’s what a restricted diet does to a girl.
Day 1 of what the doctor ordered left a bad taste in my mouth and I was definitely out of sorts without my morning oats. I had terrible cravings for bananas and nuts. Captain Chaos spent an age peeling a fresh juicy orange and eating it at my desk. I had 57 varieties of tea, jazzed up with a coffee, some fizzy pop, and daring of daring do, Bovril (not one I’d recommend). Lashings of salt did nowt to improve the flavour of the rubber on cardboard supper. In hindsight girl’s night was a mistake as it doesn't take much hooch to see a near starved woman off her face.
Day 2: Plain white rice with Bovril is tasty. Who knew? Not that I would ever choose it again. A little irritation creeps in.
Day 3: No solids. Some special sachets from the evil doctors. Full blown grumpiness. I become Bovril’s top fan.
Day 4: Today, a real charmer administers a drug similar to the one used in date rape whilst, four to five feet of my empty innards are inflated, examined, and my biggest fear, recorded, (hopefully not to be seen on You Tube any time soon). Apparently chatting throughout, I, thankfully, have no recollection of the following half hour. Discover what economists are on about when they say inflation can go up as well as down.
It’s not all bad, I’ve been dopey most of the day and I’ve been given the all clear.
And, food never tasted so good.
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