Looking into Holes: Part one

 About a week ago I was in a state of panic. I’d booked a cottage in South Wales for my wife and family and I was feeling very very ill. It was Sunday and I’d prepared dinner for the extended family but I felt so awful I dragged myself upstairs and left everyone to it. I was exhausted, worn down with a nasty chest infection and it wasn’t until the Monday morning, having slept 14 hours, that I felt well enough to get up. I made my wife, and my son who is staying with us at the moment, breakfast; I’m retired and the other guys work so it’s the least I can do. 

I thought, as the day went on I was mounting a bold recovery but by Monday evening I was back to square one. After a fitful night I recovered my energy a little again but it was clear I wasn’t going to shake the bug off. I called the doctor a couple of times but by the time I got through it was late afternoon and I was told my only option was to book a telephone appointment for the next day. I was in a foul mood, I just wanted antibiotics. Why was this so hard? I called 911 and was asked which service. I hadn’t realised the new nhs direct line was 111. So after about 40 minutes I got through to NHS Direct. Questions followed and duly answered. Call returned and then returned again, finally by a Paramedic. By this point I’m fractious and good people are getting fracted. My wife was asked if I had a temperature but she said I was always hot so it was hard to tell. The paramedic said I needed to get to the hospital, there were no available ambulances, but I really didn’t feel like driving and didn’t want to be stranded in a £1000 a minute parking bay if things didn’t pan out. My wife wasn’t on the car insurance and my son had borrowed my wife’s car that day so it was Uber.

I’ve never used an Uber; I’m beginning to look like a rather helpless refugee from the 90s but really I think I’ve just increasingly become frustrated with a world that is changing around me in ways I don’t feel  have made life easier. My son called an Uber and I was in the hospital A&E at 6pmish on Tuesday. I delivered the paramedic’s mantra that I should be prioritised because they believed I had a rising temperature. At 7pm I was still waiting but my son, who for various complicated reasons, had left his mum’s car at work, had run from his apartment to the hospital and met me in the waiting room.

At this point I must say I had pretty much lost my voice and could only whisper; that had hampered me for a few hours now. Anyway I was delighted to see him because I needed a translator. At 8 a triage nurse called me in and reluctantly let me in with my son “not normally allowed”. My son tried to explain my journey from cold to chest infection but when I interrupted with a strangled whisper the nurse exclaimed “so it can speak”. My son was asked to leave, running the two miles back to his apartment. I don’t think he’ll leave the car at work again. 

I immediately felt down; my son is good company and now all I could think was they could end up admitting me here. I’m wearing these nasty old jeans and it just reminded me of my grandmothers advice that you should always wear clean underpants just in case. My temperature was off the scale; 39.4C. Tests followed, needles in, wheeled to X-ray and back. Then excited chattering outside my cubicle “I’ve no idea what’s going on in there” “that’s a lot of white cells”. I slowly felt my whole body contract; were they talking about me?

Suddenly the curtains were thrown open and a lady who looked like the sassy engineer in the new Netflix Enterprise series; smart, about 60, focussed, was staring at me.

 “ hi! did you hear us talking outside about white cells?” 

“Yes” I whimpered

“Do  you know what that means?”

“Cancer?

“Yes! It’s not the best news but it is very treatable. I’m afraid you won’t be going home just yet. We need to do more tests. Don’t worry. We know what we’re doing”

“Well I certainly don’t” I thought to myself.