sickypoos part 3

Like I said, I've never been in hospital, not properly.
There are certain standard jokes to be found in films like "Carry on Doctor or any hospital scene that will always guarantee a laugh.
I'm about to go through a classic comedy moment here, I thought to myself as the pretty young doctor tugged, bravely at my jeans to expose my shamefully unwashed buttocks.
Ironically the last thing I wanted to do was laugh as she stood back a little and looked away to take a clean breath of air while she 'lubed-up' her finger.
I wish I'd fallen in the lake now, at least it would have washed me off a bit, I added to my inner voice as she grabbed my upper cheek with her un-gloved hand and lifted it slightly.
We both braced ourselves and I swear I can still hear her whisper under her breath to herself, "so you wanted to be a doctor eh? before she boldly plunged her finger where no finger has ever plunged before.
It didn't hurt, well maybe it did but it didn't hurt enough to register over the screams of my general condition at that time and if you've ever wondered, well all I can say is that it feels like nature in reverse.
Soon, but nowhere near soon enough, it was over and she quickly pushed my jeans back up and left with a quick, "all done.
I felt Sarah's hand on my head.
"Whatever they're paying doctors these days, it's nowhere near enough. She said. She was right and I suddenly developed a much greater respect for G.Ps.
It didn't last long.
As I lay there I tried to think of what else might be in store for me. My mind ran through all the possible further 'hospital classics' that people tell in pubs and that appear in countless T.V sketches. I'd already had the 'finger up the backside' so I could tick that one off the list. The majority revolved around giving birth and, in spite of what my body was telling me, that wasn't going to happen so I ended up with a top three. Three 'classics' that filled me with dread but that I calculated, purely on the laws of averages, were unlikely to happen to me tonight. I mean, I've already had one to tell the grandkids about surely you only get one per visit. Right?
Six minutes.
Within six minutes all three had happened.
First: "The incompetent student doctor.
He rushed in and it was obvious he was running on coffee fumes alone.
"Right mister¦ he checked a chart, "Tomlinson. How are we feeling? He proceeded to pull a tray alongside himself without waiting for a response from anyone and lifted my wrist.
"'Scuse me, Sarah put a hand out, "Watson, this is Mr. Watson.
He didn't even pause.
"Oh right, yes, sorry. He continued to push my sleeve up and rub my wrist with his thumb. I started to panic. Sarah put a hand out again but didn't get a chance to speak as he blurted out, "Watson, yes, Watson, that's what it says on the chart, don't worry.
He might as well have said 'do the splits' for all the good it did because as he said it he reached to his tray and lifted a needle as thick as his shaking fingers and blew across the top of it like a gunslinger then threw me a cheeky wink which his 'bedside manner for beginners' pamphlet had probably assured him would 'put the patient at ease'.
I wanted to shout. I wanted to get up and run and never look back. I wanted to, at least, ask him to check the chart again because he'd clearly just read someone else's name on it and it and proceeded to just 'carry on doctor' in a way that involved pushing a hollow tree into my wrist and from the look of him I wouldn't have trusted him to flip burgers without an adult on standby. Unfortunately my ability to speak was removed from me along with the blood from my face as I felt the black mist of a feint rolling up my eyes again. I swayed my head and tried to tell Sarah to prepare for evacuation of some kind but all I could say was "hnn g'na b' s'k, and I was gone.
I came around in time to see my blood draw a line up the coat and face of the fumbling idiot at my bedside as the needle bent almost to breaking point due to him trying to force it straight through solid bone. I was gone again.
Moments later I came round again to find I'd been sick on myself and not in the papier-mâché bowler hat that Sarah was holding at my cheek . The good doctor was gone leaving a blood covered tap sticking out of my over-plastered wrist.
Tick another off the list. Well at least it was over and anyway, it could have been worse. It could have been the one that we men have to laugh extra loudly at during any comedy set in either a hospital or the army. It could have been 'cough'.
Second: "cough.
Now, before we go any further I should state that there isn't a racist bone in my body. I'm not one to reinforce racial stereotypes in any way and I don't believe in myths or buy into ignorant misconceptions. However. When the third largest black man you've ever seen enters the room and proceeds, with a knowing smile, to gently turn you onto your back and pull your still unfastened jeans down again you start to feel more than a little inadequate before his eyebrows have even raised in mild amusement. By the time he's gently changed the side towards which you dress like an angler flicking past the top specimens in his bait box to find something more substantial, you half expect him to end his next question with the word 'madam'. By the time he finally becomes the first and only man to roll certain bits of you around between his massive fingers like a schoolboy preparing a bogey for flicking, you don't want to just cough, you want to cry and pray he can hold back the laughter until he's well out of earshot and sharing a joke with the rest of the Globetrotters.
It's ironic but I always imagined that if a doctor ever had my bits in his hands I'd spend the time desperately thinking of my mum, or logarithms, or anything that would guarantee a total lack of sexual connotation. As it turned out a small part of me was cursing another small part of me with 'come on, you can do better than that!' but it was impossible. I just had to lie there and allow things to take their humbling course.
Only one left and, if the previous minutes of hell were anything to go by, it was a dead cert. It was as if I was willing it to happen just to prove I was in a nightmare of my own making. As if I'd been building up to meet my nemesis with a few minor trials
It's the 'needle-a-phobics' worst nightmare. The scene where we have to look away and everybody winces.
Third: "Butt cheek kebab.
The nurse looked friendly enough as she passed the exiting doctor, presumably on his way back to the green mile, but the five inch lance she held aloft certainly didn't. It shone like Excalibur and I could hear the air swoosh around it as she swung it into view with a smile.
"Hello mister Watson. She smiled again. Too much smiling, like a friendly pat on the head from an executioner. At least she got my name right- assassins tend to be very good on the details. "You look like you're in a lot of pain there. She rolled me onto my screaming belly and, once again, my backside was readied for attack. I was preparing for another feint, I could feel it coming on already. I thought I might take the pain a little better if I was actually watching it happen, almost as if I was doing it myself, you can always take more pain from yourself than someone else, but I couldn't look over my shoulder so I just grabbed the still empty paper bowler from Sarah and prepared for the worst pain of my life as the needle was stabbed through several inches of muscle tissue. I'd heard people tell of this moment and always dreaded it. They said it left a lump under your skin the size of a pea that made it hard to sit down for days. They said the nurses had to adopt a stabbing motion rather than a gentle insertion because it had to be driven in so deep.
"You might feel a small prick.
Normally I'd have made a joke, even in this pain there's always room for a 'double intendre', something like, "that's what I told the last doctor, but not now, I was too taken aback by her comment. It was like Oppenheimer saying 'there may be a small bang'.
I felt the tip of the needle against the shaking skin of my buttock, she was obviously marking the target area before the pull back. I prepared myself for new depths of pain and wondered how loud a scream my condition would allow.
"All done.
"All what?
"All done¦ it's over.
To this day these remain the greatest words ever spoken to me by anyone. Not only because this angel of a nurse had done such a professional and efficient job that her years of experience had turned into an art form and made it utterly painless, but also because within five minutes I felt like I could do a hundred sit ups and take a cannon ball to the gut without blinking.
Drugs, just say 'yes please'.
My appreciation of the medical profession was back in force. The wonderful nurse told me that the results of my urine tests showed I needed surgery immediately and that they were preparing theatre but she wouldn't say exactly what the problem was.
She didn't need to. I was going to theatre. My place in the hospital was justified and I wasn't a total wuss after all. It felt good. Now I could concentrate on being looked after without feeling guilty.
Oh, hang on a minute! SURGERY?