If you read The Hospital Appointment: Miranda Gets A Shock In More Ways Than One a couple of weeks ago, you’ll be keen to hear what happened next. Many A&G readers are at the age when health becomes one of our priorities – whether it’s a dodgy knee or something more serious. It’s how we handle those medical issues that can make all the difference and Miranda’s positive outlook on her diagnosis is something that can inspire us all…
THE MRSA TEST
I had to be tested for MRSA before I was allowed to be operated on. It consisted of various test tubes with sticks. It was a DIY swabbing affair with no room for dyslexic errors!
As most hospitals are a breeding ground for the MRSA bug, it would be only polite if ‘the powers that be’ reciprocated by testing one on the way out of their hospital too. Maybe present you with a little certificate that says they gave you back as good as you were received?
A fabulous fey, flamboyantly foreign (FFFFN) male nurse explained to me that if it transpired I was contaminated with the dreaded MRSA, it would be a true calamity and “much more fatal than if I didn’t have it!”
“Gosh! I’d much rather it was ‘just fatal’ rather than ‘more fatal’ any day of the week.”
I assume I had passed with a gold star and given a squeaky clean bill of health as no-one subjected me to an antibiotic hose-down before the scheduled day.
POST OP – BACK TO THE FFFFN!
I was shown back into the fabulous fey, flamboyantly foreign nurse’s room ten days after my operation. It turned out that they discovered a second aneurysm in close proximity to the first, so they clipped both.
He was going to remove the clips or staples from my head wound. I asked if it was going to be a painful process, to which he tossed his head and dramatically paused (contemplating whether to lie or not?) and, with a theatrical wink, made a deal with me. “If I hurt you, darling, you may smack my fat little tummy!”
So he started cutting out the clips.
“One, two, three, four, five,” he counted.
“Ouch. Ow. Ow Ohhhhhh.” I smartly smacked his tummy…
“Six, seven, eight…..”
“Ow ow ow” Slap, smack, slap!
“How many staples is that? And why have you stopped counting?”
“Because, darling, you keep hitting me! I can’t possibly concentrate.”
“Please tell me there aren’t loads more to go!” Smack, slap, slap, smack!
I was alternating between crying and laughing whilst the ‘FFFFN’ was probably wishing his fat little tummy wasn’t in such close proximity to my smacking hand.
On the other hand I was submitting his extra stomach rolls to a thorough workout! His tight tunic top hinted that any exercise in that area was long overdue.
The end count was twenty two staples. He sweetly counted the lot for me. It’s the least he could do for complaining about my short, sharp smacks as I was the one who had a scarf stuffed into my mouth and mascara cascading down my cheeks!
FOUR DAYS LATER…
We were on our way to Gloucestershire, when we stopped at a service station.
Whilst the hubby guarded the contents of the car, I wandered through the garage’s automatic doors and located the self-service drinks counter. However, this counter seemed to be offering tea but with no immediately obvious way of obtaining it. It wasn’t like a normal drinks machine. I couldn’t see cups or levers and spouts or different buttons for one’s choice of beverage. I stood mesmerised, utterly dumbfounded by this conundrum.
I walked out of the garage… and got back in our car. “Ok that was weird! I couldn’t get the teas or the flapjacks because I found the whole process completely overwhelming!”
The hubby was dispatched to procure what we needed after declaring that, “to be intimidated by a tea machine is a little surprising, but fair enough I suppose in the circumstances.”
Well, actually no, I didn’t agree at all. I was aware this was the first time I was flying solo, two weeks to the day from my head operation but frankly… so what?
I sat and munched the flapjack, sipped the tea and mumbled “Fascinating – what was that all about? Have I suddenly become incapable of functioning properly?”
I obviously had to return to the garage for a second attempt at being independent. It’s like ‘getting back on the horse after being thrown off it!’
Once through the door (with a cursory furious frown at the drinks counter) I made my way to the loos.
I spurted my hands all over with soapy foam and looked for the water tap. I assumed that a bar over the sink must have a hidden sensor, so I waved my hands beneath. Blasts of air accosted me and blew the soapy foam everywhere including all over my face. I jumped away in shock. “Where on earth is the water in this place? And why is this tap behaving like a hairdryer?”
I moved onto the neighbouring sink.
This time I wasn’t going to get pre-soaped up. I was hedging my bet. First attempt… hurricane blast… second try… water spray. Hurrah!
A little girl came out of the loo and stood at the first sink that had utterly defeated me. I waited to see if life was as tough on her as it had been on me. It was! Worse in fact! This girl’s soap foam covered her from head to toe!
“Try this one” I told her. It’s a bit better than the sink you have there. I’ve just been zapped by both taps, too.”
My confidence was restored! I was back!
This service station just loathes us all. Isn’t life grand?