People wait patiently in the maxilofacial department waiting room. Brits are good at waiting. Perhaps too good, it’s a national malaise. When Shakespeare exhorted “… then imitate the action of a tiger…” I’m not sure he had Brits in mind.
Doctors or nurses offer that seemingly inoffensive question: “How are you today?” But patients are, by definition, defective so most find it difficult to respond. Some mumble. The more articulate say, “As well as can be expected.” Careful now, mustn’t whinge.
I am badly educated but I hate prose which lacks spirit. I reply, “I am in unexpectedly robust health.” The surgeon – whom I’ve grown to like – looks up, suspecting more. I explain I’ve had to take over the cooking at home and this is exercising unfamiliar muscles. Good for me.
There’s a cursory examination of my mouth, an announcement that he intends to continue to oversee my progress, and I’m booked for another appointment in three months with a choice of hospital. “Anywhere but this one (Cheltenham), the parking is a nightmare.” He nods and I get Gloucester.
This means the booking for the holiday villa in southern France still stands. Cancelling would have cost an arm and a leg, either of which I would be reluctant to lose.
“Whereabouts?” asks the surgeon. A tiny village called Laurent, north of Montpellier. He says, “Not too far from Mount Ventoux.”
The years roll back, “Ah, Provence.” But something tickles my awareness. “Just a mo, are you a cyclist?” He shrugs, “I’ve done the mountain.”
I get up to leave; something feels unresolved. “Thanks for the cutting you did around my voicebox. My singing’s unaffected. Very important. Possibly it’s why I’ve lived to 87.” He nods and I am mysteriously warmed.
When I saw Mr. P for my knee replacement number two (by him) I had scheduled a list of walking and mileages I had covered on the first knee replacement - it amounted to 3,000 plus miles. I said "I've brought you some data in case anybody wants to know how these knee replacements stand up." I think he was mildly amused, but a good guy who was happy to spend more than what I guess is the allotted time to explain everything, and making me feel that patient relationship was more of a priority to him than adhering to appointment statistics.
ReplyDeleteSir Hugh: On the whole most docs and, especially, surgeons seem disposed to chat, provided the questions are technoid. On the other hand most patients seem to have been brought up to believe that asking questions is impolite. When pressed they start off with an apology.
ReplyDeleteWhat are you cooking at home?
ReplyDeleteColette: Virtually nothing. Heating up the better class of prepared meals, creating toasted cheese sandwiches, serving Ryvita canapés spread with Philadelphia soft cheese and topped with slices of cucumber and tomatoes (a long time VR favourite), soup (unsuccessfully), other various dishes just this side of junk and now discarded. My waking day consists of a minimum of a dozen small tasks, all following a chronological sequence, each easily forgotten. We agreed that if I added a proper cooked meal to this schedule I would rapidly lose the will to live, and that food poisoning would be a likely result. When she is able VR has done two or three simple proper meals. To keep the spectre of our mortality at bay VR reads copiously and I read/write.
ReplyDeleteI am concerned.
Delete
DeleteColette: "Concerned" - I like that. A middle-class state of mind quite different from a range of darker near-synonyms. "Heart slufted", for instances, with roots which go all the the way back to the West Riding, a subdivision of the county of Yorkshire. "Perturbed", hinting at bubbly sensations in and around the abdomen. "Worried", even more middle-class, typical of spinsters living in Woking who no longer go out much. "Devastated", for those who believe that emotions can only be conveyed by verbal exaggeration.
I could comfort you by saying "We will survive." But it's not true. Between us we suffer from a selection of ailments any one of which could snuff us out. The irony is - at our ages - it could be an entirely new ailment, creeping up privily, doing the job behind closed doors. Causing our neighbours to comment, "Who'd have thought they'd die of croop (possibly spelled croup). I thought that only happened to horses."