This morning I found myself spluttering my way, post Covid, into Bristol’s Southmead Hospital for an appointment to investigate some irregularities during a recent blood test. Investigations, eh? What a word that is. “Mr Johansen, or whatever your name is. The are some irregularities in your recent blood test. Just to make sure you aren’t going to die soon – by the way, we are ALL going to die some day, so don’t get TOO excited if it’s good news – I need to send you to hospital for INVESTIGATIONS.” I know what that means. I’ve seen ‘Casualty‘. Had I said farewell to my partner and cat for the very last time? Happily not, if the initial investigations were anything to go by.
My first decision would be how to get to hospital for a 9.20 am appointment. I considered taking various buses and even cycling, but in the end I chose the option called Lazy Bastard and drove. I am usually very early for everything, but as it was a hospital appointment, I decided I would not wish to spend any more time than strictly necessary in the building. Having dispensed the car in the multi-storey car park, I checked in on one of those self check-in devices all on my own. I then had to find Gate 18 for my appointment.
I entered the waiting room and before I could even sit down I heard the voice “MR RICHARD JOHANSEN, PLEASE.” Right, that’s it. I am not called Richard. Do not call me Richard. You have had decades of correspondence from me explaining it’s Rick. I hate Richard, absolutely loathe the name almost as much as I hate myself. Except that what came out was, “Good morning.”
Bang on time, almost to the second, the pretty female nurse asked me to undress. “Where shall I put my clothes?” I asked. “Next to mine.” If only. Instead, a more senior junior doctor asked if it was all right if a junior junior doctor did all the prodding and testing. Well, I couldn’t care less who gets top grope with my liver, my pancreas, my heart and my kidneys, just as long as they find nothing wrong with them. They did find certain things wrong, but subject to confirmation, I may make it to Christmas or even beyond. (I’m kidding. There are a few malfunctioning bits, but Co-op Funeralcare won’t be needed just yet.)
Now I know that this snapshot of life in the NHS does not represent every aspect of it. I know people who have been on waiting lists for years for rather serious issues, some of whom are suffering excruciating pain, and I doubt that they will recognise an experience like mine, where I was in and out of hospital within 45 minutes. Frankly, I was amazed at the efficiency of the place. I could not speak more highly of the doctors who dealt with me, specifically the fact that they did not start tut-tut-tutting when they looked at images of my body parts, with occasional sharp intakes of breath, the sort your local mechanic might say at the garage when he finds your car needs a new gearbox. Metaphorically speaking, my own gear box appears to be functioning adequately at the moment.
Paying for car parking – a mere £3.50 for anything over 20 minutes – was an electronic doddle that didn’t even involve a paper ticket and somehow I managed to find my car relatively easy, even if I did start looking on the wrong floor. Once free, and spared an early demise because of declining health, where else to go for breakfast, other than McDonalds?
I can’t say I particularly enjoy hospital visits, for me or for someone else, to be honest, but then who honestly says they do? It usually means that either you or someone you love isn’t very well, so perhaps I should look to live a healthier lifestyle? And I’ll start looking next Monday because, hell, it’s the weekend, I’m not about to die by the looks of it and there’s never a better time for lifestyle changes than next week.
