It was an uneventful recovery from the biopsy. Jump out a first floor window and land legs astride a motorbike. Ouch! Feels like you did that a couple of days before. Could be worse. I’m sure you will be pleased to hear that there were no further issues with anything down there afterwards. I’m not entirely sure of the time scale between going back after the biopsy. It was probably two to four weeks, or thereabouts.
Gorgeous, but sarcastic wife and I set off, in the car, to Super Hospital to get my results. We parked up on the road, avoiding the need to pay the $40 sick tax, in the car park. Up to “the next level” we go in the hospital lift. Anyone ever been in a hospital lift? A glorious mix of worried well, staff members, dopey visitors and the walking dead. The worried well. That’s me. Folks who are visiting outpatients or have investigations to attend, ranging from a bit lost to hospital expert. Staff members, fairly obvious, but an eclectic mix. Some an advert for clean living and beacons of health, some a nightmare vision of what may become your future if you don’t lay off the calories. Dopey visitors. I say dopey, not all of them of course, but significant numbers of them appear to have experienced a wondrous event that morning, by just managing to get up and dressed, let alone actually making it to the hospital. The walking dead. The skinny, unkempt men, pinstripes on ill fitting pj’s a flash back to what they may have been before the sickness consumed them. Blotchy, pasty, ladies, attired in nighties. Nighties with Playboy motifs, coupled with fluffy pink slippers shaped like a flamingo. Teasing the lift dwellers, iv line in situ, clinging to the drip stand like a post apocalyptic pole dancer. Not quite enough teeth for their mouths, ashen faces craving fresh air and the imminent nicotine fix hidden within their dressing gown pocket.
Dopey visitors do the devils work in hospital lifts. These evil elevator kin, I’m sure, just meander around the lift area to make life as difficult as possible for the other three user groups of the lifts. My tip for using lifts would be- have a gander at the large light up arrows which indicate the direction that the lift is travelling. This is sometimes also the same as the light on the lift call button. If the lift arrow indicator matches your desired direction of travel, then get in the lift and fill your boots. Sounds fairly simple to me. No, not for dopey visitor. It’s a bridge too far. One do-nut too many. Irrespective of the desired direction of travel, they feel the need to play games with us. Senior sardines. And that’s what happened.
We entered the lift on the second floor, taking notice not to get in a lift that was travelling downwards, as we were aware of our desire to travel upwards. We move up one floor. The doors open, and an ocean of beige toddles in, sticks flying, bingo wings flapping, wheelie walkers losing traction as a sudden, superhuman acceleration takes place. They’re in. 20 people in a lift that taunts us with a capacity of 36. 36? For fucks sake. Was in made in Santa’s factory by elves? For elves? Or maybe by Dr Who’s TARDIS manufacturer. At best, it would hold 18 people. Any way, in they come, the mass of significant others, next door neighbours and opportunistic relatives, hoping to increase their standing when it comes to the will, no doubt. We invade each other’s space. Crush together. I’ve got a sweaty armpit on one side from a super tall Amazonian student nurse, and I’m hoping that’s the tip of an umbrella behind me periodically prodding my arse. I have to say, it wasn’t all bad, as I have gorgeous, sarcastic wife’s bosom squashed up on the other side of me. As a bloke, you have to take the little wins in life.
The doors begin to close. They open again. The left out visitor army want in, and they are pressing the call button repeatedly. The doors close again. And open again. One of the walking dead, now an expert in this field, explains, in no uncertain terms, that the lift will not move until “some fucking idiot, stops pressing the button”. I laugh. Gorgeous, but sarcastic wife elbows me. The doors close again. They close on an elderly ladies baggage cart, come shopping trolley. “Harold, Harold……I’m stuck”. I laugh again. Gorgeous but sarcastic wife stands on my foot this time. The pack is shuffled. We move around trying to create more space, or an illusion of space. I have lost wifey in the crowd. She’s on the other side of the lift, metro-sexual, man-bag toting, pencil tie wearing, superbly groomed admin dude has come between us, but the arse prodding has at least stopped. I have my back to the wall, and the odious armpit still to my side. Harold hauls Mavis in, and the doors finally close, petals flying like confetti, as supermarket flowers are trapped in the closing maw. We’re off! The lift moves. The occupants scramble to press the buttons. Every fucking floor. Joy. Mavis and Harold, delighting in loudly informing us all that they are in fact travelling in the wrong direction, but will go all the way to very top of the hospital, just to secure a berth to travel down one floor. They were close to jumping from dopey visitors to the walking dead, judging from some travellers reactions in the cramped elevator hell.
Floor 8, we are out. In to the dreary and cramped urology outpatients, that is only made bearable by the wonderful staff who reside within. I’m under the care of a lady urologist. Let’s call her good, but hot, doc. Always a bit odd having to talk about how likely you are to piss yourself, and how crap your erections might be, with a good looking younger women, no matter how professional she is. Not that I do it frequently, I hasten to add. If good, but hot, doc sat next to you in a bar (Ok, not likely, but just go with it), and one was single, then you would offer her a Manhattan. Or an Absinthe (Higher potential to get a positive outcome). I suppose it’s an insult to your manliness. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting it would be appropriate to hit on your medic, and that it’s a lost opportunity, because that’s all we men want to do all day. In fact. it would take some heroic otherworldly confidence in your abilities to chat up your man part doctor, whilst she’s advising you what man parts she’s going to chop off, and whilst your wife is sitting next to you. It seems an awful lot of gynaecologists are male, and to have to talk about the anatomical bits and pieces that are largely there to assist in attracting, and creating, the opposite sex, with the opposite sex, must be equally as difficult for women as well.
From sitting in the waiting room, and watching the comings and goings, I see there’s one consultant – good, but hot doc, along with two registrars, and two senior house officers, or whatever they are called these days, calling in the patients.
We wait and hour or so, then my name is called…..not by the junior doctors, not by the reg’s, but by good, but hot, doc herself, and I instantly know I’m fucked. And not in a good way.