Day 22 – ‘The one that got away’

Last night was yet another test, it was the first night without any form of medication to aid the sleeping process, thankfully it worked. Despite the anxiety surrounding my current medical challenges a sound nights sleep was had. It was also pleasing that there was not a repetition of the previous nights ‘dirty protest’ although MrsC had strategically left a pack of wipes and a towel next to my side of the bed (oh she of little faith)

Today was another day I was dreading, namely the medical intervention for the removal of the ’embedded staple’ . An appointment was made at the local surgery with the practice nurse.

There is a fundamental flaw in the concept of doctors waiting rooms. By their nature people are in there because they are unwell, granted not everyone that is in there has a ‘contagious’ airborne ailment (he says as he glances across to a woman with a plastercast on her arm) but by and large waiting rooms are pervaded by the terminally ignorant . By that I mean those that are incapable of sneezing into anything resembling a tissue or handkerchief or people coughing in a similar manner, ensuring maximum exposure to all the other poor soles in the waiting room. Today was no exception, in fact it was questionable whether I was in the waiting room or the TB clinic.

As usual there was the fruitless fumble through the dog eared collection of magazines (which are another source of germs) in the vain hope of finding something vaguely suited to my socio economic grouping and/or from the current decade. ‘Horse & Hound’ no, ‘Golf World’ no, ‘Devon Life’ mmmm possibly but let’s keep going. What about cars surely there must be something? ‘Autocar’, ‘Performance Car’, just anything other than Hunter Wellies and hay.

Just as I was about lose the will to live getting to the bottom of the pile there was a small oasis of a magazine amongst the baron desert of publications

‘Mountain Biking UK’ – ‘ooh things are looking up’

‘Olympic Edition’ – oh

‘Looking forward to Beijing 2008’ – ‘what the hell’

Eager to see if fashions had changed in ten years, and admitting defeat I sat down to read.

Door opens, “Mr Cowls?” …. ‘!@!’

Ushered into the treatment room by the practice nurse I immediately dropped my trousers and unbuttoned my shirt in autopilot before even engaging in casual conversation.

“What can I do for you today?” She said . Stood there with my trousers around my ankles and a half buttoned shirt I stuttered “The staple yeh, the staple?” With a raised inflection at the end of the sentence .

Looking at the computer monitor away from the trouser-less man in the room she replied, “oh yes, mmm, we are taking some staples out today, yes?”

“Just the one, the stubborn one”

Never again will I assume that the practice nurses have read the notes for the next patient before I start undressing. Schoolboy error

With my usual stoical stiff upper lip I lay there on the newly pulled out paper towel covering. The inspection light was pulled over and blue medical gloves applied to her hands.

This was now the time for the medical pleasantries, and whilst she assembled the trolley with various gauze’s, wipes and implements we talked about the procedure that had bought around the need for the staples in the first place.

Oh, I could keep this going all morning, the longer we talked the longer it would be before I would be in pain.

Eventually though I ran out of stalling time, with her gloved hands poised above my belly button and a magnified eye behind the inspection light she was going in.

“Oh… mmmmm.. well….ahhhhh”

I could tell my the stocato utterances from her that this was going to be troublesome.

The usual staple removal device was useless and quickly discarded. Spinning around on her castered stool she zipped across the room and delved into a drawer.

Lifting my head from the bed I could see a long handled autoclaved forceps being removed from its covering.

A thin bead of sweat began to form on my top lip.

I closed my eyes and thought of England. God Cowls you’ve been through worse than this, it’s a bloody staple.

As her hands went in for the kill far from being in pain I was afflicted by something else. It tickled, wow did it tickle, my murmurings were misinterpreted as those driven by pain, nothing was further from the truth.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry” she said as I lay there shaking with laughter not wanting to ‘fess up’ that it was enjoyable.

With one swift pull it was out. “Gotcha!”. Broad smiles and happiness abounds.

I was free from the last remaining staple, and briefly euphoric.

With confidence boosted I decided I would treat myself, breaking away from the strict food script I was going to live dangerously. I DESERVE A PASTY.

The pasty shop was only around the corner from the surgery, I can do this. Like a naughty schoolboy I brought one.

I didn’t care if it would come back up, or double me over in pain, or mess with little Simon. I was going to have a pasty and damn the consequences.

And so I did, and boy it was good, and little Simon approved.

‘Loves lost and found’