Tuesday and I go the chemist for my repeat prescription. There is a reprimand from the doctor that I have not had a diabetes review and if I don’t have one they will make me have a weekly prescription. While I am there I notice a big display regarding bowel cancer awareness and they are offering free testing kits. They have had little take up. It seems no-one wants to chase their poo around with a little shovel which is a pity because it can save your life.
There is an item in the Evening paper about them finding half a 1930’s bus in a bricked off part of the hospital. Apparently it was donated by a local bus company in the 1950’s to help people who have had strokes and artificial limbs to get on and off public transport. The physiotherapy wing was closed in the 1980’s and the bus was forgotten and now they are renovating that part of the hospital they have found it again. I wonder if my errant blood samples and other missing bodily fluids are with it?
Wednesday and I am back in the saddle. It seems like months since I have been to the hospital but it’s less than two weeks. The sun is shining and it is supposed to be really warm but there is a stiff breeze to keep the temperature down. Radio Nottingham is broadcasting live from the market square. It is twenty years since the Hillsborough disaster when Forest were playing Liverpool at Hillsborough in Sheffield when ninety six Liverpool fans were crushed to death. Two of my sons were there and we first heard about the trouble on the radio. Worrying times even though we knew it was at the Liverpool end. It took both of them a long time to get over it.
I arrive at Wilko Street park and ride and just miss a Medilink so I have ten minutes to wait. The sun is shining on James Shipstone’s magnificent red brick building and it looks so impressive up the hill. It was built in 1892 and bears the legend James Shipstone’s and Sons, Star brewery.
I arrive at the oncology vampire’s room at about two twenty. The waiting room is packed as usual but the blood letting room door is closed and there are no numbers in the rack to show who is next. There are numerous notices on the door – one says it should be open from two to three thirty. A man sat nearest to the door shouts “Take yer turn, me duck, I’ve been here since quarter to two.” I finish up sitting next to him. I tell him I’ll give it until two thirty and then if no one turns up I will go to the main blood collecting place at the main entrance. “Can’t bloody walk that far” says the man, “I’m bloody terminal I am. I haven’t got time to wait about like this. I got things to do.” I sit in silence. “I was at the Falklands, I was” he says. I am not sure of his age but he looks far to old to have been in the Falklands. “In the army were you?” I ask. “No shearing bloody sheep! ‘Course I was in the army!” “Well you could have been marines, or airforce or navy or other services.” “Do I look like a bloody bootneck?” Not sure really what a Marine looks like even though I have several friends who were in the marines. “I’m bloody terminal and they piss me about like this.”
Why do I always seem to get them. “Margaret is on holiday” I tell him “ and they are probably finding it hard to find someone else. “Bloody terminal, that’s me, haven’t got long and I spend all of my time waiting around.” Much more mutterings follow and I am getting fed up with it. “When are you going?” I finally ask him. “WHAT!!!!!????” he says. “Well you’re terminal as you’ve told me – how long have you got?” “Not enough time to sit around here waiting” was the response!
Just then a phlebotomist arrives and opens the door. “I’m first” says Mr. Terminal, jumping up. The phlebotomist can’t find the number cards. “Never mind them” he says “I’ve got things to do.” She explains that she needs the number cards so others know when it is their turn. Finally the cards are deposited in the box and I wait for others and I am number five. Not too much of an ordeal was it? Mr. Terminal was then at the appointments counter barging in front of everyone because he “only wants to know when his appointment is.” I feel very uncharitable like probably most of the waiting room, and a number of wicked thoughts race through my mind.
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