The last time I was in hospital was 1974; the military wing of Musgrave Park Hospital, Belfast. Nothing 'sexy', just an impacted wisdom tooth.
I was met by the ward Sister - legend has it she ate RSMs for breakfast - who promptly indicated which bed was to be mine. This was followed by a short 'dos and don'ts' briefing, delivered in a staccato voice, reminiscent of a Browning 'five-o'. She would surely stretch a mothers love to the limit . . .
"The dental surgeon will be here at 10:00 to discuss this afternoons procedure, so you've got time to change into your pyjamas"
The blank look belied my understanding of Queens English - "Pyjamas?"
Storm clouds gathered as she mentally observed the regimental pause of 'two, three' - "They're on the list of items you are told to bring in your Small Kit"
"But I don't have any" I heard this small, distant voice say.
I sensed we were approaching a realm of possibilities that was strictly outside the terms of the Geneva Convention.
With a look of disdain, reserved solely for the walking wounded, she pointed to a locker "You may find some to fit you in there - and don't forget to SIGN FOR THEM". She obviously found my command of bipedal locomotion an affront to the Laws of Nature . . .
The dental surgeon, by contrast, seemed quite pleasant.
Having studied an x-ray of the offending tooth, he decided that x-rays of the other three wisdom teeth would be a prudent step.
"You have quite a small mouth [how I yearned for him to write that down !] and it would be quite crowded with the addition of wisdom teeth" he opined. "Since you will be 'out' anyway, we may as well take them all out in one go".
It all seemed so reasonable - convenience, fiscal prudence - the irony never occurred to me - 'Don't worry laddie, we'll soon have you fit enough to be shot at' . . .
I woke up in Post-Op Recovery, screaming like a Banshee. The pain was far worse than a stone in your boot after a 10 mile bash, though I doubt I would solicit sympathy from any mother. With clinical efficiency I was despatched with a chemical cosh, gratefully returning to the comforting arms of Morpheus.
Aeons later [it was actually 12 hours, Einstein could probably explain it] I re-awoke. Thankfully, the pain had subsided to a bearable level and I took the opportunity to survey my surroundings.
The guy in the next bed was still 'out' and the lay of his sheets made it obvious; the standard issue of boots, black leather, ankle, 1xleft, 1xright, would be one boot surplus to his new requirements.
"He'll be hopping mad when he wakes up" I thought, reflexively, then tried to erase the thought like it was a bit of offensive graffiti.
The guy opposite, Steve, was awake. His upper body was a mass of bandages and he explained that he'd taken a hit whilst patrolling near the Diamond in 'Derry. He still wasn't sure if he would keep both lungs, as his left was badly damaged.
It would be another 30 years or so before the term 'bed blocking' would emerge.I checked out 4 hours later . . .
My instructions were to wait seven days, then see the Battalion Medical Officer and get my stitches removed.
I lasted 4 days and my face on the left side still looked like a hamsters.
"What seems to be the problem?" the MO enquired as he sifted through my notes.
"It only hurts when I laugh" I still can't believe I said that.
I opened my mouth as far as I could as he depressed my tongue and then moved his angle-poise lamp to afford a better view.
At the risk of incurring the wrath of Hippocrates, he let out a chuckle.
"They've stitched your gum to your cheek!"
In my minds eye I could see the ward Sister, smiling malevolently.
