Never Say Die

What the NHS should do, see, is put together a new Word document template for Harry & I. It’d save them time in the long run.

Dear Mrs. Hairy Farmer,

Further to your outraged phone call of { }day {  }th of {  }, we can only offer you our most insincere apologies. We acknowledge that you/your son [delete as applicable] have been unacceptably pissed about, and we shall be assiduously seeking out an explanation as to why our unmotivated and lacklustre administrative staff have, once again, presided over a balls up of your medical affairs.

Kind regards,

The National Health Service.

This is utter tedium:

I was given a date of Monday 6th September by {secretary’s name redacted} after my original February surgery date (scheduled almost exactly a year ago) was cancelled because of my back-to-front heart that eventually turned out to be nicely front-to-back after all. Then I was briefly pregnant, which confused things, and then the Consultant finally noticed that I was fat, so I trudged away and lost 2 stone. I needed to lose 3, but heigh-ho. I called a month ago to enquire if we were still on for the 6th, and {redacted}’s junior flunkey told me to come in for a pre-op session. So, I sorted childcare and dutifully drove the 62 mile round-trip to be interviewed by a nurse, have my nose swabbed for MRSA, pee in a pot, and give myriad vials of blood for various unspecified tests.

By last week I had heard nothing, and was consequently darkly and deeply suspicious that Something Was Wrong, but I was also Too Bloody Busy to ring and sort it out. I finally rang up this morning, to be greeted by {redacted}’s answer phone message saying she was back in the office Monday 30th August, and to please leave a message. I demurred. This ansaphone is a prodigious promiser of patient contact that never materialises, so I kept dialling other numbers until I eventually found V, and unloaded my problem onto her. She told me that my file was certainly sat on {redacted}’s desk (who, V told me, left for a fortnight’s holiday on Friday 27th August, and will not be back until the 13th Sept…) with a post-it saying ‘anaesthesia review required.’ Furthermore, I was – get this! – not in the theatre diary for Monday 6th.

V did her best. She tracked down VIP Consultant, who is performing my Lap/Hysteroscopy in tandem with my own Very Nice Lady Consultant; he told her that as I was not his patient, she would need to see VNL Consultant, who is absent this week. He was of the opinion, however, that I would indeed need an anaesthesia review before surgery. (I interpreted this as ‘still too podgy’, which is absolutely fair comment if so. I’ve lost very little weight from around my middle at all, and my tummy looks 7 months gone still. Not ideal flesh for poking keyhole-surgery probes through.)

V relayed this to me, and followed it up with ‘Oh! I’ve just seen another post-it that says you really need the date confirming for definite because you were supposed to be going on holiday that week and you didn’t want to cancel if you didn’t have to!’ 

So, they DID know that it was meant to be Monday 6th, then.

I judge that I probably made the blameless V take enough of a rocket for her team in order for her to pass it on with gusto, while keeping her sufficiently on-side to take pity on me. She said that October had plenty of scheduling space, so let us hope that the correct alignment of weight, reviews and surgeons can be achieved before November. I’m not getting any younger here, peeps.

This pissing-down cloud does have a silver lining.

My wondrous parents – who don’t get lauded nearly enough on here, btw, because they are The Best (Grand)Parents, Ever – have booked a holiday cottage big enough for all of us for a week from this Saturday. My plan was to go in for surgery on Monday, and stagger down to Falmouth on Tuesday, clutching painkillers possessively to my chest, absolutely irrespective of what shape I was in, having missed half the holiday. Now, I get a nice full week in dry, sunny Cornwall. Annnnd that is what we call a Hint. Are you listening to me, Met Office? Are you?

So, all in all, today could have gone better. Much better. I have a rotten sore throat again, a printer that I spent 2 whole frustrating bastard hours I won’t see again trying to fix, a to-do list that is laughing at me, a toddler with half-a-day-spent-at-home cabin fever who is Very Spectacularly Not Getting The Hang Of Pants but who can (for instance) illicitly capture a large pack of chocolate sprinkles and make (pretty good, actually) faces on the floor with them, did I mention the really sore throat, a barn-sized pile of laundry avec an extra bucket of aromatic urine-soaked-and-shit-stained pants and trousers that I have only had time to quickly rinse, a bruise from where I was kicked when Harry didn’t want to share his gluesticks while we were making an (autumn!) leaf collage, no internet on the main PC and no working landlines downstairs for complicated telephone-line fault-resolution reasons, two part-time jobs that both need a full-time week at least spending on them, (except I can’t telephone anyone because of the sore bloody throat and the line fault), a little boy (taken to the park by a despondent, despairing mother at 4pm) who is desperate to pal up with, giggle with, and chase other small children but can’t keep up because he keeps falling over when he runs, and who doesn’t know what to do when they ask him ‘Why don’t you say anything?’, and a whiny post that I initially wrote at 3.3opm but promptly got eaten by bloody WordPress and necessitated me having another go, because I do so enjoy a moan!

I sat quietly down in my favourite armchair a couple of hours ago with a sigh of profound relief as John took Harry up to bed. I was minding my own business – and was naturally immediately stung by my first ever wasp.

It had obviously read my last post. Well, I had the last laugh, anyway, coz I killed the cheeky bugger. Except… it didn’t quite… die.

You’d think having your head removed from your thorax would slow you down, yes?

Not necessarily! This is a little peculiar, but nevertheless, I bring you… a wasp snuff flick. Enjoy!

Never say you don’t get variety from me.

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