Small Pricks

Women should stay away from small pricks. Well, at least women who are receiving in vitro fertilization (IVF) treatments. A study in the US has found that women on IVF are 37% less likely to get pregnant, if they have acupuncture. The surprising thing, to me, is that someone thought up a study like this. Imagine some scientists sitting around the table, during a coffee break, one day, when one of them shouts, "I know how we can get a grant! Let's do a study on the effects of acupuncture on the effectiveness of IVF!" Who paid for this study?
Speaking of getting pregnant, here in Britain, people seem to say a woman "falls" pregnant, or "fell pregnant," in the past tense. I didn't know falling was involved. When children ask, "mummy, where do babies come from?" do mothers say, "well, women fall over on their stomachs, then get a swelling from hitting the ground. Inside the swelling, a baby starts growing."
The confused child then says, "but I thought the storks brought them?"
Mother thinks on her feet, then adds, "well, scientists suspect that, while the woman is fallen over and a bit stunned, the stork lays an egg in the swelling, because they think it's a neat place to make a nest." The child responds by looking at his mother like she's a nut.
Another possibility is that when British women fall over, drunk, a man realizes they are in a fit state to give in to sex. Perhaps people used to say, "she fell and got pregnant." That became shortened, over time, to "she fell pregnant." Then the cynical side of me imagines that it comes from the expression, "falling in love." "Victoria fell in love, now she's pregnant." How romantic. Nah! I wonder if the scientists will do a follow-up study, to determine the effect of small pricks on "falling" pregnant, with women who aren't on IVF? There's another grant!

What's With These Guys?

Sunday evening, I was making my way home from recording a podcast with Mucky Sarah, in London. I was rushing between the Jubilee Line and the Piccadilly Line, at Green Park station, trying to catch an earlier bus to Bracknell, at Hammersmith. Suddenly, my nose started bleeding. "Oh no, not again!" I thought. It was bleeding so profusely, that it quickly soaked the napkins I had with me. I started leaking blood onto the floor. A kind woman, passing by, gave me a tissue. I quickly decided that I couldn't travel like this and went upstairs, to the ticket sales window. There, I asked for help and a station security officer quickly came to my assistance.
After he took me into an office area, I asked him to call an ambulance. He was great and very helpful. By the time the ambulance crew arrived, I had been bleeding for about half an hour. Once I was in the ambulance, the crew considered which hospital to take me to. They wanted to take me to one that had an ENT specialist on duty. Ultimately, they decided to take me to Guy's and St. Thomas' Hospital. This is the same hospital that my good friend, Tom, went to, last year, when he broke his leg in a bicycle accident. Tom kept raving over this hospital, saying how great the treatment was which he received there. Thus, I was anticipating good treatment.
The ambulance crew were great...very caring, kind, and patient. They wheeled me into a treatment area in the Accident and Emergency (A & E) department, then left me. Eventually, a Scottish nurse turned up and attended to me. She had a great attitude and kept calling me "my darling." While I was waiting, some blood had congealed in my right nostril, which was causing me to feel very uncomfortable. The nurse tried to remove it, using a suction device. Subsequently, a German sounding doctor turned up. By this time, the bleeding seemed to have stopped. The doctor began interrogating me over the technique I had used to try to stop the bleeding. He asked me questions, then interrupted me while I was trying to answer. I didn't find him very helpful. He left, then a different nurse came in. This second nurse was a man. For some reason, I always feel funny in the presence of a male nurse. His name was Andy, or something like that, and I noticed he had a pink ID card. Andy was tall, slim, and had red hair.
There must have been a shift change, or something, because after Andy replaced the nice, Scottish nurse, a different doctor came in to see me. This doctor was female, short, but pretty. She looked to be of Indian, or Pakistani origin, young, possibly mid-twenties. After looking me over and asking me the same questions I had been asked half-a-dozen times already, she said she was going to check with the ENT specialist. She told me I could clean myself up at the sink in the examination area. While I was washing blood off my hands and arms, my nose started bleeding again, although very slowly. I laid back down on the gurney and waited.
Lady doctor came back and criticized me for holding a tissue to my nose. I pointed out that my nose had started bleeding again. She rejected my statement and said it wasn't bleeding, that the ENT wouldn't see me because it had stopped bleeding, and telling me that I should go home. A debate commenced in which she kept refuting my assertions. She spoke to me in a very patronizing and condescending manner, then told me that she was the medical expert. I told her that I had no confidence in her medical advice. This set her off and she accused me of being rude to her. I countered this by telling her that she was aggravating me. I told her she was talking rubbish and asked her to leave me alone, immediately. She finally left, but after a few minutes, Andy returned.
Andy asked how I was doing and I told him that my nose was bleeding again. He asked me if I wanted to see the doctor. I retorted that I didn't want to see, "that woman," again. Andy then took on an authoritarian tone, telling me "that lady" is a medical professional and that they (him and her) knew what they were talking about. I responded by repeating my accusation that she was talking rubbish. Andy then told me that the National Health Service (NHS) had a policy that they wouldn't treat patients who were rude. I told Andy that I wasn't being "rude," I just wasn't accepting being told that my nose wasn't bleeding anymore, when I could see and feel that it was. Andy's response was to act even more hostile, telling me that I wouldn't be treated, and that security would escort me from the building. By then, I had stood up again and, low and behold, my nose was bleeding. Lady doctor came back and I pointed out to the two of them how absurd it was to say my nose wasn't bleeding, even as I dripped blood all over their floor. I asked Andy how he could sleep at night, turning a bleeding patient out into the street, just to avoid admitting that I was right.
I have lived in Britain for over nine years, now. I have had numerous encounters with the NHS, in that time. This was, by far, the worst experience I ever had. A friend of mine, who is a former NHS worker, told me that Guy's and St. Thomas' is one of the worst hospitals around. Both Lady doctor and Andy were younger than me. This did not motivate them to act respectfully toward me. I was so horrified that they would turn out a bleeding patient, into the night. My advice is to avoid Guy's and St. Thomas' like the plague.

Big Mouth Bad Luck?

First of all, I don't believe in "luck." But if I did, mine would be consistently bad. Those of you who watched the first episode of "Big Brother's Big Mouth" (BBBM) last night, will have noticed something. I wasn't on! I was all ready to do the show and was on site, waiting in the room where show participants watched "Big Brother" together. All of a sudden, my nose started bleeding again. This seemed to be a relapse from my prior incident, earlier this month (see "Going to the Hospital," 9 May, 2007). After half an hour, the production staff made the decision that I couldn't appear on the program, because they were ready to put the audience in the studio. I don't blame them, they were doing the right thing. Still, I was utterly disappointed. After having the opportunity to be in the first show of the series (thanks to Mucky Sarah inviting me to be her guest), I missed out.
The BBBM staff were fantastic. They invited me to watch the show from their production office, where audience members are not usually permitted to be. Unfortunately, not long after BBBM started, a decision was made to call an ambulance and send me to the hospital, so I didn't get to see much of the show, even on TV. After arriving at the nearest hospital, I was eventually seen by an A & E doctor. He cauterized the bleeding point and turn off the flow. Bish, bash, bosh, I was released by 3:30AM. None of this staying overnight in the hospital nonsense, which happened last time. BBBM staff assured me that I will have the chance to come back again and do the show. I suggest that those of you within the UK tune in to every BBBM episode, as you never know when I will be on.

Robot Nurses (Part 4 of the Hospital Saga)

I awoke from my nap at about 5:30PM, Tuesday. Jan still hadn't returned from her mission to bring me some stuff from my house. I began to worry that she'd gotten lost again, or something else had happened to her. She had been gone about two hours on a journey that should have taken no more than an hour. As it was Nando's day off, maybe they exploded into an irresistible lust for each other. Come on! Shag later guys, I need my stuff. I couldn't imagine Nando exploding into anything. If he could roll downhill into lust, then it might happen. Besides, I don't think Jan finds Nando attractive in that way. Still, one never knows. The main reason I was in a hurry was that I was due at an audition for a short film, at 6PM. If Jan returned with my email from the casting person, I could call her and explain why I wasn't coming. I hoped I could reschedule. I get so few auditions, I don't want to blow one. In my mind, it seemed important to notify the casting lady before my call time.
I sat up, on the edge of the bed. The fat nurse had told me that I shouldn't walk around, so if I needed to use the toilet I was to do it in a bedpan, instead of going to the loo. Yeah, right! I guess she doesn't know me that well. If I got up and walked to the loo, would any of the nurses at the ward nurse's station stop me? Would they even notice? A strong urge to take a piss pushed me past the boundaries of indecision. I had forgotten that fat nurse had insisted that I put on some special stockings, designed to prevent blood clotting in the legs while one lays in bed. I didn't bother to put on the flip-flops I wore to the hospital. It would be quieter to walk in just my stockinged feet. Bold as brass, I stood up and walked out of the room. The opening was right next to the nurse's station. Two of the NHS's finest robots sat there, chatting away. They reminded me of the two Stormtroopers in "Star Wars," who were gossiping while Obi-Wan Kenobi sneaked past to disable the tractor beam. Yeah, I liked that idea. Here I was, Obi-Wan Kenobi, sneaking to the toilet in his stockinged feet.
Once I had relived myself, I crept back to bed 21. I lay there, with nothing better to do than wonder what was keeping Jan. A few minutes later, I heard her voice, asking the NHS robots where I was. Finally! I looked at the time display on the flat screen above my bed. It was 5:45, just 15 minutes before my audition call time. Jan came around past the curtain that separated the creature in the bed to the right of mine, from me. To my left was a window, which I enjoyed, even though it only provided me a view of the side of a building. Jan had brought everything on my list expect one item...a pen. I hurried to look at the email print out. Scanning it, I couldn't find a phone number. I re-read it, more carefully. There was no phone number. I couldn't call the casting person. I could email her, later. Jan got it into her head to ask one of the robots if I could use her computer to send an email, now. I told her not to, but then Jan has this knack for going ahead and doing things that I have asked her not to do. It's a trait I admire, when she does it to other people, but one over which I feel annoyed, when she does it to me. Taking the email, she went out to speak with the robots. It all seemed rather pointless. With the audition starting in ten minutes, the casting person is hardly going to be reading emails. If she was going to find out after the session, then the next day would be just as good as that moment.
Jan returned, having succeeded with her powers of persuasion. She'd been much more successful with the robot nurses than I had been with the beautiful, Indian doctor lady. She'd gotten one of the robots to email the casting person, on my behalf, explaining that I was "in hospital," as the British like to say. I was feeling very hungry, as all I had eaten thus far, that day, was the poncy sandwich and biscuits that fat nurse had given me, four and a half hours earlier. In addition to the things Jan had brought me that were on my list, she'd gotten me a Cadbury's Fruit and Nut bar, as an extra treat. I tore into the chocolate taste treat like a famished, wild animal, while Jan was away talking to the robots. It didn't last long, as it was only a small bar, but it took the edge off my hunger. The next order of business was to get my TV turned on. I phoned Patientline and paid for the service, using the financial resources that resided in my wallet, which Jan had brought. I may have been missing the audition, but at least I wouldn't miss "Eastenders," that night. No sooner had I turned the TV on, than a nurse came around, offering me dinner. I wish she'd turned up a few minutes earlier, before I demolished the Cadburys bar. I would have preferred saving the treat till later. As she read the menu out to me, it seemed to mostly consist of sandwiches. She had mentioned something about sausages, in the beginning. Interrupting her robotic recitation, I asked, "are all of these sandwiches?" She told me the first item was hot food. Sausage and mash, a traditional British dish. While not usually my first choice, I wanted a hot meal, not just another sandwich, so I opted for the sausage.
Jan explained that she had a meeting to attend, about this open studio exhibition she was supposed to be participating in. If she was going to the meeting, she would have to leave. She didn't feel like going, so I asked her if she could get the information which would be presented at the meeting, later. When she agreed that she could, I suggested that she skip the meeting and stay visiting me. She could use me as an excuse, telling the people holding the meeting that she had to visit a sick friend, in the hospital. Jan seemed genuinely pleased at the suggestion and went to move her car to free parking on a side street. The parking in the hospital car park was expensive. My dinner arrived just as Jan got back from relocating her car. I tucked into the bland meal with the enthusiasm bred of hunger. Feeling a tiny bit guilty for chowing down in front of my only visitor, I got the robot who offered me tea or coffee to give a cup of coffee to Jan. Anyway, I don't like coffee.
I persuaded Jan to watch "Eastenders" with me. Because the sound was coming over a headset, so as not to disturb the other patients, we shared the headset, turning it upside down and each putting one phone to one of our ears. On Tuesdays, "Eastenders" finishes at 8PM, which was also the time visiting hours ended. I said farewell to the only visitor I was ever to have during my entire hospital stay. At least I had TV to keep me company. The Patientline service also included some video games. I got addicted to a version of Tetris, alternating between playing it, reading, and watching TV. Eventually, I dozed off, only awakening again just past 11:30PM. The only thing worse than unattractive, female, robot nurses, was a male robot nurse, as the night nurse. He came over to engage in the ritual of taking my temperature and blood pressure. This one was named Mowbry and came from South Africa. Earlier, a female robot nurse had left a menu for the next day's lunch and dinner. On the back I read that one could have snacks at any time, by asking a member of staff. I read this passage out to Mowbry, as I was feeling a bit hungry. He refused to understand and kept telling me that there were printed explanations on the back in order to answer patients' questions. I ended up giving up. That Cadbury Fruit and Nut would have come in handy, then. I played the video game until I felt sleepy. The person in the bed next to mine had the oddest snore I have ever heard.
In the morning, I woke up and went back to playing the video game. The first attractive nurse I had seen showed up. She was skinny, with curly red hair and small breasts. She had a sweet face, with sparkling eyes. I asked her where she was from. It turned out that she was from Prague. I told her I had visited Prague, because I have and I thought it might win her over. Prague nurse offered me breakfast. No eggs were on offer, so I settled for some bran cereal, buttered toast, and some orange juice. After breakie, a group of doctors turned up, making the rounds. Amongst them was the beautiful, Indian doctor lady. I looked at her hand for a ring. She wore some silver ring, which didn't look like a traditional wedding ring, but then I don't know what the traditions are in India. She seemed to dress like a married woman...descent, but not as sexy as she was capable of. Indian doctor lady seemed to be deferring to some tall, dark haired, pale, English doctor, who acted like he was the boss. They discussed my condition. I didn't see what use he was. Indian doctor lady was more than capable of treating me, thank you very much. Tall doctor informed me that they would be removing the pack from my right nostril, then seeing if there was any further bleeding. If necessary, they would cauterize. In other words exactly what Indian doctor lady had told me they would do.
A little while later, a Scottish nurse came around. She removed the pack. I expected it to tear open the wound and the bleeding to start again, but that didn't happen. She gave me a small ice pack to put on my nose. I held it to my nose until I got tired of doing so. Still no bleeding. I was pleasantly surprised when Indian doctor lady turned up, wearing scrubs. She still looked so pretty, even with that ghastly surgical cap hiding her luscious, dark brown hair. No longer able to contain myself, I told her she was the nicest looking doctor I had ever met. She smiled as if she was blushing (I couldn't tell if she was blushing as her skin was rather brown) and thanked me. Her face displayed a combination of pleasure at being complimented and embarrassment. She examined my nose, shining some light up my right nostril. Doctor lady decided to cauterize a spot in my right nostril. She wasn't sure it had been the source of the bleeding, but thought it would be best not to take a chance. After spraying some local anesthetic in my nose, she employed a chemical cauterization stick. There was a slight delay, then I felt a burning sensation. She said she would keep me in till about lunch time, then, if there was no further bleeding, I could go home. I hoped I would get to eat lunch before I left.
After a while, the Scottish nurse came back and disturbed me while I was playing the video game again. She was oldish and manly looking. She complained that I needed to walk around, so they could see if my nose would start bleeding again. First they didn't want me to walk, now they did. Can't they make up their minds? I went for a stroll around the ward. It wasn't that big, so I ended up doubling back. Back and forth, back and forth. How dull. A different robot nurse at the nurse's station asked me if she could help me. I told her the Scottish nurse had told me to walk, so I was walking. For some reason, this robot nurse, who was English, somehow misunderstood what I said and thought that I was waiting for someone parking a car. Odd woman. I tried explaining again. This time, she understood. She said I had been walking for ten minutes already and that was enough. I was happy to go back and get in bed. At lunch time, I opted for chicken fricassee over rice. The food was so bland and no pepper was available, but desperation rendered it palatable. After lunch, Scottish nurse came around and asked if there was any bleeding. There wasn't. She told me I could go. I was being discharged. It was almost sad. I had gotten used to laying down all day and watching TV, playing video games, reading, and sleeping. She gave me the certification of my stay in hospital. Reading it, I noticed that Indian doctor lady had written that I wasn't supposed to go back to work for a week. The heck with that! I discussed it with Scottish nurse, pointing out that it seemed excessive. She said it was up to how I felt, but that at the very least, I shouldn't go back to work until Monday. I called Nando and he came to drive me home. When I turned on my mobile, I found that Tom had called and left a voicemail. Jan had told him I was in hospital. I decided to call him back later, when I was home.
Finally, I was out of the hospital and all in one piece. I didn't see why they couldn't have just cauterized my nose on Tuesday afternoon an let me go home, then. When I emailed the casting person again, she informed me that the role had been cast and I was out of luck. Checking with work, I found that the Manager hadn't gotten any cover for me. He wanted me to return to work on Thursday. Reluctantly, I agreed. requesting light duties. I then had a nap, as I was supposed to perform at a comedy talent search, in London, that night. The sleep did me good and I drove into London, happy as Larry, whoever Larry is. I wore my hospital bracelet on stage, like a badge of honor. I had survived and at the end of the day, that's the most important thing.

On the Ward (Part 3 of the Hospital Saga)

By the time I arrived on the ward, it was early Tuesday afternoon. I was wheeled on a gurney to within proximity of bed 21. The porter and the nurse who escorted me on my trip from A & E, looked at me. With a straight face, the nurse asked me if I could manage to get into the bed on my own. What? I had suffered a bleeding nose, not a broken leg. I proceeded to get up and climb into bed. Thankfully, my two companions from my journey left. A nurse on duty on the ward approached me. She had a friendly face, but was very fat. Recently, there had been a news story that some NHS trusts have started refusing treatment to fat people. Would they start refusing to hire fat staff? The patient in the bed to my right was fatter than both me and the nurse, so I guess this trust is still treating the overweight, at least for noses. The fat nurse had a form to fill out. She sat down next to my bed and made herself comfortable. I was subjected to more questions. "Do you smoke?" she asked.
"Are you offering?" I responded.
She chuckled. "No, this is a no smoking hospital."
I gave her a deadpan look. "Then, no. Will it help my condition if I take it up?" She laughed. She wasn't taking me seriously. She asked if I was religious. I wondered if I would receive better treatment if I pretended to be Muslim, before assuring her that I am not religious. The next of kin question, again. Were they all planning for me to die? I told her my only family was in another country. She hesitated, then asked if I lived with anyone. I told her to use Nando as my next of kin. After all, he is Italian. Once finished my interrogation, fat nurse asked me if I had lunch yet. Leave it to her to think of food. She looked like she'd eaten one of the patients. I told her I hadn't even had breakfast, yet. Off she went to see if she could find me some food. When she returned, she had only managed to come up with a sandwich and some chocolate biscuits. Gosh, I missed the free food at work. Before heading off in search of more food for herself, fat nurse asked me if there was anything else she could do for me. I asked her how I could contact the outside world. She said I could use my mobile, but that I should keep it from ringing loudly, as I really wasn't supposed to be using a mobile.
Once alone, I started making calls. First, I called Nando, because I was worried he might still be waiting for me downstairs. I had been told that someone had called asking about me. That had to be Nando, because he was the only person, other than the hospital staff, who knew which hospital I was in. When Nando answered, I learned he was safely at home. I told him I would be spending the night and he told me that he would come pick me up the next day, if I was discharged between noon and 3PM. Next, I called work. I let the Restaurant Manager know that I was being kept in the hospital for at least 24 hours. I told him which hospital I was in and asked him to tell the guys at work, so they might visit me. He thought it unlikely they would visit me, if I was only in for one night. I suspected he was right, but by letting him know where I was, he could call the hospital and check to make sure I was really there, in case he thought I was making it all up to get off work. Finally, I called my artist friend, Jan. Jan knew I was supposed to be going to an audition on Tuesday night. I was concerned that she might try to contact me, to see how the audition went, and start worrying when she couldn't contact me.
Jan was glad I called her and let her know. Instead of worrying about what had become of me, she sounded like she was worried about my health. I assured her it was no big deal and just a precaution on the part of my gorgeous, Indian doctor lady. Jan offered to come visit me. I hadn't expected her to, when I called, but I agreed that a visit would be nice. I would like someone to visit me. I asked her if she would bring me some stuff, but then we decided on a plan. She would come to the hospital, get my keys, go to my house and get some stuff I wanted, then return to the hospital. This was a great benefit to me, as I had come with next to nothing, not expecting to be kept in overnight. When Jan turned up, she made a list of things I wanted her to bring back for me. Number one on the list was my wallet. The hospital was equipped with pay television services, by Patientline. I had heard people complaining about that on talk radio. It seemed that in at least some NHS hospitals, one has to pay to watch TV. The private hospital I worked at provided patients with TV at no charge. This was the NHS. The health care was free, but if you wanted TV, you had to pay. Patientline had installed a modern-looking, flat screen TV on a movable arm, over my bed. For a fee, I could have TV, radio, telephone, internet, and video games, through the service. At £2.90 for 24 hours, I wanted in. I didn't want to miss "Eastenders," that night. Next on my list was a newspaper. I suggested the Daily Telegraph, as I thought they have the most sudoku puzzles. Then I wanted the book I was planning on starting to read. I also wanted a collection of sudoku puzzles that a close friend had given me, earlier in the year. I asked for the printed out email detailing the audition I was supposed to attend. I hoped there would be a phone number on it, which I could use to make arrangements to audition another time. Finally, I wanted a pen, so I could do the sudokus in the newspaper. I sent Jan off on her mission, with instructions as to how to get to my house from the hospital. I eagerly awaited her return, as it was very dull in the ward, with no TV, nothing to read, and no sudoku. In order to pass the time, I did the only thing I could do. I had a nap.
To be continued...

Hospitalized! (Part 2 of the Hospital Saga)

In our last episode, I was sitting in the waiting room for the hospital A & E, Tuesday morning, leaking red liquid from my proboscis. Without too much delay, some medical looking person came out and called my name. Responding, I followed her in, through some doors, to the inner regions of the A & E ward. Now we were getting somewhere! I was in the belly of the beast; the inner workings of Britain's National Health Service (NHS), or, in other words, socialized medicine. This is where poor people like me turn, in the UK, when we are leaking red fluids and can't afford private health care. As a struggling actor/writer, with hardly two sticks to rub together, I can't afford to pay for both the taxes that fund the NHS and private health insurance, at the same time. Given that one is mandatory, guess which one I do without?
I was directed to a gurney, in a curtained off space, separating it from other gurney parking areas. A nurse was waiting there and, together with the nurse who walked me in, they directed me to sit on the gurney, then lie back on it. I struggled maneuvering myself, as I only had the use of one hand. The other one was clutching a bloody tissue to my face, trying to staunch the flow of whatever essential fluids my body had left, at that point. They spoke to me with that overly patient tone of voice, which sounds patronizing and annoying. Once I was in position, one of them started asking me more questions. Did I take this, or that? Did I have this condition or that condition? "Who is your next of kin?" There's a pleasant thought.
I was labelled, with a plastic wristband, complete with my name, age, date if birth, gender, post code, and bar code. I'm a product! The nurse who seemed to be running the show instructed me to try holding my nose for a half hour. She admitted that I had probably tried applying pressure, at home, but wanted me to undertake this exercise anyway. What the hell, in for a penny, in for a Pound, I gave it a try. When I applied pressure to my nose, the blood just pooled up behind the pressure, until it started spilling down the back of my throat. Tiring of that, they tied a cotton bolster across my nostrils and waited for the doctor to see me. They started sticking tubes in my arms and taking my blood pressure, as well as a blood sample. The doctor who turned up was a short, blond man, who over-used sun beds, or fake tan. One of the nurses consulted with him. They seemed bothered by something. Oh no, maybe they had discovered that I am a Cylon. The doctor ordered a saline drip. After a time, I started feeling warm. Then I started sweating a lot. I felt more and more uncomfortable. One of the nurses assured me that my reaction wasn't unusual. The doctor instructed the nurses to take the saline drip our of my right arm and attach it to my left. Eventually, the discomfort subsided.
Once I started feeling better, the doctor advised me that he was going to try "packing" my nose. The execution seemed a lot worse than the description. First, the doctor shoved a tubular device up my right nostril. That alone was very uncomfortable. Then he inflated it, so that it put pressure on the whole inside of the nostril. Leaving me to contemplate my situation, the doctor returned, later, saying he wanted an Ear, Nose and Throat (ENT) specialist to look me over. When she finally came around, she was gorgeous and Indian. While she may have looked great, her behavior made up for it, by being awkward. She said I had lost a lot of blood and she wanted to admit me to the hospital, for a least 24 hours. What? I didn't expect that. I had an audition to attend, that night. I tried reasoning with her, but she was adamant. I gave in and her minions wheeled me upstairs. I was going to be spending the night in the hospital.
To be continued...

Going to the Hospital

I'm sorry for not posting a new blog article, yesterday, but I went to the hospital. I was laying in my bed, in the early hours of Tuesday morning, when I suddenly snapped awake. I felt this trickle of liquid in my right nostril. Touching my finger to my nose, I pulled it back and saw the end dark, with blood. My nose was bleeding. What a pain in the ass! Okay, so not so much in the ass, as in the nose. And it wasn't exactly a pain, more of an inconvenience. Alright, what an inconvenience in the nose!
I got a roll of toilet paper and stood in front of the sink. I tried to put pressure on the point of bleeding, to stop it, but that didn't work. The blood just backed up in the nostril until it came running out the other nostril, as well as into my mouth. I'm not sure what time it was, because I didn't look at my clock when I first got out of bed. It was before my alarm went off, which was set for 6:30AM. I would estimate that it was around 5:30. I needed to be at work by 7:30. Valiantly, I worked to staunch the blood flow, but to no avail. The warm, red liquid continued to pulse out of my rather cute nose. The deep red droplets spattering the white sink. For a time, it seemed to slow to almost a stop. I went back in my room and lay back down, on the bed. After a few minutes, the blood flow would pick up again. Back to the sink I went.
Soon, it was getting late...late enough that I was definitely going to be late for work. Still, I tried. Once it reached 7:20, I needed to call my boss, to let him know about the situation. I hesitated. What would I tell him? Would I just be late, or would I not make it in at all? Apprehension at facing that decision stalled me a couple of minutes. Finally, at 7:25, I held some toilet paper to my right nostril and walked to the phone. When the Restaurant Manager answered, I informed him of the situation. I so wanted him to tell me not to come in at all, but instead he told me he was short-handed, which means he wanted me to come in. At that moment, I wouldn't be of much use to him. I couldn't even drive in the condition I was in. How do you predict how soon your nose would stop bleeding? It had been a couple of hours already. Not knowing what else to say, I suggested I would try to be in by 8:30. That gave me an hour. Less, really, because I needed time to travel to work. The bleeding slowed again and I hoped for the best.
Unfortunately, it started flowing profusely, again. Twenty-five minuets after I called my boss, he called back to ask how I was getting on. I told him it was still bleeding and cautioned him that if it didn't stop, I would need to go to the hospital. He told me to keep in touch. 8:30 came and went, but still the bleeding continued. I began to worry about the amount of blood I was losing. At some point, I could pass out, if I lost enough blood. I had a growing apprehension that I would have to give in and go to the hospital. How would I get there? It was Nando's day off and I hated to wake him. For new readers, Nando's my racist, Italian housemate. I contemplated calling an ambulance, but why tie up an ambulance, when Nando could drive me? At this point, I was still naked. I would need to put some clothes on before executing either option. I kept hoping Nando would wake up on his own, so I could ask him for help. At about 8:48, I decided. I was going to the hospital. I called work and let the Manager know. Then, holding paper to my nose, I managed to pull on some clothes. I slipped my feet into flip-flops, because I didn't think I could manage putting on shoes. Hesitating a few minutes more, I finally knocked on Nando's door. No answer. I knocked again. Still, no answer. I tired yet again. This time, a groggy Italian voice made some noise.
When Nando opened his bedroom door, I quickly appraised him of the situation and asked him to drive me to the hospital, in the nearby town of Reading. He immediately agreed. Nando may be a racist, but he's a nice guy. However, Nando is not the quickest guy to get going in the morning. He went and sat on the toilet for a while. Then he went downstairs for something. Then he came back upstairs and spoke to me at the bathroom sink. By that time, he was still only dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. "Come on Nando!" I thought. I started worrying that I was feeling light-headed from blood loss, although I couldn't be sure if it was that, or my anxiety. Eventually, Nando managed to get himself together and we were on our way. Nando drives slower than I do and I felt impatient with every traffic light he caught. After what seemed like ages, we arrived and I walked into Accident and Emergency (A & E), the equivalent of an American Emergency Room (ER). Impatiently, I waited to speak to one of the women milling around behind the reception glass barrier. Some twat in front of me was taking ages. "Hey! I'm a bleeder. Move your ass," I thought to myself. I am often very impatient in my thoughts. One of the hospital staff told us to move to another window. Arrrrgh! Once they got twatface on his way, it was my turn. In no apparent rush, the receptionist asked me a lot of mundane questions. Name? I felt like saying, "the man who's bleeding all over your waiting area, that's my name." Have I visited that hospital before? Address. Postcode. The name of my doctor. What was worse is that she ended up asking me all of these questions a second time. It's good I wasn't in a hurry...bleeding, or something. Oh yeah, I was! Then I was directed to sit and wait. After all, there were a number of non-bleeding people who had been there, waiting, ahead of me. I sat as far away from the others as I could. Not long after I sat down, a woman brought in a girl of about ten. I overheard the woman say her daughter had a nosebleed. What was this, an epidemic? I didn't see any evidence of any bleeding, on the child. Her mother told the receptionist that her daughter had bled for half an hour and it had stopped. Now, she wanted the girl checked. Half an hour? I had been bleeding over four hours and was still going. After they went through the questions, her mother pulled her over and they sat one seat away from me. I guess I didn't look scary enough. I overheard the mother tell her daughter, "that man has the same as you," referring to me. Would this torture never end?
To be continued...

My Lucky Day?

I was sitting here, wondering what to write about. All of the sudden. I remembered that it was Friday the 13th, today. 13 is my favorite number. I embraced it, years ago. One thing about it that appealed to me is that many people are superstitious about it and think it's unlucky. Since I was a child, I have been a bit of a contrarian. This leads me to often embrace that which other people shun. I am not superstitious at all. If I ever get another cat, I'd like a black cat and I will name him Satan.
So, if Friday the 13th is considered "unlucky," it should be lucky for me, right? There is the slight problem that I don't believe in luck. Still, how did the day measure up? Why am I asking you? How the heck would you know? It started out with a headache. Literally. Of course, due to "health and safety" considerations, they refuse to give out aspirin, at work. They will give a band aid, but not aspirin. How's that supposed to help my health and safety? Obviously, the aspirin would eliminate my headache, thereby improving my health. What good would putting a band aid on my skull do? Ironically, they will happily sell me aspirin at the shop run by our company. It's okay to sell it to me, but not give it to me. Health and safety, sure.
There was no haddock left over to take home. That doesn't sound so lucky. Chef Anthony's car broke down, on the way to work. That could almost seem like "unlucky," for him. He asked me to drive him home. Of course, I agreed. Because he was keen to get out early, he helped me finish my work. That could seem like luck for me. I ended up leaving work fifteen minutes early. At home, I took Ibuprofen and then had a three hour nap. When I woke up, my headache was gone. I had a nice dinner, with some delightful chocolate truffles for dessert. I feel rested and great. So, it ended up feeling like a wonderful day. No conclusive evidence for, or against, luck, but who cares? I feel wonderful anyway.

The Ostrich or the Egg

I was so annoyed last night. When I tried to post a new blog article, Myspace blogs were down for "20 minutes." After an hour and a half of waiting, I gave up and went to bed. I can only apologize to my loyal readers. The technology that brings us together sometimes separates us.
This past weekend, I had a lovely visit from my artist friend, Jan. Because of my cold (flu, whatever), I had opted out of our scheduled Bridge game, on Saturday. I had caught this sickness while visiting Jan the weekend before. She probably picked it up from some disease ridden child at one of the schools where she worked as a "supply teacher." For my American readers, a "supply teacher" is not someone who teaches supply. It's a British term for a substitute teacher. Although Jan is retired from teaching (oh I wish I didn't have to go to work), she does a bit of temping, as a supply teacher, to bring in some extra cash. Anyway, this experience has re-confirmed my suspicion that children are mostly useless and simply act as carriers of disease (and you only thought you could re-confirm reservations).
I think Jan felt a little guilty for getting me ill, so she came over with a care package and to keep me a little company. I called her on Friday night and mentioned that Nando was working late. I think I gave her the impression that I was lonely, what with Nando not at home. Nando was working all weekend, so Jan probably concluded that I would be lonesome all on my own. The care package consisted of Lemsip, salad dressing, fresh broccoli, tartar sauce, and a box of microwave popcorn. Despite my dropping hints that I prefer Lemsip capsules, she turned up with the original powder, which one has to mix with hot water, then drink. She brought what she likes. Never mind what I like. Oh well, it's the thought that counts.
On Sunday afternoon, I showed Jan some videos on my computer. I had warned her that my bedroom was a bit untidy. She reassured me that her daughter's room is also messy, so she's used to that sort of thing. I bet her my room would outdo her daughter's. I think I won that bet. Jan decided to amuse herself by picking up some books that were piled on my bedroom floor. This was a task I had started, myself, last year, but hadn't yet managed to finish. The pile of books was left over from moving in, a year ago. Although I have wanted to finish putting the books on my bookshelf for ages, it still felt a little intrusive to have Jan doing it. I tried to talk her out of it, to no avail. She said her daughter makes the same complaints when Jan cleans her room. Jan may be only five feet, two inches tall, but she has this gentle pushiness that's so unobtrusive, it's hard to resist. It's kind of like the tide coming in. It starts out lapping at your ankles, then the next thing you know, you're up to your neck in it.
From the books, she moved on to some of my ties that were tossed on a pile of folded clothes. They were deposited there after I took them to some costume fitting or another. Defensively, I tried to help, so I could put my spin on where thinks were put. After a while, I told Jan to stop. She would agree, but as soon as I relaxed, she'd start picking up something or the other. It was all I could do to stop her from throwing away my prized supermarket carrier bags. Eventually, Jan came across my ostrich egg. It was given to me in South Africa, back in December, 2002, by a rep from a travel company. I carried the egg all the way back to England, without breaking it. I have lugged it around to three rented residences, over the past four years. I looked at the egg and I looked at Jan. Suddenly, an idea sprang into my mind. "Jan, do you want that egg? You can have it, if you want it," I said.
"Is it an ostrich egg?" Jan asked.
"Yes," I said. Did it matter? It's a big flipping egg. Either she wanted it, or she didn't.
"I could have used it when I was a full-time art teacher," she informed me. That was interesting, but mostly irrelevant. That was then, this is now. Would she take it off my hands, now? I hoped she would. Finally, I could be rid of that useless thing. She agreed, but did so unenthusiastically. I was worried she was just being polite.
"Are you sure you want it?" I asked. "As much as I want to be rid of the damned thing, I want it to go to a good home. I don't want you to take it and end up putting it in your garage." Jan thought out loud about where she could put it, in her house. She held the large egg shell in her hands. Would she bond with it? I started to feel reluctant to let it go. Maybe this is how mothers feel who put their babies up for adoption before giving birth. When push comes to shove, they have second thoughts about giving the child up. I asked her, "if you were me, would you give the egg away, or keep it?" I sat on the end of my bed, while Jan stood with the egg in her hands. We debated the egg's future. No matter how much I wanted to be rid of it, I just wasn't convinced that Jan really wanted it. We decided that I would keep the egg, for now, while Jan thought about it. If she decided she really did want it, I would give it to her in the future.
If any of you would like to have an ostrich egg and will commit to giving it a good home, let me know. It's just the egg shell. All the innards have been drained out of it, so it's never going to hatch into anything. It will forever be dependant on you for care and attention. On the plus side, it doesn't eat anything and is very quiet. All of this discussion of the egg's fate has led me to ponder that age old question: which came first the ostrich or the egg?

Lemsip and Ginger Cake

The first thing I should tell you is that I caught a cold, or the flu, or something, this week. How do you tell the difference between a cold and the flu? Everyone else always seems to get the flu, while I seem to get colds. I guess I don't feel the need to be overly dramatic about it. It stated with a scratchy throat on Sunday, and now it's full blown. I'm sure I had a fever when I got home from work, today. I had this suspicion that, somewhere, I had some leftover cold and flu medicine. This Saturday will be one year since I moved into this house. I still haven't completely unpacked. Last night, I rooted around amongst some of my not yet unpacked stuff and I managed to find my old bottle of decongestant spray. Some help, but not a panacea. Tonight, I was determined to find the complete cold medicine. Success!
I found a crushed box of Lemsip Max capsules. For those of you not familiar with the UK over-the-counter drug market, Lemsip originated as a powder you make into a hot drink, which relieved cold and flu symptoms. Quite ironically, it is lemon flavored. I used to use it, but boiling the water and mixing the powder with it was so much bother. Then some genius decided to expand the brand and put Lemsip into capsules. No need to boil water and spend time drinking stuff. Just swallow two capsules and away we go. The bad news is that there were only two doses left in the crushed box. I decided to take one dose at 8PM. It's good for four hours. That would cover the evening's TV watching. I kept the second dose in reserve and hope to buy more on the way home from work, tomorrow. Once I started to feel the effects of the Lemsip, I felt so much better. Over the last hour, I have slowly eaten a generous sized piece of ginger cake. Now I feel high on ginger cake and Lemsip. The fever is gone and I actually feel pretty good. Billy Crystal once played a character who said, "it's better to look good than to feel good." I think I disagree with that. I may not look that good, but I feel good and that's great.

Suddenly, Nando's Gone!

After work, yesterday, I had a conversation with Nando. I hadn't spoken with him on Wednesday, because I went out after work and he went to bed before I got home. Nando received an urgent call from Italy, Wednesday. His father has had a heart attack. Nando Papa was still alive, as of yesterday. He'd undergone a serious operation, angioplasty, or however it's spelled. Nando tried to get a flight to Italy the next day, but as all former travel agents know, last minute airline tickets can be expensive. Nando was unable to afford the airfare for Thursday departures, so he flew out today.
Just like that, he's gone. Nando will be away for two weeks, at least. Meanwhile, I now face a lot of time alone. Nando may be a racist, but he's turned out to be a good friend. As he rarely can be bothered to go out, he's usually home in the evenings, so I have someone to watch TV with. He's not on the internet, so he doesn't try to steal my Myspace friends. He's so much more sensible than my other housemate, M1. The age and educational gap between M1 and myself seems too broad to bridge. Nando and I often refer to the 22-year-old M1 as, "the Boy." Even M1's 17-year-old girlfriend, the Exotic Flower thinks she is more "mature" than M1. I have nothing against young people in general, so long as they aren't idiots. Oh the horror! With Nando gone, there will be no one to insulate me from M1 and the Flower.
Let's all hope that Nando Papa makes a speedy recovery, so Nando can come back soon. Nando is my Consigliore. It would be nice if Nando Papa is still around when I visit Naples, one day. I also need my buffer, between me and Them (M1 and the Flower). It's a strange coincidence, but Pino wasn't at work today and Chef Anthony said he'd gone to Italy. Pino is from Naples, from the same district as Nando is from. Also, another friend of mine flew to Italy on Thursday and is staying not far from Naples. What is going on? Could it be a conspiracy?