Ten Years On

Today is the tenth anniversary of the death of Princess Diana. I happened to be in Britain on that fateful day, visiting my then girlfriend, D---a, who later became my evil ex-wife, the Black Queen. Ironically, the Black Queen and Princess Di have the same first and last letters in their first names. She yelled up to me, as I was in bed, upstairs, while she was downstairs getting some refreshments for us. "You've missed your chance, dear," she yelled. This was a reference to the fact that I had a crush on the lovely, divorced Princess.
Last night, I watched a news story on TV that reported that some American doctors, reviewing the reports of the French medical personnel who attended the crash, have concluded that Diana might have survived, had she been taken to the hospital sooner. What they failed to mention was that had Diana been a regular reader of my blog, she might not have gotten into that crash in the first place. On a related side note, I can NOT confirm rumors that Princes William and Harry are regular readers of this blog. Diana is still the most popular British royal in recent memory. A moment of tribute to "the people's Princess."

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...