I still have a chest pain.
It is clearly cancer/ heart attack/pneumoia etc.
I will go to the doctor.
As I obviously have only a short time to live, I will have a cup of coffee first.
There are posters all over London of a man with a flesh coloured strap round his chest and underneath the picture it says:
‘Chest pain is your body’s way of telling you to ring 999.’
I will ring my doctor in a minute.
My chest pain doesn’t feel like a strap, it is more like a clenched fist.
I went to the doctor. The doctor weighed me- ugh gross-if I survive this, I will go on a crash diet.
The doctor took my blood pressure. The doctor made me blow into a tube and listened to my chest. Then she said:
‘Mmmm I think there is a chance that you may have a blood-clot on your lung.’
I said ‘Oh, wouldn’t I be a little bit dead if I had a blood-clot on my lung?’ And she said,
‘Well, no, not necessarily. it’s only if the blood-clot moves to the heart that you have that kind of prognosis.’
That made me feel much better.
I have to go straight to hospital to have an X ray. I must not move to quickly or the blood-clot may move to my heart.
I am a time bomb.
I go very slowly home without making any sudden moves.
If I am a time bomb and have been for about 5 weeks I suppose there is no real urgency, so when I get home I have another cup of coffee. I love coffee. it’s funny how being a time bomb makes one appreciate the simple things in life.
‘What do you mean you’re a time bomb?’ asks John. John is late for work.
‘You can’t just stand there telling me you are a ticking blood-clot bomb. I’m late for work.’ says John.
John takes me to hospital.
He has to be in conference. He has to write some questions for an interview. He has to design a pull-out. This is very very inconvenient.
I have a very very good book with me so I read while John plays Patience on his phone.
Accident and Emergency is full of slightly ill people.
A beautiful boy with soulful eyes is juggling with three silver balls.
A child has a vaguely sore finger.
A Russian man has no idea where he is and he speaks no English, luckily there is a Russian Doctor in A&E and he explains that this is a hospital for people who are a little bit unwell and the Russian man leaves.
A black girl holds her stomach and groans. She can hardly walk but the Russian Doctor tells her to go home.
He has a zero tolerance policy.
Hours later, I see a Heart Specialist. I have an electrocardiogram. I am beginning to feel a bit better, I think sitting about for a very long time, reading a very good book must be good for you.
John is bored by now, so he goes to work.
In my book, two characters are discussing asparagus servers and the relationship of said servers to social class. I wonder what asparagus servers look like.
I have an X ray.
I suppose, now, that they will be able to see the inoperable fist-lump attached to my sternum.
I have a blood test.
I imagine the blood-clot playing fast and loose, careering around my cardio vascular canals or similar.
The Heart Specialist sits down next to me on a small plastic chair in my little cubicle. I am sitting on a small plastic chair too. I am not lying about on the bed because I am not officially ill.
Over the Heart Specialist’s shoulder I see that the black girl is still here and that she has completely collapsed in a heap at the Russian Doctor’s feet and that he is completely ignoring her. I find this quite entertaining and almost forget to listen to the Heart Specialist. I wrench my attention round, as one would a recalcitrant horse, and attempt to concentrate.
‘....some paracetemol’ says the Heart Specialist.
What a waste of a day!
I am never going to the doctor again unless I have a compound fracture of the femur or similar.
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