The Befouled Weakly News

4 May 2008


Well, it looks like you are going to get an account of Greg’s holiday on the NHS after all; they look to be chucking me out today (Saturday) so we should be able to produce something Weakly after all. I know that will come as a disappointment to so many of you but I guess old habits die hard.

I know that some or most of you will have received the briefings provided by our medical correspondent, Ms Penelope Playchute, so much of what I will have to relate this morning will be “old news” I suppose. Still, that’s never stopped me in the past!

As you will remember, I was to be admitted to hospital on Wednesday for surgery sometime on Thursday.  We were instructed to telephone the ward to which I was to be admitted at noon on the Wednesday to ensure there would be a bed available. So, shortly after noon I made the call. The answer I received was somewhat disconcerting: “I’m sorry, but we don’t know anything. You will need to ring back between 1.00 and 2.00.”

When it’s presented in that kind of bold, sweeping manner there is naturally something of a cause for concern. Do they know nothing about me? Do they know nothing about the surgery I am scheduled to submit to? Do they know nothing about the latest odds in the London mayoralty election? And, what knowledge and wisdom are they expecting to glean in the next hour or so? Will they be sitting in a back cupboard surrounded by text books and scraps of lecture notes hoping to cram in all the knowledge they need to know concerning anything I might enquire about?

So, just after 1.00 I telephone again. It seems they still know nothing. Apart from the fact that I should now ring between 2.00 and 3.00 when they may have learned something.

The 2.00 phone call elicits the same response and I am beginning to pick up a pattern here. Every time one rings the number one has been instructed to ring, they know nothing. I expect an answering machine would be as effective at conveying the relevant information, i.e., “we know nothing” and would be considerably more cost effective. If they would merely introduce that one cost-saving measure, I have every confidence the NHS could do all the hip, throat and nose replacements required.

Still, the receptionist answering the 3.00 phone call finally does know something. “The bed manager has taken the list. I don’t know anything. Can you please call back between 4.00 and 5.00?” Well, to be fair it wasn’t much more than we had gleaned previously but at least she knew that the bed manager had walked off with the list so that was progress of sorts, I suppose.

The 4.00 phone call secured the same information – the bed manager had the list – but also the considerably more important news that “He was looking into it.” and that he would telephone me. And so he did, at about 5.30 with the news that there was, alas, no bed for me on the ward. However, they were still hoping to perform my surgery and would I please be at the hospital between 7.30 and 8.00 on Thursday morning.

To be fair, I had not the slightest hesitation in spending the night in my own bed rather than on a hospital ward and would have happily selected this option had it been offered at any previous point in the procedure. It even gave me the opportunity of a second “last supper” which was a treat. On Tuesday evening, which of course we had thought was going to be my last decent meal before the surgery, we went out to the Butcher’s Arms in Priors Hardwick just up the road a mile or so. This is a very posh establishment where we had a fantastic meal and a deliciously delicious bottle of Margaux from the very impressive wine list. Wednesday night’s “last supper” of pizza and salad didn’t have quite the same romance but we did enjoy some Ben and Jerry’s ice cream for afters so it had its moments.

So, on Thursday morning up with the birds and off to Oxford to arrive just before 8.00 to be greeted by the receptionist who, this time at least, did know something (or, at least she had my name on her list which we took to be a good sign). As they didn’t have any beds we sat down in the reception area with about half a dozen other similar morning arrivals (we all had small suitcases or overnight bags with our important stuff – for me including a pair of brand new pyjamas from Marks and Spencer’s, never before worn – so we were easily identifiable).

Reception waiting areas are perhaps not the most entertaining places in which to have to wait and this one, bizarrely for one associated with a medical establishment, had no three year old magazines on popular motor mechanics or interior design through which one could browse whilst waiting.

And wait we did.

At about 10.00 a couple of people were admitted including, I have to say, a couple of late arrivals! I thought the British prided themselves on their ability to queue for anything and that one was always admitted in the strict order of having joined the queue. Clearly not in this establishment!

Finally, by about 11.00 we were the only ones left and they eventually decided, I guess, that they better let us in after all. So, we were ushered from the main waiting room into another, smaller and more intimate, waiting room. Where we waited some more until eventually, at about 11.30 my surgeon, Miss Bojanic arrived, introduced herself and went through the preliminaries.

This was the first time I had actually met Miss Bojanic and, I have to say, I was immediately impressed and reassured by her calm, her professionalism, her efficiency and the careful way in which she explained everything which was to happen. Had I been thirty years younger I would have proposed on the spot.

Having completed the paperwork and signed the consent form we were eventually ushered off to a day ward where we could sit and wait some more. Of course, by this time Pen was beginning to feel a bit peckish so she disappeared off to find something to eat. I, meanwhile, had been “starving” since the night before so my stomach was in a state of rebellion and, in particular, having had nothing to drink since 9.00 the previous evening my mouth was like a dried up constipated mule’s behind and beginning to chap, I think.

Waiting is clearly the name of the game in the NHS and by about 4.00 that afternoon we had secured our gold medals when the anaesthetist finally appeared to tell use we were just about ready for the off. It was in to my hospital gown, backside flapping in the breeze and off we went. After all the waiting, I guess it’s no surprise that the surgery seemed to flash by and I was back on the ward in no time. In fact, it apparently took about four hours but all I can remember is this nice anaesthetist telling me to have a good sleep.

Miss Bojanic came round about 9.00 that evening to check up on me and to assure me that the operation had gone perfectly from her point of view. All I could do was smile through the haze of the anaesthetic and pain killers and suggest that I was delighted to have received that piece of news. Pen, having waited in an exemplary fashion all day long, finally made her way home again to an empty house and a somewhat disgruntled and lonely dog.

As many of you will know, I think, this surgery is intended to deal with the symptoms I have been experiencing over the past three or four years – a more or less chronic pain in the neck which radiates at times into my shoulders and down the arms giving me pins and needles in my fingertips. I went to see a couple of physiotherapists, an osteopath, a sports therapist all of whom happily charged me £30 per half hour visit and assured me that they could definitely, absolutely, positively cure the pain in my neck and shoulder and the tingling in my fingertips. All they did was brutalise me! I think Dad once wrote the only thing they were likely to cure me of was carrying £30 around in my wallet. Eventually, one of the physiotherapists suggested that I ask my GP for a neck x-ray which revealed a couple of deteriorating and bulging disks in my neck which led to the suggestion that I should be sent for an MRI. Some months later I had the MRI and a few months after that saw a very nice consultant who showed me the constriction which the MRI revealed. His recommendation was surgery and so here we are.

The morning after the surgery the delightful Miss Bojanic came round to visit again and explained that the excavation had been considerably more difficult than they had anticipated. Intriguingly, (and with apologies to those of you in the medical profession who know all about these kinds of things), this surgery involves making an incision at the front of the throat on the left hand side, just about at the collar line (although Miss Bojanic assured me she would hide the scar in one of my many neck creases so as not to diminish my beauty in any sense. Perhaps she is keen on my thoughts of a marriage proposal after all?) She then goes between the jaw muscle and around the back to the neck where she (a) removes the degenerating disks and (b) any bone spurs which have developed and finally, (c) replaces the disks with a plastic cage of which I have written before (think medieval man trap with spikes!) which fuse the vertebrae together. All of this is designed to enlarge the space in the spine through which the spinal cord runs, thus alleviating the pressure which is the cause of the pain and the pins and needles.

Apparently, my strong neck muscle, the fact that the disks were virtually non-existent and that there were a considerable number of bone spurs which had to be removed meant that instead of the estimated 1.5 to 2 hours, my surgery had stretched to nearly four hours. Not that I knew much about it, of course, but I suspect Ms Playchute might have been a bit concerned when I was so long in returning.

And so, back to the ward where I spent, not surprisingly, a very fitful night attached to all manner of tubes and devices but, considering the amount of goings on which had taken place in my neck, not too bad.

I guess it’s true of hospitals everywhere, but 6.00 am is clearly waking up time. The loud clanking and clatter of trolleys which deliver tea or coffee or, in my case, hot chocolate followed shortly thereafter by breakfast. Having not eaten for more than thirty hours I was quite looking forward to the full English breakfast which I had imagined would be a staple in the NHS. Bacon, sausages, a couple of fried eggs, toast and perhaps even some black pudding would have gone down a treat! You can imagine my disappointment when I asked the young lady driving the trolley what might be on offer. “Corn flakes, wheat flakes, bran flakes, Special K, wheat roll and butter.” Excellent choice! Corn flakes and wheat roll it is then!

Soon after breakfast I made the acquaintance of the only other occupant of our four-bed ward, the irrepressibly Chatty Alex. He had received the same operation as me but two days earlier and his condition was considerably more advanced than mine. In spite of this, however, Alex could talk for England and had one not known better one might have imagined he was in training for the Beijing Olympics. To be fair, he’d had two days more recuperation than I had and had been cooped up in the hospital ward those additional two days – that’s enough to make anyone stir crazy, I can imagine. However, here I am feeling very groggy and decidedly sore and there is this guy across the ward who will not shut up and let me just sit and listen to some music or read or contemplate my navel. The other thing, of course is, that at this stage he is ambulatory whereas I am still attached to tubes and various monitoring devices. So he definitely has the upper hand.

You know how hospital wards have those little curtains which can be pulled along to give you a sense of privacy and, in a way, a sense of your own space, even when they’re not fully employed. These meant nothing to Alex and although he never actually came into my “room” when the curtains were drawn that certainly didn’t stop him engaging in non-stop (largely one-way) conversation and he certainly crossed the invisible line when the curtains were not drawn encroaching on my space on numerous occasions during his incessant monologues. As well as just being talkative, he did, of course, talk nonsense on many occasions and so I have to churlishly confess that my spirits were lifted considerably when he was told he could go home on Friday evening and I was able to enjoy the four-star luxury of the ward (with private en-suite facilities) without his constant ear-bashing.

So Friday evening and night passed quite pleasantly, all things considered. I watched a couple of DVDs on the laptop and had a very pleasant discussion with one of the young nurses about the merits of the two “The Ladykillers” films of which I was watching the more recent Coen brothers’ version while she was a huge fan of the original with Alex Guinness.  Analgesic drugs and a sleeping tablet helped the night fly by and almost before you could get comfortable it was 6.00 am on Saturday morning and my hot chocolate, corn flakes and wheat roll were delivered by the clattering trolley attendant. Miss Bojanic arrived at about 9.30 to give me the all clear to go home and Ms Playchute very graciously provided the transportation back to beautiful, downtown Byfield.

So, here we are, home again, feeling as if I have just gone 12 rounds with Mike Tyson during which I wasn’t really able to land too many punches. Now I have only the very challenging and difficult task of sitting in the sunshine with my feet up for the next six to eight weeks recuperating. I know it’s a trial but someone has to do it and I reckon I might be just the man for the job.

Miss Penelope has shared with me the various kind words and thoughts that have been conveyed in response to her messages and I thank you very much. Do have a kind thought for her, of course – the next six weeks will be considerably more taxing for her than they will for me, I suspect.

Love to you all,

Greg


In honour of the occasion, I have scraped the bottom of all the barrels I could access to bring you a number of “doctor” or loosely “health related” anecdotes. Regrettably, they will almost certainly  be of the same depressingly poor quality as normal. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose!


A new report shows that being overweight is not as harmful as is commonly believed, and actually confers some surprising health benefits. 

Being five to ten pounds overweight could protect people from ailments ranging from tuberculosis to Alzheimer's disease, research indicates. 

Those carrying 15 to 25 extra pounds are better able to recover from adverse conditions such as emphysema, pneumonia, and various injuries and infections, states the report. 

Thirty to forty pounds of flab could help fend off breast, kidney, pancreatic, prostate, and colon cancer. And an extra fifty pounds on the scale may improve eyesight, reverse baldness, cure the common cold, and reduce global warming. 

In general, the report concludes, overweight people are happier, more successful in business, smarter, and friendlier. 

"This just goes to show that conventional wisdom is wrong," said a spokeswoman for the study group. "Not to mention the hundreds of studies that came before!" 

The study was funded by a research grant from McDonald's, Burger King, Jack in the Box, Taco Bell, Domino's Pizza, Starbucks, Haagen Dazs, Sara Lee, and Krispy Kreme.


An elderly woman went into the doctor's office. When the doctor asked why she was there, she replied, "I'd like to have some birth control pills." 

Taken aback, the doctor thought for a minute and then said, "Excuse me, Mrs. Smith, but you're 75 years old. What possible use could you have for birth control pills?" 

The woman responded, "They help me sleep better." 

The doctor thought some more and continued, "How in the world do birth control pills help you to sleep?" 

The woman said, "I put them in my granddaughter's orange juice and I sleep better at night."


"How did it happen?" the doctor asked the middle-aged farmhand as he set the man's broken leg.

"Well, doc, 25 years ago ..."

"Never mind the past. Tell me how you broke your leg this morning."

"Like I was saying... 25 years ago, when I first started working on the farm, that night, right after I'd gone to bed, the farmer's beautiful daughter came into my room. She asked me if there was anything I wanted. I said, "No, everything is fine."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"I'm sure," I said.

"Isn't there anything I can do for you?" she wanted to know.

"I reckon not," I replied.

"Excuse me," said the doctor, "What does this story have to do with your leg?"

"Well, this morning," the farmhand explained, "when it dawned on me what she meant, I fell off the roof!"


An old couple go to a doctor and ask him to watch them have sex and tell if he see's them doing anything wrong. So they have sex. While they are getting dressed the doctor said, "Well I don't see anything wrong!"

A week later they come again and ask the doctor to watch to see if they are doing anything wrong. They have sex and the doctor says, "Well again I don't see anything wrong."

This goes on for weeks. Then the doctor asks why they keep coming.

The guy said: "If we go to her house her husband will catch us. If we go to my house my wife will catch us. A hotel costs fifty bucks. Here it's thirty-five dollars and Medicare pays half!"


A guy walks into a doctor's office and stutters, "Da-da-doc, I've ba-ba-been sta-sta-stuttering for ye-ye-years, and I ca-ca-can't stand it anymo-mo-more! Can you he-he-help me?"

The doctor answers "Well, I'll have to give you a thorough examination first, but in some cases there is a cure." So the doctor puts the guy through a battery of tests, and says, "I think I know what's causing your stuttering."

The guy excitedly asks, "Well, wa-wa-what is it, da- da-doctor?"

"It's your penis. I know that sounds crazy, but you have an unusually large penis - it's almost two feet long. It seems the weight is putting a strain on your vocal cords which most men never have to deal with."

The guy asks, "Wa-wa-what can we da-da-do?"

"Well, we could remove it and transplant a shorter one."

"Do it!" the guy replies. So they go through the operation, and three weeks later the guy comes in for a follow up appointment. He says, "Doc, you solved my stuttering problem. I don't know how to thank you. But I've only had sex once in three weeks - my wife just doesn't like it anymore with my new, shorter penis. I've thought about it, and I decided I can put up with the stuttering easier than going without the sex - I want you to put my long one back on."

The doctor says, "No-no-nope. A da-da-deal's a da-da- deal!"


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