Mixed Feelings.

You know, part of what so disturbs me about all this medical proceduring (I know it isn’t a word and I don’t care) is the way it takes me out of my world and shackles me to one created by others. I interface with this culture when it suits me, and sometimes it can be quite pleasant for a change – like having coffee and a chocolate muffin in Costa while exchanging light pleasantries with the serving wenches, for example – but I so dislike being drawn down below decks where I feel claustrophobic and alien.

My world is all about feeling the magic of moths gorging on nectar during a summer twilight, of thrilling to the rush of bats racing past my ear, of wishing the birds well as I see them carrying food to their young, of nuzzling the nose of a beautiful horse who doesn’t seem to mind. Hospitals have something about them which carries an undertone of incarceration. After I’d had my interview with the surgeon today, and finished the MRSA swabbing, and completed the questionnaires, the nurse said ‘OK, you can escape now.’ ‘Escape’ was a well chosen word.

Having said all of which, I do appreciate the fact that we still have a functioning National Health Service in Britain in spite of the fact that it’s close to floundering under Thatcher-inspired policies. The pressure it’s under at the moment seems to be largely due to the actions of right-leaning governments, as well as perhaps the administrators of the relatively modern NHS Trusts. The people who do the job at the workface, those who carry out the clinical and support functions to which end a hospital exists, are splendid people – pleasant, helpful, dedicated and skilful. They do their best to smile and encourage away the fears lurking behind the eyes of their patients, and I can’t praise them enough. So whatever my personal feelings about being forced into an alien world, a sincere word of thanks is due to those who genuinely try to help.