On Blood, Banter, and Bad Omens.

I went for my ECG and consultation today. After the nurse took the ten sticky bits off, I was about to ask: ‘Did you check all my hearts or only one of them?’ hoping she would say: ‘How many do you have?’ and I could have replied: ‘Three. I’m not from this planet, you see. I come from a little world around 60 light years beyond Alpha Centauri. I came here because I heard the bananas were especially good, but then there was a revolution back home and the intergalactic fleet got mothballed. I’ve been here ever since.’ Only I didn’t because I know her of old. She’s terribly serious, never smiles, and is most certainly not the type to engage with the sort of childish banter I’m inclined to purvey when I’m being subjected to the ministrations of the medical fraternity. Instead I asked ‘Am I done? and she said ‘Yes.’ I sauntered off with commendable nonchalance to await the consultation.

That didn’t go so well. After studying the ECG print, he took my blood pressure and declared: ‘Your blood pressure is worryingly high. I need to get you into hospital.’

‘What, now?’ I asked incredulously.

‘Yes.’

‘You must be joking.’

The thing is, you see, being suddenly taken off to hospital is, for me, a bit like being a fish swimming contentedly in its own little pond when it feels the sharp pain of a hook puncturing its mouth, and then being lifted out into an alien environment, there to be weighed and held aloft for the purpose of having its photograph taken. And besides, I wouldn’t have had an overnight bag containing my dressing gown, slippers, change of clothes, a good book, and my phone charger. It wasn’t on. I just wanted to go home.

He gave me a bit of lecture about high blood pressure causing heart attacks, and how they happen suddenly without warning, and the sum total seemed to amount to ‘You could have a heart attack any minute.’ And then he calmed down a bit and admitted that I was free to decline the hospital admission if I wanted to. ‘I’ll do that, then,’ I said. He gave me a prescription for some anti-hypertension pills and some sort of spray to direct into my mouth if I get any pain around my heart. (How the hell you’re supposed to tell the difference between heart pain and indigestion I really don’t know.) I took the prescription to the pharmacy and knocked on the window.

‘Two pints of bitter and a gin and tonic,’ I requested of the pharmacy woman.

‘Do you want crisps as well?’ she replied.

Ah, blessings of blessings, I thought. Somebody who is prepared to engage with my childish banter at last.

‘No thanks. Got any peanuts?’

‘I’ll see.’

She took my prescription and came back with a paper package.

‘Sorry, we’re out of peanuts.’

‘OK, I’ll save the calories and lose some weight.’

Isn’t that how visits to the doctor should be? It is. So then I drove homeward.

Well now, the squally showers which had been around all day became suddenly worse as I drove up the hill coming out of the town, and soon the torrential rain assumed the nature of an almost impenetrable curtain. And can you believe that the western sky cleared at the same time? The sun was low and brilliant and underneath the level of the visor, but the rain didn’t let up one jot. Driving isn’t at all easy when you’re blinded by the sun and can’t see more than a hundred yards of road through a downpour of monsoon proportions. It all seemed rather ominous, or at least disturbingly apposite, but I made it back and had my dinner only half an hour later then usual.

All I have to do now is condition myself not to spend every waking minute wondering whether it’s my last. I’ll do my best. I have an appointment to go back for another blood pressure test at the same time next week. Please God, let the weather be fine and dry.