A Pass Mark of Sorts.

I went for an appointment with the Heart Failure Nurse today. It was supposed to take an hour and consist of questions about my experiences, advice regarding the perils of heart disease, recommendations for relevant medications, a blood test and a blood pressure test. Before she got started, however, I decided to give her my half of the interview. I spent around twenty minutes explaining that I very much appreciated her efforts and those of the NHS which I think is wonderful, that I consider nursing to be the most honourable of professions, that I realised how much all this was intended to be for my benefit, and that I’m not entirely stupid. (‘I know,’ she replied convincingly.)

And then I went further and explained that I don’t particularly want to live to a seriously old age which might entail contracting a variety of degenerative conditions, requiring ever more clinical attention, taking so many medications that I’ll start rattling like a half empty tube of Smarties, and possibly winding up in some horrifically soulless care home trying unsuccessfully to ignore the mindless prattle oozing out of the TV set in the corner. What I want is to live my own little life in my own little world, doing my own thing in my own way unencumbered by the hook and line by which I keep being reeled in for more clinical attention.

(That was the brief version.)

She remained gracious throughout, said she fully accepted my right to live my life as I wished, gave me her name and phone number and invited me to call her if I had any questions, and then terminated the interview by handing me a couple of booklets. And then she said: ‘Well, that was refreshing’ without any apparent hint of sarcasm. So now I know that all I have to do to stay on the right side of my beloved nurses is to tell them how weird I am.