Further adventures in the NHS

I’m wearing a heart monitor.

As I wrote last time, I fell over again during a Saturday morning rehearsal. Afterwards a nice lady came and spoke to me. She told me she was a doctor, and offered me a sweet tea. I declined, but agreed to a mug of black coffee and a Kit Kat. I told her that I thought the fall resulted from my sciatic nerve becoming trapped due to a prolapsed disc, and I asked her if she agreed. She said that if the brain doesn’t get a message back from a nerve, it decides there’s nothing much doing in that department and switches it off. My interpretation was highly probable.  As I had promised, I made an appointment to see my GP.

Monday afternoon, and I saw one of the doctors at Falkland House. I described what had happened, that I had not lost consciousness, and that my sciatic nerve was probably to blame. He agreed. When I got home, one of the other doctors phoned me. “The worst case,” he said, “is that you had a TIA, a mini stroke. I’ve referred you the neurology team at the Hallamshire.”

The very next Thursday, off I toddled to the Royal Hallamshire Hospital, complete with book of Opera Choruses (got to get the words for the chorus of Brindisi learnt), pen, iPad, and Guardian bought from WH Smiths for the crossword. The no. 6 bus goes there, but my appointment was 9:20 am, so I had to pay! Ultrasound scan of arteries in neck, check. ECG, check.

Then MRI scan. Emptied pockets, removed glasses (“Just like Manchester airport,” I quipped. Tumbleweed.) I was fitted with earplugs, headphones, and a helmet which held a periscope-type mirror through which, lying on my back, I could see the nursing staff diving for cover as I slid head first into the bowels of the machine.

BABABABABABABABABABA.

I was trying to turn the incessant rhythm into something more bearable: BAbabaBABABAbababaBABAbaBABAbaBAbaba, when a voice came through the headphones: “Can you keep your head still please?”. I contented myself with conducting it with one hand: 3/4, 4/4, 3/4, 5/4.

BOBOBOBOBOBOTTLEBOTTLEBOTTLEBOTTLE

I emerged, glad that was over, trying to think of a witty comment about the crap music. Didn’t bother.

Belongings restored, off to another waiting room, where I made significant headway into the Guardian Cryptic while I awaited the Consultant’s verdict on my health.

For which you will have to wait until the next instalment.

And you still don’t know why I’m wearing a heart monitor.

Pip pip.