Flair Writers Group
Ouch!
The nurse was struggling to insert the cannula. I glanced down to look at my left arm and wished I hadn’t. I was back at the Wesley Hospital for an angiogram requested by my cardiologist. He happens to be a heart doctor with a heart.
Dr Hartley was an engineer before he became a medico and he designed the Heart Buses which go out west so that the farmers get the same service as city folk.
At first he was refused government funding so he promptly remortgaged his own home to the tune of $800,000. After that he has been receiving funding ever since.
The nurse is still trying to position the needle every which way – to no avail. I was starting to get quite alarmed because my husband had a bad experience with his first chemotherapy session.
It took four attempts to get the cannula in. The first chap seemed to be learning on the job, the second had a few more tries and then as a last resort they called for the “Sour Face Sister”.
Success – who cares if she had no bedside manner.
Well, in my case they didn’t call SFS, but instead it was “Marvin the Blood Whisperer.” Strange name for a nice young Fijian man I thought, but he was wonderful. No pain and the dreaded horse needle was in perfectly. Marvin smiled and proudly revealed that he worked in the public sector and inserted cannulas all day.
Some time later I was wheeled into the lab – pushed backwards along a labyrinth of corridors with only the bright ceiling lights to look at. The anaesthetic they used was completely new to me.
I was given a diazepam about 20 minutes beforehand and a couple of pills immediately before the procedure. The tube was inserted in my wrist and I was chatting away to the team (as I am wont to do) and I was still chatting when it dawned on me that it was all over and I had lost at least half an hour.
No pain, no memory. Are these new sedatives like some sort of date rape drug? But I didn’t need another stent – hooray!
Then off on another backward journey to my room but I still had no idea where I was because the bed number was on the wall behind me and I was instructed to lie still for a while.
Actually it is quite pleasant to be in hospital when you aren’t sick – especially as the Wesley has room service now.
But I must admit I miss the old days. You could hear the trundle and clatter of the dinner trolley approaching from the other end of the ward, with the promise of food and a nice chat with the tea lady.
I miss the nurse’s uniforms too. Starched white and the Sour Face Sister would have had a formidable stiff headdress and a watch pinned to her lapel.
Not to mention matron resplendent in a red cape – a dragon like figure instilling fear into all and sundry, including the doctors.
When I was admitted this time it was “free dress Friday” and you could be forgiven for thinking you had landed in the children’s hospital by mistake.
The uniforms looked like a kaleidoscope of pyjamas boasting animals and flowers of all descriptions. It was so surreal I started to feel I had joined my favourite childhood story – you guessed it – Alice in Wonderland.
Early next morning I was treated to a very speedy wheelchair ride to the CT scan. It was so fast I could actually feel the wind in my face. At any other time it would be exhilarating.
At least I could see where I was going though. Perhaps the orderlies do it for their own amusement – some sort of Olympic style competition.
Fortunately Marvin’s cannula was still firmly in place and could be used for the dye in my next test.
All the family members on my father’s side have some sort of heart trouble. Thanks Dad. I thought I would be spared being a woman but no such luck.
Ten years ago I had a stent inserted after an 80% blockage in the circumflex artery. They used the femoral route for the procedure and one of the cheeky medicos in my choir said, “Show us your scar.”
My health fund sent me to rehab – me and a gaggle of grumpy old men who had had open heart surgery.
We had to pedal away on exercise bikes until our hearts were really pumping and afterwards we went to classes on the Mediterranean diet and reading food labels like a Nazi. Would you believe sometimes the cardboard box has more nutritional value than its contents?
At least nothing sinister was detected this time. I know my cardiologist is not concerned because he left immediately for a skiing holiday in Thredbo and doesn’t want to see me until August.
So if ever you find yourself in Wesley Wonderland, my advice is to be sure to look out for “Marvin the Blood Whisperer.”
