Self Imposed Reclusion
Throughout the second half of the Couch to 5K running programme over the last few weeks, I have been battling first a cold, then what appeared to be a second cold, and finally a cough. After churning through the training runs every other day for the first half of the course, I was reduced to running once a week – which seemed to suffice and caused no ill effects.
And then came the fun run on Sunday morning. At about the half-way point I could feel the cold air doing something to my battle-damaged lungs, but wasn't sure what – I'm still not sure what – neither is the doctor. I finished the run, and went out with my family for a meal afterwards, but kept quiet about how much pain I was really in. It felt like somebody had punched me in the ribs.
This morning I finally went to the doctor – a feat in itself, which requires sitting on the phone for twenty minutes, repeatedly re-dialing until you beat the queue of old people calling to reserve a space for their social club. Before you start ranting at me about ageism, the doctor's surgery in town has mail-shot the entire town before about this problem – about older people repeatedly requesting to see the doctor when they don't need to.
Anyway.
I blagged a mid-morning appointment. This will probably come as a shock to those I know on the other side of the Atlantic – I really did call the doctor this morning, and and hour later was seen, and it cost me nothing – because we have a National Health Service – the very thing that will cause our next Government to collapse if they dare sell any of it's services to the US as part of Trump's latest round of idiocy.
The doctor spent quite some time listening to me breathe, and writing notes about the last six weeks. While asking about family history, he laughed that my record only showed one visit in the past – in 2014 – for a chest infection.
“You don't get ill very often, do you?”
“Not ill enough to trouble you, no.”
After a humorous fail with a blood pressure monitor, he asked if I might use one of the self-service machines in the waiting room. He also booked me in for a chest X-Ray, and a blood test – more procedural than anything. We talked about perhaps using some of the holiday days I have left at work to book a few days off.
Minutes later I found myself sitting in a booth in the waiting room, following instructions on a touch-screen, with my arm poked through a hole in a machine that read my blood pressure. I don't know about the machine being able to read my pulse – I could certainly feel it, as it inflated a collar around my upper arm.
A couple of hours later – after walking home, phoning the hospital booking line, and then walking back again – I arrived at the town hospital with a referral letter, and no idea where I was going. A helpful lady on reception pointed to a door and told me to follow the signs leading upstairs to the X-Ray department. Over the next few moments I discovered that the entire building seemed to be filled with doors, hallways, and stairs. I started to wonder where the actual treatment and consulting rooms might be hidden.
Finally, I reached a small seating area, with a button on the wall, and a helpful sign stating “For X-Rays, press here”. I “pressed here” – and almost immediately a slender doctor stepped into an adjoining corridor (another corridor), and asked “are you here for an X-Ray?”
“Yes”
I followed her while she talked, and crouched over a computer to check the schedule.
“Oh yes. Here you are.”
I gathered over the next minute or so that I had somehow slipped incredibly fortunately through the system, and that they could do my X-Ray immediately. I shed some clothes, stood in front of a large plate, and was manipulated by a friendly Irish lady who recognised my name.
“Does your wife work in the infant school in town?”
“Yes?”
“I thought I recognised the name!”
It turned out the nurse's children go to the infant school. Small world.
Moments later everything was done, and I was free to go. Apparently my doctor will receive the results in two weeks, and will be in touch if there is anything to worry about. We all suspect he will respond with “you've got a chest infection”.
While walking back towards home I called work, and agreed that I'm going to take the entire week off – to stay at home in the warm, and try not to do anything. Of course doing nothing is easier said than done. In-between the doctor and the hospital I emptied and re-filled the washing machine, filled the dishwasher, folded clothes, and tidied the kitchen and lounge. Immediately after getting home from the hospital I let a satellite TV engineer in to look at our dish, that hasn't worked for months. It never ends.
At least the TV is fixed now though, right ?