I don’t know about you, but I come over all Miranda Hart whenever I go
to see anyone medical. It could be a
nurse, it could be a doctor, or on occasions it could be a consultant –
regardless of who it is, the metamorphosis begins as soon as I step in the door. First of all, I start to feel a little hot,
and then I crack the one liners – you know, you’re lying there legs akimbo
whilst an uninterested nurse rustles behind the curtain to show that she is
‘chaperoning’ and the male doctor attempts to shove a metal speculum into your
firmly clamped lady bits in an attempt to get a smear- and rather than the ‘ooh
it’s cold’ and giggle slightly self conciously type of reaction that everyone
else has, I say ‘I hope to God it doesn’t start to buzz’ and then giggle slightly
maniacally. I know… It gets worse. Having clambered off the bed, I inform both
of my startled companions that I have put my Granny pants on especially for the
occasion. Note I said my Granny pants,
not my Grannies pants (that would just be weird).
I am absolutely fine when it comes to the kids being ill, in fact I excel
at being the efficient, well informed mother, often trying to point the
professional in the right direction, the boys dying of embarrassment. As a
result, unless a leg is physically hanging off, my boys would rather not go to
the doctor…
I like to think that whatever medical journey I go on, my little attacks
of Mirandaisms spread a little joy in the establishments that I visit. And it
is a bit contagious. A number of years
ago I had what is known in the genteel surroundings of Surrey as a ‘little op
down below’, and to the rest of us, ‘a hysterectomy’, due to a condition called
adenomyosis. My consultant was a small
Welsh man, with the intense attitude synonymous with all consultants and
lawyers that I have ever met. On the
post op examination, we got over the whole embarrassment of the internal
investigation (I will leave it to your imagination what I came out with once he
lubricated his hands with a huge pot of petroleum jelly) and he pronounced me fit and well, and looked up
at me from between my legs with a smile and said ‘Yes, all looks great, people
pay good money to look that good in Hollywood’. And then I was dismissed, open
mouthed.
Likewise, when G was struck down with what turned out to be gallstones,
I gallantly offered to take him to the doctor’s surgery so that she could check
him out. Of course, he is registered at
a different place to mine and the kids, mainly due to the fact that he has
lived in this area all of his life and never changed it. So it was with interest that on the 3rd
of January this year I sat on a seat in a doctors waiting room, and was the
only well person doing so. G huffed and
puffed beside me, with the agony that comes with protracted labour, and moaning
softly at intervals. Old ladies greeted
each other with ‘How was your Christmas?’, seated old men nodded at each other
over their walking sticks and hassled
mummies rocked buggies of red faced screaming kids. It was all very interesting. A rather large lady entered the waiting room –
obviously a bit of a local surgery celebrity, several voices raised to greet
her. One lady, dressed head to toe in lilac shouted across the room ‘How’s your
vagina?’ I started to get that familiar
hot feeling under my collar as I stared at the large lady.
‘Not too bad, not too bad’, she answered gallantly as she slowly made
her way over to her concerned friend. ‘Playing
up a bit, and it was really bad over Christmas – spent most of it laid up in
bed’. I looked around wildly – there was
no reaction in the surgery. Perhaps they
were all deaf. I stared…
G dug me in the ribs and hissed, ‘What are you looking at?’ I whispered back. He looked at me incredulously, his pain
momentarily forgotten.
‘Angina, she said Angina’… I
began to snicker in relief as everyone stared at me.
This week I had to go and see a consultant about a dodgy Achilles tendon
that renders me lame at certain points of the day. I was determined not to embarrass myself. I turned up early, filled in the form, and
sat waiting. I was called in. The consultant was looking at my notes, and
bade me to sit down.
Immediately I started.
‘Ooh, am I in the naughty chair
then?’ He glanced at me.
He was actually a very nice chap, and he diagnosed what was wrong, and
said that he would arrange for me to have a scan and what not. He was treating me like an equal, and I felt
quite adult and in control. After then telling me what he was recommending, he
then said that he would get it actioned asap, and began to write. What I should have done was put my shoes on
and sat there politely until I was dismissed.
What I actually did was engage in a final conversation.
Without thinking, I said, ‘Oh, so you’re not left handed?!’ No, I don’t
know why I said that either. But he looked up surprised, and queried why I
would say that. You know when you start
something and you don’t know why you started it and then you start trying to
justify why you said the thing that you didn’t know you were going to say until
you did? (Or is it just me?)
Needless to say, he seemed confused. And I seemed to have got over my
lameness as I limp-ran out to the car.
It’s probably just me and Miranda, isn’t it?
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