Friday 22 November 2013

The Hospital Blues

 The homework at the Writing Group was to write something around the theme 'Why Me?'.

The Hospital Blues

I’m lying in this hospital bed thinking ‘Why Me’ and instead of stopping there like I normally do, for once I try to answer the question.

The doctor said my heart attack was an infarction of a segment of heart muscle, probably due to occlusion of a coronary artery.

After that he said that an infarction means an area of dead tissue caused by a loss of blood supply. I forgot to ask him what an occlusion was. I was too busy remembering what it was like - the crushing sensation in my chest, the pain in my neck and jaw, before it spread into my arms, and wrists, then my shoulder blades and my back.

At first I tried changing my position but lying down didn’t help so in the end they called an ambulance.

‘Why Me’? When I thought a bit more about it I suppose the answer is laziness. I never exercise and I’m about two stone overweight and to be entirely truthful, and I think the time has come to be as honest as I can, the extra weight is not because I eat too much fruit and veg. It’s probably the bacon sandwiches dripping with butter, but it could be the chips, or possibly the ice cream, and the chocolate cake might play a part. Not to mention the cream doughnuts. I could murder a cream doughnut right this minute.

Why Me? When I’d finished visualizing menus in my head to the point where I felt full – in a virtual way – I thought maybe my hypochondria could also be an issue. I was always at the doctor’s surgery for something or other and they generally end up putting me through all sorts of tests then telling me they can’t find anything wrong and that can be very stressful. So I’m sure the anxiety of being a hypochondriac hasn’t helped, not to mention all the running around from the doctors to the hospital to the pharmacy. I’m too old for all this. And I’m sure I know why the family are the ones who have correctly diagnosed my condition and not the doctors. None of the medical people have ever called me a hypochondriac – not to my face anyway – and the reason for that is they’re trying to save money. I know there’s a cure for hypochondria because I read about it – it’s called a Placebo. I asked for it at the chemists and they just laughed at me so they’re involved in the conspiracy too.

Then I took some long slow breaths, just to bring my pulse down a bit, because I was getting a bit excited, all riled up about my untreated condition, then another thought popped into my head.

Why Me? Why Not Me?

There are millions of people around the world with heart disease and I’m just one of them. The symptoms I have are no different to those being suffered wherever you look. Old people, the middle-aged, and even children – everywhere you go there’s someone with heart disease and many of them are a lot worse off than I am, lying in this comfortable hospital bed with a plaster cast round my leg.

That’s when I woke up and remembered I’d broken my ankle falling down the stairs. That’s why I was here. A nurse was standing in the middle of the ward shouting ‘Why Me? Why Me?’ then the Chinese lady in the bed opposite shouted, just as loud,

“I’m Wy Mee, that’s my name. I’m Wy Mee. I was asleep. What you want?’