Yesterday I survived another adventure at the hospital.

I had to get up at some ungodly hour (thanks Stagecoach for fucking around with the timetables AGAIN) even though my appointment wasn’t until 12.30pm. A two hour bus journey was followed by a twenty minute bus journey and I finally reached my destination.

As I walked along to Out Patients I realised that I actually really love visiting the hospital. It’s a massive place, full of twists and turns, corridors that look as though they lead to The End, lifts that can reach the stars, and laughing students who haven’t yet been beaten into miserableness by the many thousands of faceless patients they will diagnose and treat over the coming years.

The many thousands of faceless patients (both in and out) who traipse daily through the corridors of the hospital never fail to entertain me. The tearful ones, the angry ones, the miserable ones, those who laugh happily and those who put on a brave face. There are those who are so-very obviously showing off their battle scars and those who would much rather be in their bed, on the ward, if it wasn’t for the stern nurse who’s insisted that they see some other part of the hospital.

Take a ticket, sit on a hard chair in a teeny-tiny blood-taking department and try not to listen to the conversations of others, whilst wishing I didn’t have to guess what they needed to give blood samples for. What has Fate heaped upon these nameless folk who share my air? The vampire phlepbotomist took two vials of my blood, for tissue-typing (again). As she did so she made small-talk (‘you’re very brave, when’s the operation?’) and it was only as I left that I realised she didn’t really want my story and the minute I walked out of the department she wouldn’t give me a second thought.

I’m not that important.

I had a while till my MRSI so I wandered the corridors, drank tea, and read my book. When I became frustrated with Pi I indulged in a spot of people-watching. But even that became a trifle boring so I found a sign pointing in the direction of the MRSI department and I followed it. Excitingly it took me into an are of the hospital I hadn’t been before. Less excitingly, it looked like all the other parts; green, with amateur art on the walls.

A lady with a clipboard took me into a room and questioned me. Did I have any metal bits in me? Was I pregnant? No, No, No, No, No, No, Yes. What was the Yes for? I forget.

You need to get changed now, she informed me and led me into a room with cubicles. Pop the gown on as though it’s a dressing gown. Are you wearing jewellery? Take it all off, oh, but you can keep your wedding ring on.

So, all my wordly possessions were locked away and I was led (in my knickers, socks and a gown) into the prep room. More needles! I’m beginning to hate needles. The only thought which helps me overcome the pain and hate that I have for them is that three times a week Blokey has to have humongous ones put in his arm as a form of keeping him alive. If he can go through that, then I can go through this.

Ear-plugs, straps, into the tunnel (they didn’t ask me if I was claustrophobic,) knocking noises, holding my breath so many freakin’ times, arms up, an injection, holding my breath for a final (and seemingly longer) time, a sensation of warmth that is tantamount to weeing …

What?! Have I just pee’d myself?

I remembered a long-distant conversation with Blokey where he’d thought he’d pee’d himself while having the scan. But he’d been told he might get that sensation; I wasn’t told. Pesky MRSI lady.


All over.

I treated myself to a cheese and tomato baguette before taking the lift to the heavens to visit a friend (who’s had a knee operation).

Then I went home by way of a twenty minute bus journey followed by a one hour bus journey followed by Blokey’s car (via the pizza place … yummy!)

Blokey has a Transplant Clinic appointment next week. He needs to mention that Dr. Nick said he wanted the op to go ahead asap. We really need an appointment with the surgeon …


(I shouldn’t have eaten the pizza.)