Wednesday, September 17, 2014

Paragraph from Chapter 4 : Anchor of My Soul

What is really amazing in the UK is that they don’t have stainless steel dishes or bedpans or even plastic ones in the hospitals.  Everything is disposable and made from cardboard.  The cardboard vomit bowl looks just like a bowler hat, which of course, I had to wear to make myself laugh for a while.  Even the bedpan is cardboard.   

 Imagine shitting in cardboard?  What about those really fat people?  Surely the cardboard would not hold their backsides on the edges, and the bedpans would collapse? 

 Gentamycin, blood transfusions, drips, blood tests, scratches and Spotty Dick Pudding … they were all there again, as was Dr Shut-eye.  

 I ask her a few questions and with her eyes closed she asks me for a list of my medication.  Huh?  No wonder I don’t feel safe with her.  This oncologist is really miserable, has never treated HCL before, never seen anyone with leukocytoclastic vasculitis, has no bedside manner, intimidates me and is quite rude.  

 Can you imagine how bad she is to intimidate me?  

 I think I will be better off with someone who gives me information and who is not rude and obnoxious; and who has at least a teaspoon full of compassion.  She was rude to the GP too, when she phoned him and gave him hell for giving me something to stop vomiting so he is not impressed with her at all.  No wonder he does not mind getting me in to see Professor Lynch. 


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