If you ever have 20 minutes to spare on a weekday morning may I suggest you fill in the time with an MRI Scan? (NOT!)
Let me be clear. The process does not hurt – the young white-coated, nerdy types manning the equipment are friendly and you get a bit of a lie-down. But it all takes place in a Nissan-hut miles from the usual Hospital facilities (tea/coffee- and, most importantly – LOOS.)
Your Blogger arrived for her appointment somewhat in need of both. A glass of water was sternly denied – due, of course, to the lack of a loo – although a trip back to the main Hospital building (half-a-mile approx.) was on offer for cases of desperation in the bladder department. But the guys were keen to get on, so I removed those bits of clothing they deemed necessary (underwired bra’s are a no-no) and allowed them to position me in the open coffin they use for this procedure. “The thing is,” they said, “You must NOT move – or it will blur the image and it will be unusable.” They then clamped me in position to ensure that I didn’t and closed something like a motor-bike helmet and visor over my head and left me. Trapped. And let me tell you there is nothing like being told you must not move to make you want to fidget- and there is nothing like feeling you have been buried alive to make you think of panic-attacks and what would happen if you had one?
To be fair they do play you some music through headphones to distract you – but I got Radio Sussex when I wanted Mozart. Still, I tried hard to concentrate on the Traffic News and the hold-up on the A27 to keep negative thoughts at bay – while the machinery whirred, buzzed and racketed around me as it investigated all my secret places (and some were probably places where I didn’t even know I had places….) And on and on it went – five minutes, ten, fifteen (not that I could check – these were estimates). It was a bally long time. though – a bally long time to be totally MOTIONLESS.)
Just as I wondering whether it would cause a short-circuit if I wet my pants the coffin lid trundled open and the motor-bike visor was removed and one of the nerdy young gentlemen was helping me out of the whole contraption, smiling encouragingly. Obviously I hadn’t moved and done any blurring.
I struggled into my underwired bra and enquired how long it would be before I knew the results. “We try to keep it to six weeks,” they said. SIX WEEKS???! I might be dead by then.
So I headed for the loos and the coffee – and civilisation.
And that, dear Readers, is an MRI Scan. Best avoided, I am sure you agree.
So now to the Blood Tests. My good doctor went on line to steal these results for me so I did not have to wait in suspense. Apparently everything is in ‘normal range – and, as a bonus, I do not have syphilis (whew! what a relief – when I think of all those sailors and all those dockside bars….)
Slowly, slowly, in its cumbersome way, the NHS is moving towards unravelling the Mystery Of The Funny Left Hand. I will keep you posted. Meanwhile, the condition itself remains a bloody nuisance and threatens to involve my right hand also in its shennanigans. Plus, the injury to my left (upper) arm, sustained in March, trying to pull a plate-glass, steel-framed ‘picture’ window in when it had blown open during Storm Gareth, is a torn muscle which is hampering me further. Duh…..
And what about my poor, injured car, you may wonder? You may recall from my last post that it was defo. In The Wars. But all’s well that ends well as somebody once said – Keef has restored its radiator grille and thus its beauty for a few hundred quid – and the injured party whose bumper I pulled off has gone away happy with a small cash payment to get himself repaired.
Whey-hey – I have got ‘wheels’ once more!
Ironically however, I do not think I am safe on the road at the moment so I am not driving – to the huge benefit of the local taxi firm. Luvvly jubbly innit?
Apparently there is “jubilation over Chelsea’s when” and Boris’s threatened court-case “will probably never go before a cheery”… So that’s OK then.
THE ONGOING SAGA OF JUDE-ET-JIM – GERIATRIC LOVE-BIRDS;
Sunday 19th May – to the Highlands of Scotland (West Coast) to celebrate Jude’s dreadful latest birthday (23rd May) and, no, you may NOT enquire which one. Suffice it to say that, if age is just a number, this was one of the higher ones, dammit……..
J et J stayed in a commodious bungalow owned by Jude’s niece who, bloated plutocrat that she is, rents it out for holiday accommodatiion for MONEY (thus grinding the faces of the poor, etc..). But it’s OK because Jude gets Auntie’s rates so they could just about afford one week on their tiny pensions.
Well – what can one say? They made sure they were there before the midge-biting season started, but, sadly, this was also before the spring-weather season started. Equipped, therefore, with light clothing and a couple of plastic macs they experienced 6 days of what the Scots call ‘dreech’ conditions – i.e. temperatures of 9 deg.C, a constant downpour and a fairly determined north-easterly wind.
Luckily the bungalow had a brilliant central-heating system, a (very) ‘smart’ telly and really comfortable beds so a lot of ‘hygge’ was indulged in – and Scottish scenery is majestic, whatever the weather. Jim looked after all the disabled Jude’s needs, including showering and drying her, cooking for her, and driving her out to nice meals – all of which were partaken with relish by her, wearing her best ‘dining-out’ gear of Marks & Spencer’s pyjama bottoms with a variety of tasteful cashmere jumpers and a string of ‘faux’ pearls (John Lewis). And, omg, the Scots do know how to produce comfort food – Venison Casserole, Haggis wi’ neeps, mash and rich onion gravy, a marvellous piece of local smoked-haddock topped with a soft poached egg and floating in an unctious creamy ‘cullen-skink sauce, served with a chunk of fresh-baked granary bread – need I say more? ‘Fine Dining’ it isn’t, but who wants weeny pickled veg with a ‘foam’ and a mackerel tartare when you can have rib-sticking stuff like this while it’s blowing a gale outside the steamed-up windows? First prize goes to the chef in the local caravan-site cafe whose own invention of poached chicken-breast, stuffed with haggis, served on bed of risotto with a whisky-cream sauce deserved to go on ‘Masterchef’.
The bad news is that Jude put on 5 pounds – although Jim, irritatingly, remained the same.
So – despite the weather and Funny Left Hand (and now Arm) syndrome, The Visit to the Highland was a success – and maybe they’ll do it again next year – that is if the landlady hasn’t put the rent up.
OK – I know I promised to review “RED JOAN” in this post, but, you know what? One-finger-typing has got me beat again. Go and see it for yourselves.
TIPS FOR OVER-SEVENTIES;
MRI Scans are for people with strong bladders and weak imaginations. Avoid if you do not fit this profile.