It’s scan day, but for the first time, I’ve been sent to the Nightingale hospital, built during the Covid pandemic (then unused) in Exeter.
By accident I arrived at the NHS call centre across the road as the signage and directions were poor. I went into the reception there and this nice, smiley black guy was sitting at the desk. He told me that I was in the wrong spot but could park here.
He reached out a hand to touch my arm before I could thank him:
“What watch is that bro?” Smiling.
“A Tudor black bay” (a birthday present from my wife for my 50th)
“Yeah man!”He said smiling “
“I clocked your band,” he said wagging his finger, now beaming. He waggled his left wrist showing off his Tudor watch. “How many have you got?” He said.
“Just the one” I said. He looked a little disappointed:
“Cheers Bro!” And I was dismissed.
The NHS call centre in which I was not supposed to park had ample parking and it was before nine am so I was glad that I’d not bothered with the park and ride as suggested in the appointment letter. I can just imagine the poor elderly souls, with dirty cloth masks still under their noses obediently arriving there at seven for a nine o’clock appointment.
Once I’d walked to the entrance, the Nightingale hospital became obvious. The building was set back a little from the road.
There was no parking, no signs at the entrance to the industrial unit on which it sat but I could make out a rainbow sign on the building with the word PROUD written underneath in large letters. It could only mean one thing: it’s Friday, it’s the NHS in June, it’s Crackerjack!
On entry I was greeted by a nervous volunteer who showed me to the desk three feet away. Blimey! they’re all of nothing this lot.
No such courtesy is afforded in real hospitals. They are chaotic and ever busy.
At least no one checked on my preferred pronouns. (I confess that this had irritated me at a recent scan for my strictly, male-only prostate cancer)
The receptionist in the Nightingale had a personality too. There was an altogether more relaxed atmosphere here for sure.
After checking my name she said,
“What surgery? It says THE surgery. It must be THE best in the world.”
“Actually they’re crap.” I said.
She laughed.
“Follow the blue line and take a seat”
There was a man and his wife already waiting on the seats. I sat at the other end.
Within seconds someone came through the doors and addressed the woman. Apparently they were a week early for the appointment – No worries about parking there then.
The nurse explained that he was waiting for confirmation from the main hospital that they were able to inject the dye for the CT scan.
The husband went to get his wife a cup of tea leaving just me and his wife in the waiting area.
A Pakistani nurse with a limited grasp of the English language, appeared at the door.
Looking hopefully at me he asked,
“Clair?”
I looked at the woman, then behind me.
I know I hadn’t been asked to give my pronouns but there were a few clues if one searched for them.
She had long blonde hair and a pretty frock and I am a 6 foot, 225 pound, rugby playing ex-copper with a crew cut and hands like coal scuttles.
I looked at the woman again and surprisingly drew a blank.
I looked behind me but there was no one else there.
He checked his notes again.
“Louise?” he said, looking straight at me.
This bloke must be taking the what-not! I thought.
Again the woman was unmoved.
Then it dawned on me:
“You don’t by any chance mean Lewis-Clarke, do you?
He checked his notes once again.
“Yezzz! Clair-Louise,” he said with a relieved smile.
The NHS always seems to be in a perpetual state of confusion about my name, though I have told them it at least a thousand times.
The rugby lads in the Police used to call me “Elsie” – a play on my surname initials (L-C) but mercifully it didn’t stick and I was known as “JLC.”
Thankfully I’m not touchy about being misgendered.
The scan was the usual routine. Inject a dye that always takes me back to my infant school maths class and the horrid Irishwoman, Mrs Fowler. She cruelly pointed out my abject failure to do my sums in front of the whole class and sent me the corner. There is a warm sensation in the groin as if you’re about to wet yourself. It’s especially difficult as you’re asked to drink a pint and a quarter of ‘clear fluids’ in the hour preceding the scan and always a relief to feel a dry crotch when you stand up again.
Funny that I’ve never forgotten that woman’s name. I was no more than six years old.
I was asked to wait afterwards in an adjacent room to ensure there are no adverse affects.
“How rare are these side affects?” I asked the nurse as he removed my cannula.
“About one in three million,” he said.
“Ever seen one?”
“No.”
A female nurse flitted in and announced that there were no MRI scans booked for that day so they would have to occupy themselves.
“I bet this beats working in a real hospital, doesn’t it?” I said to the male nurse as he dabbed at the blood on my arm.
“Oh yesss!” He beamed.
“There is no one hassling you. No doctors ringing for an urgent scan. It’s all by appointment. Much more relaxed.”
“So there’s plenty of time to do your job,” I finished with confidence.
It should be noted that the biblical, and natural rainbow has all seven colours of the spectrum- a number denoting perfection- whilst the Pride rainbow has six- ‘the number of a man.’
We’re certainly very far from perfection, or even passable mediocrity. I do hope that we begin to spend our time and resources more wisely.