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A short time ago I was suddenly taken ill with what felt like a
bayonet being thrust into my stomach. My first reaction was that it
was being caused by the paella that we had eaten the evening before.
It became apparent that it wasn’t going away and was getting worse,
Carol called our attractive lady Doctor, and 40 minutes later she
was sitting on the edge of my bed. That did nothing for the pain but
raised my blood pressure by several degrees. She administered a shot
of morphine and sent me off to the Clinique. I was put on a drip for 2 hours, and that, together with the after effects of the injection gave me the feeling that I had been to a very good party the evening before, but more importantly – no pain. Two hours after arriving in the Hospital the Specialist came to see me and asked me if I wished to stay in, or would I prefer to go home for the weekend and come back again on Monday or Tuesday for further tests. We had been invited to friends for lunch on the Monday, so I opted for the Tuesday. After detailed x-rays and scans on the Tuesday morning I was informed that I had a small kidney stone and if I would like to go to the third floor of the hospital, I could discuss the treatment with the Specialist. He was very sympathetic and explained that it could not be allowed to stay and started thumbing through his diary for a suitable date for its removal. “Is it possible for you to come in on Thursday morning?”. When I gasped questioningly “THURSDAY?” He replied “I am sorry but tomorrow is impossible ,tomorrow I am fully engaged”. I was staggered at the speed of the appointment as I was now completely free of pain. Thursday morning arrived and after the normal checking in at the reception I was taken by a nurse to the operating department, and within twenty minutes of arrival I was under anesthetic. When I came to later in the day I was told that the operation had failed and that I had broken the Surgeon’s favorite operating instrument and that the operation would have to be done again in ten days time. On my return to the hospital, I was greeted in French style with a kiss on both cheeks from the nurse who had administered to my needs on the first visit. I was shown into the bedroom where I had stayed for three days after the first operation. Shortly after, the Surgeon arrived, and was very enthusiastic to explain that he now had a new tool, and he assured me, that it would not break this time. After this second operation the Surgeon declared it a success, but instructed me to return in a further ten days to have a catheter removed that had been left in place to facilitate the removal of the particles of broken stone. I went into hospital again last Saturday, and after more x-rays and eventually registering that I was present and correct, a young, and, I should mention, very attractive nurse, came to take me to a mini operating room where she invited me to get undressed. She then washed, examined and disinfected my most treasured and intimate parts. After completing this, we then had a 15-minute conversation, with my parts exposed. She then administered by spray, a light anesthetic that was slightly less effective than a single Aspirin. After allowing it to take effect, or to wear off depending on whose point of view you take, she then went off to call the Specialist. On arrival he appeared to have changed in appearance from his normal, kind and learned demeanor, into a person with horns. He attempted to set me at ease by wishing me luck and informing me that it would only hurt a little bit. This of course had the opposite effect. Then, with the assistance of the nurse, who had also suddenly sprouted horns, they set about assembling their tools. I had the impression that I had seen similar tools when I last visited the Tower of London. He then started inserting the tube, containing his various surgical instruments, pliers, binoculars, camera etc into an orifice, the thought of which brings tears to my eyes, even as I type. This tube resembled the diameter of the entrance to the Dartford Tunnel The insertion of this tube was to retrieve the catheter. The speed that he used to withdraw the tube brought about a noise that I can only say resembled that of the Ringmaster’s whip, and then dangled it in front of me to prove that the evil deed had been completed. "Return in six months to confirm that our work has been successful" was his only conversation and as quick as he had arrived, he disappeared. The nurse who had once again lost her horns and reappeared as an angel from heaven, set about cleaning and arranging with a delicacy that under normal circumstances would have been appreciated, but on this occasion passed by with no thoughts other than "I wanna go home". So there you are, its over, and no one, not even the medical insurers, are more pleased than I. Having been released from the hospital and driven home by a friend. I had to do what little French boys do on the side of the road, and felt a peculiar sensation and heard a clunk. When I looked, there it was in all its glory – the stone. Now as stones go, it was nothing to write home about, or even brag to your friends about, but you have got to understand that this stone has cost my medical insurance about £2000, and when I think of how much sand I could have bought for that, I could probably, have constructed a block of flats. Well all good tales end with a happy ending, and this one is no exception. I have now been officially declared stone less. You will know that at this time of the year in Rumford Market you can buy stone less raisins, grapes, oranges etc and you will also know from experience that there is always that one, that has, despite guarantees given by the market trader, still got a stone. So watch this space.
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