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Yesterday

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No, I haven’t just come out of the closet as a Beatles fan. God forbid.

Yesterday, all my troubles weren’t far enough away.

Yesterday I had one of those days. One of those days that could be blogged in a number of ways. What story would you like? The gory medical story? The rant against bureaucracy? The fable of the futility of planning?

Let’s start at the beginning. Last week, I had a minor operation – a small, benign cyst removed from my side, where it had got increasingly annoying. No problem.

Yesterday, one week on, I went back to the daycare department to have my sutures removed. I never fail to wonder at how quickly I get seen when I go private. I waited not even long enough to figure out if I wanted tea or coffee, yet alone how to operate the machine, a variation on those ones with the inflatable sachets you invariably get in expensive advertising agencies.

The stitches came out. The nurse made all the right noises about it looking clean and nice, and sent me on my way.

During the rest of the morning the scar prickled and irritated and generally felt as if it still had the stitches in place. But there was better to come. I went to a shopping centre just after lunch, and felt a ripping sensation as I got into the car. My hands were dirty, so I didn’t investigate what had happened. I moved car parks and went to the next shop, all the while trying to ignore the wet sensation that I was imagining.

When I got back home and removed my fleece, my fears were confirmed. There was a big bloody blob on the side of my shirt. A quick look at what was underneath looked like a big hole with some white fatty stuff looking as if it was peeking out.

Before I got too involved in looking at the details – not to mention wobbly – I grabbed the hospital’s number and called them. I realised I didn’t know if I should go to the private hospital, with no A&E, or the National Health one with the emergency facilities.

They said ‘come in’, and I got seen almost immediately.

Great. But then no-one knew if I was covered by my health insurance for the new stitching. I had to stop the doctor from starting work on me, while the nurse found out if I was going to be billed for the procedure or not. She ended up clearing the procedure with BUPA herself. Only then could I get stitched up.

To readers in the States, this kind of thing may be usual. But to me, brought up with the National Health Service, the beauracracy of private health cover seems unbelievable. This cannot be an efficient way to run the service.

Oh, and work completed, about an hour.

The epitome of a cool day.


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