BluE Scrubs

I should have cared a little if not much. I know I said I don’t care about what I was going to do today because it’s not like I can choose what I’d be doing.

But I didn’t expect to be sent somewhere nowhere which sounds like a search engine, about an hour away and heavily populated with sheep eating monsters, where I had to make a complete ostrich out of myself, flapping about like a drugged unta, before I finally found the theatre.

Imagine trying to look cool looking at the rota which has a hospital name against your name instead of a theatre in the hospital you are in. It’s illegal these little surprises I tell you.

The hospital is in Goole. I know, bet you didn’t get this, it’s a ‘g’ away from being the infamous Google. I know. You wouldn’t have noticed that, would you? No you wouldn’t. Ok don’t care.

The hospital was another 40 minutes from Scunnie. So, needless to say I was going to be late. Big time. I imagined the patients lined up in their gowns with their bums exposed (those gowns are designed by a French I am pretty sure), but I wouldn’t find it funny because I couldn’t see their bums because they were lined shoulder to shoulder in front of me in attention. So I would look so scared, pale and terrified.

They’d all have stones in their hand and the ladies have handbags filled with durians. Then an officer with Hitler moustache would gun the cloud. The patients would turn red like charged bulls going after a Matador and start beating the crap out of me and later turn around to give me a ‘bum’ as it’s understandable to demoralize somebody with an act of genitalia exposure. Although a bum is not strictly genitalistic.
Oh what a sight, white bums in my face.

So I was late. Despite being sent there with a taxi. That was nice. Being driven for a change. It must have cost the hospital a state of art bomb but then again, don’t care.

Dr. Nice Skin was also there in Goole. Note to self: nice registrar with no wedding band on. And he’d already finished 2 cases. So I now in debt of 2 cases to Dr. Nice Skin. He stayed around to show me the Drager machine there; and so I was nice to him as well which is not abnormal for me and not hard at all.

The ODA was Kevin and Kevin is not one to be told what to do. His motto is probably ‘please the boss you’re working with, even if she’s half your size and needs a stool to reach Ondansetron which is always kept on the top shelf’. I mean why the top shelf and always?

He knows exactly what you’re going to ask for next and knows what to do if you’re struggling. i.e: patient turning left when you ask them to turn right, patient couldn’t stop talking and excessively asking ‘what’s that for’, patient suddenly felt like going to the toilet just before you stick the needle in his back. I tell you, I struggle.

Good thing about this job is you go home feeling you’ve done something for the patient. Instead of halving Ramipril from 5mg to 2.5mg and wait for the patient’s pruned kidneys to get better.
And you feel swell when they say thank you, or for those virgins to needles stuck in their backs, ‘oh I thought it’ll be worse than that’. You’re welcome darling.

I think I am addicted to the word thank you. I think I am needy in a domineering way.

The taxi to the hospital had a dog smell and the one fro was drenched with body odour. When I got home, my head was pounding. It must have been the taxis, because the gases usually make me feel pleasurable not a flippin’ headache.