Flash floods

Hospitals are a bit like airports, some are architectural or technological wonders of the modern world, they have the compulsory Starbucks, porters dressed like they just stepped off the Flying Scotsman, and in both cases people visiting them are on some sort of journey, but no one actually wants to be there, everyone wants to move on and pass though it as fast as possible.

The difference, in a hospital they stick you in a outfit just long enough to cover your dangly bits, when seated you are like a bespectacled, ironed granny pants school girl, trying to clamp your legs tight for fear of terrifying the goldfish opposite you. In an industrial lit room that stinks of Dettol you are then told you are seriously sick, the indignity of all.

My problem is put into perspective, everyone of those folks behind the glass door of the terminally ill section will gladly swap their gremlins for a Quasimodo smile, a Captain Hook eye patch and a bit of the "just left the pub dizziness/nausea". At least I can go to a stationary shop and buy a 2010 diary knowing the pages will be filled, its an option many of those wandering around in a one size fits all garbage bin bag don't have. Instead of plastic flowers and the oh so 90s marble effect pastel wall paper, why don't hospitals get better gowns? I would feel a bit better being told I have days to live if I was dressed in a more flattering gown designed by some Italian poof.

As I was waiting in hospital for additional copies of my scan, I had a look at the free internet terminal. Its a good sign that while my spud was physically in my mind for the first time in weeks it was not on my mind, instead of Googling "tumour", I typed in "Seven wonders of the world" as it was on my things to do before I die list.

There are seven natural wonders, seven man made wonders, seven modern wonders, seven ancient wonders, some of which only exist as a lump rock in the middle of a busy roundabout that doubles up as a handy dog loo. So who ever choose "Seven" lacked a bit of foresight.

To top it off, the wonders that are chosen varies and depends on who you ask. It is like after loosing all your chums in an avalanche, your fingers are still stuck to your ice axe 50m below you, finally you reach the summit of mount Everest. You survey the majestic scenery, then through the corner of your frost bitten eyes you notice you are on the wrong mountain. It could turn out the seven wonders that you managed to visit in your final last ditch effort are the wrong seven, it should have been Borobudur temple instead of Machu Picchu.

The House Ear Institute, started by Mr. House in the 50s specialises in my spud and developed the method of surgery, even the tool used during the operation is called a House Urban Dissector, a fancy name for a microscopic vacuum cleaner.

The main man obviously is Dr. House Snr, but unless there is a radical new approach to surgery by séance he cant help me, he is dead. So main man number two appears to be Dr. Brackman, interesting not Dr. House Jnr. who actually works there but maybe he got in thanks to his Dad pulling a few strings or ears and Junior is just kept busy in photocopy room.

Dr. Brackman even developed a special scale of measuring facial paralysis, doctors being a creative lot, he chose an imaginative title, The Brackman Scale. 1 is normal, 6 you look like Arnold Schwarzeneggar taking bullets in the Terminator.

They say go with your gut feeling, which basically means there is no right answer. This day and age humans can prepare to send men to Mars, create black holes in linear accelerators. Yet for the simple bit of chewy grizzel in my head, there is no real 100% solution.

I woke up in the same frame of mind as Julius Caesar on the banks of the Rubicon, when he shouted to his first mate, "Damn the Greek torpedoes, full steam ahead" . Gut feeling told me to call Brackman up and say, "Let roll and get this bugger out".

Three surprising things happened, first the initial impression that he sounded a bit pissed during our conversion, was now put it down to his Californian laid back drawl.

The second surprise, there should have been a warning sign near me "Do not play in the storm drains sudden flash flooding may occur"just after the I hung up, I balled my eyes out like a right girl. That was totally unexpected, and even now as I write about it sends a shiver down my manlike spine. I have been so busy researching I did not really think about the implication, this was the first step that really confirms it is all real. The hope that I will be getting a call saying there was a mix up with the MRI scans is not going to happen.

You can be a muscle bound meat head that can crush beer cans with your butt cheeks, as smart as Mr. Stephen "quantum physics" Darlick in his wheel chair, rich as some Cambodian drug Lord. It will make zip all difference, that is what really got to me.

The cause, the symptoms, and the eventual treatment is out of my hands. Like a plane crash there is nothing you can do, on a ship or a train at least you can fight your way out and jump off, even in a bus you can dive forward and try and steer the thing, in a plane crash you just have to sit there and finish the inflight movie and wait for the spectacular fireball to come barreling up the now very bent aluminum tube.

The third surprise, I checked Dr. Brackman CV, very impressive he worked in the heads of Heads of States, Royalty, thousand of similar operations under his belt, but his birth date showed he was born when Florence Nightingale was still doing her rounds, he just turned 70, I have seen my dad who is also in his seventies park his car and the number of dents in it made me very worried.