Calm Before the Storm

I did the covert recon around the surgeons room, personally signed photos from past Presidents and Kings, Check. Lots of official certificates covered with signatories, Check. Nice God fearing family photos, Check. No expensive toys, which show hes not on the take from medical equipment suppliers, Check.

I traveled 9000 miles to be here, and the plane seemed to be permanently climbing, was the Captain a real Ah Beng type with a string vest and he had one flip flop shod foot up on the dash, that accidentally knocked the trim wheel? Not the sort of hardship Marco Polo faced, but it meant I had to keep walking uphill to the loo.

I heard Dr. Greenman talking outside the door, so near and yet so far. Being in Tinseltown, was it choreographed? work the audience into a foaming frenzy before the fireworks accompanied big entrance. I was straining to hear, did he just mention the morgue? being sued?

When he did make his entrance, without the feather topped show girls, he looked just like the wise old turtle from Kung Fu Panda, minus the shell.
Dr. Greenman was a lovely guy, I checked his hands for potential nerve severing twitches, nothing. Though he did have a small cut on his knuckles, playing with his dog last night or an Alzheimer slip of the scalpel? and do I really want to be operated on by someone, whose white lab coat looked like it was made from polyester rather than Egyptian cotton?

A call came through from an Israeli hospital they needed some advice. It was straight back to the calculations he was doing prior to the choreographed phone call. Even I would come back and scratch my head and ask where was I?

He told me everything I already knew, I was the potential employer interviewing three surgeons. They were selling themselves and I had to figure out, not if my potential new employee will get on with Mary in HR, but if he will save my life as I know it.

I went to checked out the spa, pool and dining facilities in the hospital next door. The private underground link was a bit grim, not dirty grim but more in the institutional sense of the word. Being deep in the basement it rumbled, the air handling units pumped filtered conditioned air to all the sick people in the rooms above me. The bright florescent strip lights revealed tracks worn into the grey marble effect linoleum floor tiles, lot of trips to and from the freezer, and we are not talking the chicken nuggets and Ben and Jerry's type of freezers.

I held my breath while walking past anonymous rooms with yellow BIOHAZARD signs. The low paid 3rd world technician could have been distracted by the new rash on his hands, and forgot to seal the lid on the anthrax Tupperware box. I sensed the thicker Ebola and bird flu virus laden air around me. In front of me the glass door parted and I felt like a U-Boat crewman the moment the hatch cracks opens, I was hit with cool outside air.

There is one rule within the worn leather chesterfields rooms of the old boys network in London, never talk about religion, or race, there is good reason for this, it gets very messy, there are no absolutes, its all about dealing with old concepts developed in a period, when the average guy on his camel actually believed it is possible to walk on water, and mass education as we know it today did not exist. Its a totally abstract outlook on life, and very much dependent on the direction of the wind at that particular moment.

After emerging from the tunnel of death, in front of me was a huge structure that held the hospital together, it was in fact a 5 story high crucifix. If you want to scare the living daylights out of Jesus then a Godzilla size cross will probably do the trick. What would be on the walls of peoples homes, if the Romans decided to use Edward II method of execution? think along the lines Popsicles and red hot pokers.

Recently at a Chinese wedding, I was sitting next to a priest he must have thought I was the Perrier sipping Antichrist, because I was stunned he did not know about Enuma Elish, the 7 tablets that was unearthed, each tablet representing the Babylonian stages of the origins of life, eerily similar to Genesis 7 days. He was like an English teacher with no foundation in Latin.

In the UK, a couple of neighbouring churches, decided to bury the hatchet and other made in China religious paraphernalia, because of the dwindling numbers of punters, they would sell the various plots of prime land, and build a single neutral worshiping hall that can be used on a time sharing basis. Like large cigarette corporations the religious bigwigs are now targeting the vulnerable people of the third world, where the uneducated will still throw their life savings at faith healers, who claim to remove faulty body parts, on stage with their bare hands, leaving the patients tumour and scar free.

What really irks me, is this threat of a lorry load brimstone through your letter box if you don't tow the line. It may have worked 2000 years ago when people actually used brimstone, these days its just not very PC to use fear in the office or places of worship. When I make it home without being trampled by pack of orange robed, drum beat tranced skinheads, there is always some blue rinsed happy clapper camping on my doorstep, with suggestions on ways of stock piling locust repellent in preparation for my Sodom and Gomorrah type end.

To protect their position and income those in robes actively encourage the creation of an xenophobic congregation. I was talking to what appeared to be a perfectly normal person when religion reared its ugly head, he said that people who believe in different deities are misguided and he could not accept them, it goes against every grain of his own faith, by even acknowledging them means he is not true to his own beliefs. So much for love thy neighbour and world peace etc. Take Jesus, anyone would think he was born in Norway, if the real Jesus turned up at any Western immigration point he would get the full Al Queda treatment. Did the people making the effigies for the local churches in the West misplaced the tar and brush? Lets be honest he would look more like Saddam Hussain.

The priest next to me was in between jobs and before he starts looking in the classified section of Choirboy monthly, he should go back to the college where he studied theology and ask for a refund. If I was a Bishop looking to employ a new rent boy for the local parish, one of the first interview questions would be, how he intends to stop the revolting peasant from setting fire to his place of worship, once they get wind that Eve was in fact a plagiarised version, of the Ancient Sumerian civilizations concept of a garden of life called Dilmun, where a lady called Nitini used to hang out, she was known as the lady of the rib, and her partner ate the sacred plants.

Don't get me wrong, everyone needs some form of crutch to get through life people turn to drink, drugs, sex, religion, so long as its done in moderation and it helps that person, then I am all for it, I would much rather be in a pub full of pissed religious folks than national front supporters. All the individuals are actually good eggs, when people say we pray for you, whether it be in a prone position in the floor without shoes, beating on drums, burning of incense, I know what they are offering and I willingly hand over to them a part of me for safe keeping.

Its the pushy sort that gets up my wick. You know, the medallion man in the pub "go on, go on have a drink". The crack head trying to justify her addiction. The leopardskin print, fluffy slipper neighbour "suggesting" a late night coffee, or the white ironed granny pants girl and her top button done up nerd "platonic" boyfriend, saying we should all go to the church to hug while studying the scriptures.

The world has moved on, just around the corner there is the Church of Jesus Christ sitting next to the Church of the True Jesus Christ, whose boundary is shared with a cow and scantily clad multi limbed lady covered Hindu temple, that in turns rubs shoulders with a mosque whose minarets tickles the whiskers of a neighbouring dragon, the smoke from the Chinese dragon temple wafts over the House of Ronald MacDonald, that is busy serving Halal Big Macs.

Take my kid, she has a Shinto grandmother, Church of England grandfather, a Buddhist mother and a Druid father. Her school discourages any form of single religion worshiping. Religious Studies is just what it says it is, a study of religions, all religions, where they come from, how they developed and more importantly how they are actually quite intertwined.

Angel Gabriel who came and had tea and biscuits with Jesus mum Mary. She needed cheering up as she was a bit depressed for standing out like a sore thumb in middle east, having blonde hair, blue eyes, and to top it off, a bun in the oven that need a lot of explaining. I am surprised so few people know it was the very same Angel Gabriel that help Prophet Mohamed cobble the Koran together.

Its not that I am getting all Alaluya on everyone, my point is how a tumour and religion can be seen in the same light. Both were originally set up to help with life, the splitting and creation of cells to produce the road map for life, and religious doctrines laid down to create ground rules so a stable and prosperous civilization can be managed. In both cases they mushroomed and have changed into an uncontrollable mass that is now doing the polar opposite to its original intent. All sounding a bit deep and heavy, better shave my beard and put the soap back in the box.

It turns out this is hospital is partially church funded, which explains the suspiciously large number of images of our Norwegian friend on a cross. The clinic who will be carrying out the operation, has taken over the whole top floor and have their own ICU within this building.

Dr. Schultz is nothing like his name suggested, no jack boots and had a good sense of humour. We were both the same age, It starts to hit home you are getting old when President, Prime ministers, and Neurosurgeons are younger than you.

I was the 5th architect he had seen with the same tumour, does that mean in a few years time, like asbestos, space suit clad men will be removing drafting pens from evacuated architectural offices. Apparently my tumour is cystic, it is not solid meat but contains areas of goo. Good news, it means if you pop the cyst the tumour is not as big. The bad news, if I go down the star wars zap route complications may occur. Imagine a sausage with a small water filled balloon inside. How the sausage reacts in a microwave would be a tad unpredictable, the sausage carnage could be removed from the oven with a tissue, unfortunately the easy clean oven coating, is not an available option inside of my head.

If we go down the cut and paste route, The scalpel crew may leave a slither of tumour cell behind on the thin cyst wall, to preserve the nerves that control the face, tongue, eyes and swallow reflex. The way to picture it, imagine you have to clear a lawn of weeds, but there's a huge sleeping and very hormonal Rottweiler in a corner of the garden, you can pick all the weeds around him. I am willing to bet, you would leave the ones underneath him rather than risk having your face chewed off, hoping they will shrivel and die under the weight of Tyson. There is a risk the tumour may regrow from the leftover cells, and if so, I will have to face this whole thing again in five -ten years time.

He sat on the fence when it came to Zap or Slice, saying I can swing ether way, which basically means he is terrified of lawsuits. I asked what would he do if he was on the cold steel slab and was faced with the choice, wise old turtle surgeon or a young gun, who has a lot more to loose from a career point of view? Humpty Dumpty should learn a thing or two from Dr. Schultz, like the coconuts in those fair ground stalls he could not be knocked off his perch. Is that why his room was so spartan? could he not decide on the curry house flock or pastel easy wash faux marble wallpapers. Maybe his name was spot on, just no nonsense and practical and high quality work, non of this unreliable Italian exuberance . Though he would probably freeze with indecision if California was hit with a 7.8 earthquake during my operation, but whats the chance of that happening, probably same as getting a brain tumour?

If I read between the lines, he did say the hospital is like any office environment there is a certain pecking order, and you have to respect that. Its thanks to the old boy Doctor they are on the world map, The fancy new architectural designed wing was probably his doing, in fact the sole reason I turned up on the doorstep was because of his reputation.

Each member of the governing committee, who are also golfing chums, all drive to work in nice comfortable cars thanks to Dr. Turtle research and journals. Which Judas on the committee will stand up and say thanks for everything, hand over the cheap quartz clock and wheel him out of the door? I notice the sell by date dilemma was brushed under the carpet with the original Dr. Mansion, he worked well into his 90s.

Next up was Dr. Number 3, a highly recommended Dr. Woodman, the room we sat in belonged to the infamous Dr. Mansion Junior, looks like he was still busy in the photocopy room. Is Dr. Woodman so crap he does not even get a room? was he promoted last year to the broom cupboard?

We heard the Doctor just outside the door, he obviously employs the same choreographer as Dr. Greenman. He was talking about some previous patient who had too high expectations after the surgery and he needed help fending off her calls.

Turns out he has the same first name as me so that was the deal clincher, his teeth was suspiciously straight and white, and made all the more noticeable by his even more suspect tan.
No daft tests this time, he just looked over the scans and confirmed that his partner in crime was Dr. Schultz. His green surgeon shell suit looked well pressed, I liked the guy, turns out a lot of ladies ask for him because he is cute. A little bit too cute and groomed if you ask me, I would say he bats for the other side. Apparently he never lost a person on the operating table, implying that others have? or had a case of total facial paralysis. There again my idea of "total" facial paralysis and surgeons are somewhat different, in the surgeons book, if you stick a burning fag end on the face and there's a slight twitch from a hair on the left buttock then the surgery was a success.

It was a tough call, the old boy with 3000 operations under his belt or cutie with 800 operations to his name. Wife did have a good point if there's a complication in 5 or 10 years time, will the old boy still be around? It boiled down to a flick of a coin. Looks like Orange Tan Ivory wins.

We are then sent off to meet the surgery counseling department. I was expecting some blonde matron with big boobs whose job was to stroke my head saying "there, there, it will all be OK" instead we get a woman who works part time as a prison guard, her job was to deal with all the nitty gritty stuff like money, booking in the surgeons, all the complex paperwork and getting patients to polish her jack boots. In the end she was actually very helpful in a no nonsense kind of way, and the slap across my face with the black calf skin gloves was just what was needed. She didn't beat around the bush when it came to dealing with us parting with large sums of money, and with her frown and pen hovering over the diary no one dared to be wishy washy with the proposed surgery date. We came out a bit stunned, have to admit we were not planning on fixing a date but glad we did.

Everything was signed and sealed, all that was left to do was collect some medicine to be used three days before the surgery. That is it, all done at least for the next 6 weeks there's nothing more to worry about. It was a calm surreal experience after the months of heartache, headaches, soul searching, trauma and tears. We left the hospital with a folder full of paper work and a bottle of antibacterial shampoo, which is a bit odd as I have no hair.