Oldies Rugby and Appendicitis
Last game of the ‘oldies rugby’ tournament ends and the last social event begins. Loaded with a little alcohol, or should we call it ‘brain food’, my colleagues overwhelming advice regarding my condition prompted someone to arrange an appointment the next morning with the weekend emergency doctor. ‘ What can I do for you’? was the impersonal greeting. Still in acute pain I reply, ‘A bunch of knowledgeable people say I have appendicitis’.
He stares directly to my eye. ‘Do they just, now let me see’. ‘Does this hurt’? ‘What about this’? ‘I’m sorry Dave, I’m going to have to do a physical’ do you mind’? As he pulled on his glove I realized it was the same process as a prostate examination conducted by my GP two weeks before. He could not be persuaded that it may not be necessary and afterwards said, ‘I’m going to call an ambulance to emergency’.
This time I couldn’t be persuaded, suggesting a taxi would be sufficient. I produced the relevant paper work through jail like bars on arrival at A&E and after an extensive lecture regarding any changes in my condition, was asked to take a seat. Broken limbs, drug dependency, bloodied wounds, handcuffed to police escorts, inadequately clad sad eyed kids with runny noses, insanity and one appendices, painted the grizzly picture of my forty odd new colleagues.
surgeon who did an assessment reiterating I should tell them immediately of a symptom change. A second young house surgeon appeared, poked and prodded, wrote his report stating he would be preforming the ‘Op’ and a nurse started the ‘preps’ with some urgency. Similarly, another medic arrived and conducted an ultra scan.
The two young house surgeons reappeared, accompanied by the head surgeon who appeared quite smug and a little amused. ‘Lift this’, ‘push on that’ he insisted, still rather happy with himself. Looking at me squarely, he asked, ‘are you one of those silly old guys playing in the oldies rugby tournament all week’? I thought it unnecessary to reply, given he was having a good time and was clearly not going to offer sympathy. He then explained that my six pack muscles had been torn from my gut and I would not be needing my appendices out. He then added, ‘it’s been some time since you have seen your six pack muscles’. I could only laugh albeit painfully, because there was no argument there.
Relieved, but lessons learned. Exclude advice backed with brain food. Take an ambulance when offered. Consider ourselves lucky we are not one of those poor folk holed up in A&E every Sunday.