Damon Hill, Doctor Kildare and me… still? – By Rosemary Bach-Holzer
I’m supposed to enlighten you with an update? My fault, I suppose, for leaving my previous account on a real cliffhanger. What do you mean, not that you noticed! Hmm… I’m no longer in hospital. I made my escape, that is, I discharged myself after one night.
Not on my list of my most favourite places in the world especially when having to share a room with the woodwind section of not the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Did I ever get back to sleep? Yes, thank you, absolutely, but only with the aid of a sleeping tablet strong enough to knock out two fully-grown elephants and then I was awoken by a nurse three hours later.
“Mrs Bach-Holzer? Mrs Bach-Holzer, wake up, please.”
“Mrs Bach-Holzer, please wake up!”
“Ah, good. We must ensure you get some sleep.”
Did they find out what was wrong with me? I mean, besides everything else. No. Well, yes and no and thereupon I discharged myself. The meals weren’t too bad even if they did feed me meat. They had been notified that animal wasn’t to be found on my personal menu at home, although, messing up my food wasn’t a problem as a certain ex-husband was close to hand so it didn’t go to waste. Yes, he visited me. Doing his help-the-ex-incapacitated-wife bit.
Didn’t see my sexy young ambulance men again. Not that I would have recognised either of them, although, give me a blindfold and I reckon a certain part of one’s anatomy might have been familiar by touch alone… do hope he’s lost that limp… I feel bad about that. Didn’t bump into any sexy surgeons. Shame. The Doctor Kildare lookalike wasn’t bad at all I have to admit. Left him to the advances of Isabelle, who by which time, was in full pursuit of him while espousing the benefits of dating “the mature woman” along with “being a bit deaf has its advantages, ducky, don’t knock it.”
It took another precarious trip back to my local doctor armed with my hospital notes in which they’d scribbled something about my blood cells being seriously depleted and good for no one least of all myself. Not even a vampire. Charming. They wanted to keep me in for observation but as far as I was concerned I’d been observed enough. My doctor. Reading through my hospital notes for the fourth time he suddenly clicked his fingers together like he’d just thought of something and that’s because he had.
“Come with me, Mrs Bach-Holzer, I know what to do.”
“Glad to hear it,” I murmured in reply. I glanced at my ex-husband and did that Spock thing. No, not the “live long and prosper” with the fingers, I raised my eyebrow. Ex-husband? Yes, I know, what was he doing there? Good question and when I think of the answer you’ll be the first to know.
I found myself ushered out of his consulting room into one that held a bed and not much else. “Make yourself comfortable,” he grinned. Hello, I thought. I did as he requested wondering where this would all lead when he grabbed my arm, rolled back my sleeve and plunged a needle into my vein at the end of which was an intravenous drip full of life-giving iron that was to continue for the following five months. By which time, I made sure I was wearing full-length sleeves to cover up the bruises and pinpricks on what used to be my arms but were now looking more like two sides of salami peppered with holes (courtesy of a hungry Ninja) flapping from my torso.
I could take it. It was necessary, after all. We’re made of sterner stuff, we Brits. Yes, indeed… stiff upper lip and all that… it was horrible! Injections? Yeuch! Stiff nothing.
In the end it was my backside that turned into one you’d find on a Rottweiler. Rottweiler? Bear with me and no, the medication shouldn’t be stronger. It’s to do with Ninja, my cat. She hates going to the vet whereas her son, Shingalana, adores it. No pushing at the bottom thing with him. I caught him skimming through my medical dictionary once trying to find a reason to go… back to Ninja. She’s tiny but strong. Brown, black and white, with a splash of ginger, she’s a miniature Rottweiler. Hence, when the time comes for her to go inside her carrier basket to take a trip to the vet (she knows every time – she knows!) it’s like pushing at a bottom belonging to a Rottweiler.
When the time came for my trip to the vet, I mean, the doctor, I was that Rottweiler. Proves one thing. It proves the life-giving drip was doing its job and splendidly too. Never would have had the strength to cling on to a door frame with the tips of my fingers screaming “no more!” a few months earlier. So who did the pushing bit through the door en route to my awaiting needle? Ex-husband. They do come in handy sometimes, I suppose.
And didn’t he enjoy it.
So, there ends my reminiscing. I’ll get back to being up a gum tree with my gumshoe in between watching House Doctor and… doctor? Hmm… all of a sudden that Science Special: The Physics of Ultrasound sounds quite appealing after all.