Archive for the 'Health' Category

Back to the future

Grandad November 6th, 2007

It has happened again.

I had a wee nap in my armchair yesterday. Actually, it turned into quite a nice sleep.

When I awoke, I felt a bit stiff in the back.

Bugger. I know the signs. I had to take things very carefully. But, sure enough, a couple of hours later, the back went. Just like that. I wasn’t doing anything at the time [just easing myself into a chair], but the pain shot up my spine and down again.

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It has happened quite a few times before. That’s what comes of being tall and thin. It’s hereditary, so I blame my parents.

One of the times it went was at Christmas, several years ago. I was out of work for a couple of weeks after, which didn’t please the boss. The following Christmas, I broke three ribs [it was an incident with a frying pan, I think]. That was really painful, and I was out of work for six weeks. The Christmas after that, I was carrying a big box downstairs and slipped. I sat on my foot and pulled a few ligaments or something. I was out of work for a few weeks with that too.

The problem was that on three consecutive Christmas holidays, I wrecked myself, and the boss didn’t believe in that kind of coincidence. He thought I was swinging the lead, and it took loads of letters and x-rays to convince him otherwise. Bastard.

So now I am walking around like someone has a gun in my back. And I have to go to a function tonight, where they are threatening to film me.

Hah!

That should be fun.

I died for Sharon

Grandad November 3rd, 2007

I mentioned my death recently.

Herself needed to tests done in hospital. So I brought her in. The tests were only supposed to take twenty minutes or so, so I wasn’t bothered.

However,the best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, gang aft agley, and it transpired that the tests would take a bit longer.

I found myself a relatively quiet corner with a reasonably soft seat that didn’t cut the arse off me and took out the paper. I skipped the news and headed for the Sudoku. This was a mistake.

Sudoku has a strange effect on me. It makes me fall asleep. Instantly. It must be some form of self hypnosis. And I hadn’t been sleeping well for the previous few nights, so I was quite tired. Needless to say, I fell asleep immediately.

It was a very deep sleep and a lovely one. I had some beautiful dreams. I finally had Sharon Ní Bheoláin where I wanted her and she had me where she wanted me - flat on my back without a stitch on me. It was just getting to the really interesting bit [you can work that out for yourselves], when I was kicked by a horse. At least that is what it felt like.

I woke up to find myself on a table, surrounded by doctors and nurses. The doctors were all looking concerned while the nurses where all admiring the obvious upstanding result of my dream. One of the doctors had a couple of paddles pressed against my chest.

“We thought we’d lost you there” he said in glee.

“What the f*ck are you at?” I roared. “Sharon was just getting down to business!”

“You had a heart attack in the waiting room and we have resuscitated you” says he.

“My b*ll*x” says I, “I was just having a nice kip, and you try to electrocute me. It has taken me ages to get Sharon to that point, and you’ve f*cked it up”

He looked annoyed. He expected me to be grateful and here I was, rightly p*ssed. They gave me my clothes back. I went back to the waiting room, hung a large sign around my neck saying “I’m asleep - not dead” and tried to get back to Sharon, who was doubtlessly waiting for me.

But they had shot me full of adrenaline, and I couldn’t get back.

I’m sorry, Sharon. I did my best.

Another time?

Rambles in the hills

Grandad October 6th, 2007

A couple of days ago, the Doctor and I went hunting.

As a new member of the club, I wanted him to have a good day. And it was. It was a glorious day. It was one of those crisp autumn afternoons, when the birds sang and the sun shone.

We were sitting on a rock, quietly enjoying the scent of the heather and bracken when a buck deer appeared. He was a magnificent specimen. He looked at us in that regal manner that only a buck deer can conjour.

Like lightning, Doc had his rifle up and sighted. He snapped off a quick shot. It was amazing to see the speed of his reaction.

It was a beautiful kill. One shot, straight through the temple. We went down to examine the body. It was a German tourist who had been just about to shoot the deer. B*st*rd! I hate people who kill for pleasure. We left him there for the foxes.

I think Doc is going to be a good addition to the club.

We were heading back, and he told me some of my blood test results were back. He apologised for mixing business with pleasure, but I said that was OK.

Apparently, I have a deficiency in my alcohol levels, and my nicotine count is alarmingly low. He gave me two prescriptions there and then. One is for three pints of Guinness to be taken nightly and the other is for 25 gms of pipe tobacco to be taken daily as required. These can be dispensed at the local pub and the tobacconist, in case the chemist is closed. And they are both covered by the Drug Refund Scheme. So it won’t cost me anything.

When you get older, it is vital to have a good doctor.

Living can be fatal

Grandad October 2nd, 2007

I watched a programme last night on television.

It was about the N.H.S. in the U.K.

They have come up with a rather neat way of saving money.

They will only operate on you if they approve of your lifestyle.

The programme gave quite a few examples.

There was the woman who had an arthritic hip joint which had totally collapsed. As a result of this, she couldn’t walk. As a result of her immobility, she put on a few pounds. So they wouldn’t operate on her as she was ‘obese’ [she weighed a little more than me]. They told her to lose a few pounds by exercising! She had to go abroad in the end.

There was another man who needed an operation on his leg. They wouldn’t operate on him because he smoked. His smoking had nothing to do with his operation. They just didn’t like the fact that he smoked.

There was another case of a man who needed a triple bypass. He also smoked so they refused. You might say that there was cause here, but the surgeon made it quite plain that he would do the operation, no problem, if the man went private. That man died shortly after.

So why do they operate on footballers and rugby players? Surely these people are going to go out and injure themselves again? They have unhealthy lifestyles. Why do they fix skiers’ broken legs?

This could be extended indefinitely.

They will probably in the future refuse to operate on people with driving licences. They’re only going to go out and have another smash. Or people who drink? Or children? Or people who will insist on going outdoors? Or anyone who has any DIY equipment in their houses?

How about people who eat? They are surely going to rush out after an operation and become obese?

This could really catch on.

Mary Harney - take note.

Put that finger there and we will never speak again

Grandad September 28th, 2007

I went to see the doctor yesterday.

“Howya, Doc” says I.

“Howya, Grandad. Are ya well?” says he, which is a weird question from a doctor. Is he hoping that I am, or that I’m not?

“Grand.” says I “Just here for the 10,000 mile service.”

So he poked me and prodded me and we talked about this and that. He listened to various parts of me, but not what I was saying. I’m used to that.

Blood pressure - normal. Heart - normal. Lungs - normal [Yup! I can carry on puffing away]. Teeth - none. Hearing - brilliant [apart from the tinnitus]. All in all, he reckons I’m good for a few miles yet.

Then he put on a rubber glove and started talking about Prostates.

Jayzus! I was across the floor and standing splayed with my back to the wall before I knew it. I’m not having anyone poking around there. There are limits to my friendships. How can you greet a bloke in the village when he’s had his finger up your arse?

“Relax” says he. “I’m just going to take some blood.”

He did. About a gallon. It left me feeling quite drained, but I don’t mind.

He asked me then about the Tourist Shooting, and how it was going. It transpired that he wanted to join up. This was great news as this means that the only non member in the village now is the grave digger. He’s too busy to join.

“What about the Hippocratic Oath?” says I.

We pondered this for a few minutes, but we decided it only applied to patients. And by definition, a tourist isn’t a patient. So I signed him up.

We’re going hunting next week.

But I’m going to make damn sure he is some distance away from me when I go squatting in the undergrowth.

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