A little bit of me died that day, literally

Kevin Scott

Story:

Despite the significance of the day I can never remember the date. I know it was in spring though. I always loved London in spring, although on this day I was due to have a malignant melanoma removed from my left ear. The events of that day follow. The date is the only thing I can't remember.

6:45

Mobile phone only survives being launched out the window as my freshly disturbed carcass is still trying to come to terms with the tuneless shrill emanating from its bastard alarm.

7:05

I'm out the door wincing as the sleep in my eye dislodges itself in the wind.

7:25

Arrive at Charing Cross hospital in Fulham and find Ward 11 with an ease that belies my semi-conscious state. Armed with freshly purchased newspaper I open the ward doors and cross the threshold. Immediately ponder why I've not taken advantage of my £40 a month private health care.

7:30

Shown to my bed. Initial thoughts that I am in the morgue are soon dispersed by my neighbour's snoring. Despite my lethargy, I don't feel right about getting into bed, so plump for the chair.

7:45

Tests done. Discover I weigh 14 stone. How?

8:30

Drink the worst cup of coffee of my life.

9:00

A package arrives! 'A pair of Anti-Embolism thigh high stockings'. Told I must don them, along with a gown, at noon. Surely it wasn't like this in M*A*S*H*?

9:10

Three doctors come to stare at my ear. Told I'm 'in for a long wait'. Once again I think about the empty private room with TV and air-con.

11:01

Depressed by my groaning comrades and with fingers blackened by reading every inch of the paper, I decide to venture into the TV room.

11:05

Return to bed/chair area. Morning TV is rubbish. Note that NHS may be on its knees but it can still put Pip Schofield's coupon on a 28" widescreen TV.

11:10

Eastern European boy on the ward who bears a staggering resemblance to what I think Burt Reynolds will look like in 2015 chats to me about the hassle he's been having getting released, as his pills aren't ready. Poor Burt.

11:25

Order lunch. Veg Pate and an apple. Yum.

11:30

Anaesthetist arrives. Informs me I can't eat lunch. Raging. I'm already starving.

11:40

Burt Reynolds is leaving. He dashes past with his bag and waves as he rants at a nurse. Give 'em hell Burt. His wife smiles at me. She looks nothing like Burt's ex-wife Lonnie Anderson.

12:01

I defy the gown and stockings deadline. Realise my masculinity is living on borrowed time.

12:15

Lunch arrives. Am suddenly thankful I can't eat it, but can't help but wonder why they brought it?

12:25

Nurse Gina tells me to change. I've been dreading this.

Points picked up during changing: tying knots behind one's back is murder; as is putting on stockings.

12:30

Walk past a mirror and am frozen by some unknown force; possibly fear, possibly abject humiliation, possibly arousal.

12:40

The hunger is intense. Contemplate stealing next door's yogurt. He's in bed looking rough as hell. What's he going to do?

12:58

Lack of food, sleep and stimulating conversation is taking its toll on my cross-dressed body. I wish Burt were still here.

13:34

Some boy arrives and orders me into bed. I've got rather attached to my chair but I suppose needs must. I hop on and the breaks are taken off. We're away.

TIME UNKNOWN

I'm in the theatre looking like an extra from ER. I check out the operating slab from my port-a-bed and wonder how many people have died on it. Decide to work on the presumption I won't be the next.

Doc arrives and gives me three jags. It's utter agony. Not the jags you understand, but the doc's informal banter.

My eyes are covered. I never even got a chance to say goodbye. I wanted to see. Saying that, it sounded horrible. Snip Snip; bye bye ear lobe.

TIME UNKNOWN

We're done and I'm being wheeled into the 'recovery room'. Laugh at the irony, as I've felt worse after two lunchtime Stella's.

Various tests done. I watch my heart rate and see how low I can get it. It drops to 64; calm as a Hindu cow.

14:35

Back on the ward and it's time to become a man again. Haven't ripped tights off so fast since the time I pulled that Sonia look-a-like. I pull off my heart monitor pads, which hurts more than ear thing did. Check out the remainder of my ear and reckon it'll make a good 'I was saving a puppy when' story.

14.36

Jacket on, and I'm out the door waving at the nurses as I pass them. Unfortunately I'm ordered back to my chair, as I need to see a doctor and eat something before I can be discharged.

14:48

One cup of rank coffee and two bits of toast later and I'm itching to head. Where's the doctor?

15:10

Bored. Take walkman out my bag and prepare to rock. As I lower the headphones over my ears I quickly realise the jokes on me.

Circa 16:00

Nurses are meant to be kind. Why would she tell me the doctor won't be here till half five then?

16:00-17:00

'The snooker years'. Am depressed further in the TV room by Peter Ebdon's negativity on the baize. The afternoon brightens up somewhat though, when I notice someone has scrawled 'fatty fatty fatty' on a picture of Lisa Riley in OK magazine.

17:08

Tea Time. Beef Cobbler and potato wedges.

Three bites in I decide I'm on hunger strike. 'Free the Fulham One!'

17:54

Three doctors turn up and take a nano-second to decide I can go home. Probably saw the potential law-suit from my hunger strike and played the diplomatic card.

17:55

I'm waiting on the lift.

17:56

I'm going down.

17:57

I'm outside in the rain.

I love London in spring.