An Inconvenient Truth

Michael Morrison

2002

Did it hurt?

Im usually a heavy sleeper, and the previous nights lethargy shouldve guaranteed a restful nights kip, but no. I woke up in the dark on my side of the single bed; the bed wed been sharing for the first week of June 2002, my girlfriend still asleep next to me in this flat that I hated. Hated. The place was damp and every single thing in it catered to its long deceased previous owners, old people.

Staring at the bedroom ceiling I heard the sound again. It definitely sounded like the hamster chewing on some Sugar Puffs, whilst maybe dragging itself by its front paws along a patch of bubble wrap. Except we didnt have a hamster. Not even mice would come near this flat. The damp would ruin an ill-placed pack of cigarette papers; anything left on the floor for too long quickly turning to mush. Like in the best horror films, my adversary, the mysterious noise, had slowly come to match its appearances to the beat of my own heart. For no reason other then to satisfy an itch I reached up to my shoulder, conscious not to wake Mel, and scratched.

The noise rang out in the dark. The Sugar-Puff-eating, bubble-wrap-popping hamster noise came from within me, or rather, from under my skin. Stupidly I prodded the noisy area again, just below my left collar bone. Yep, it definitely sounded like someone had scrunched a ball of crepe paper in there whilst I slept. Some kind of previously dormant coping mechanism kicked in and my legs were, with haste, taking me to the bathroom. I vomited. This wasnt natural. Id watched every episode of Body Shock and I knew that this sort of sickening deformity only happened in post-Chernobyl Ukraine, or occasionally the States, but never in leafy Polwarth.

Yeah it hurt.

The bitter dregs of last nights brew would have to make-do as a mouthwash, though, to be honest, there was little in it between Kencos finest and the acrid bile that now lined the pan.

Come on now, youd better wake up. Wakey wakey, I hushed almost silently by the bedside. Even though the last two minutes had thrown me from fear, to pain, to vomiting on instinct, I was still doing that very British thing: trying to wake someone up quietly. You know, whispering, so as not to wake them.

Id already dialled NHS 24 and had my finger on the green button, waiting to press down as soon my girlfriend grasped the shocking severity of the situation.

Whats wrong? she finally mouthed.

Somethings under my skin. Its appeared in the night and has already made me throw up. You can even hear it I said, raising my arm to let her hear my chests menacing new crackle.

Oh Christ, give me the phone.

Handing her the phone, I got ready to mime the symptoms as she went through all the necessary questions. Thankfully my girlfriend didnt share my massive sense of impending, vengeful doom, and remained calm throughout. I suspect this was due to my already eclectic medical history. Im a bountiful goldmine of indiscriminately random faults, concerning most of my major organs, or, as a sarky GP pointed out one day; a med students wet dream.

Youve not been stabbed have you? she asked, holding one hand over the receiver.

No!

Okay, okay... nope, no explosions. Does he play rugby, are you joking? Okay, give us 10 minutes, she said before putting the phone down.

Were taking you to hospital right now.

But we dont have a car and its half four in the morning? I questioned, looking for my watch.

No we dont, but our flatmate does my girlfriend answered, knowing full well that this would get me out the door. Our flatmate was this narky gob***** whom I took great delight in winding up, and it looked very much like this would soon involve stealing her car. My day just got a wee bit better.

Five minutes later and my girlfriend has turned into Bullet-era Steve McQueen, tearing the Fiesta through every red light Tollcross could throw at it. Always the fast driver, she was clearly enjoying the opportunity my suffering had created. Careering up Lauriston Place, we were inside A&E and seated in minutes. Picking up the obligatory copy of Bella from the waiting room table, I could hear Mel dictate the symptoms to a poor med student, obviously not used to someone so optimistically gung-ho in a crisis.

No. Now listen: He doesnt play rugby, hes not been involved in any accidents and no, he does not have emphysema.

Walking over, looking quite proud of herself, Mel told me the news.

Okay Mikey. The good news is you get to go in the big x-ray machine, yay! However it sounds like your lung has collapsed on you which is *****.

Although Mel had perfectly summed up the situation in one simple colloquialism, I was grateful when the doctor gave his professional summary. Essentially, being a tall skinny fella in a damp flat, my lung had become unstuck from its internal moorings and, like a hot air balloon in a terrible accident, crumpled into a big heap at the bottom of my pleural cavity.

Okay son, now pay attention.

The young medic, correctly diagnosing that my priorities were firmly rooted in getting back to bed with a handful of codeine, wisely got his superior along to give me the drill.

No smoking for at least 2 months, no sports, avoid stairs, lifting heavy things, particularly vigorous sex, in fact, anything which cant be accomplished with only one fully functioning lung should best be avoided. As far as treatment goes? Well, these things usually sort themselves out, dont they?

Finally drifting back to sleep that night, I hoped I could hear the rhetoric in the tired doctors voice, as his last sentence replayed endlessly through my head.