“There’s certainly visible inflammation to the glands” proclaimed the surgical consort, poking at the infected protrusions with frigid, analytical inspections. “But it’s definitely not a hernia” he assessed. “Have you been bitten?” he continued with knowing premonition. “Yes!” I professed incredulously “on the back of the leg”. Further examination confirmed that a small bite I had sustained on my recent excursion to Portugal, with little recourse, had nowhere to go other than to circulate through my leg causing a large formation of lumps around the groin area, making mobility almost unbearable. Of course this masticated incision that had left a limp to become a permanent fixture to my motility, proved to be an illusive ailment to authenticate. Having consulted my local physician to substantiate the origins of this queer irregularity, I was swiftly asserted that the removal of my trousers would be required to determine a sufficient diagnosis (I’m fairly sure it was a doctors?). With reticent resignation I complied, despite seldom revealing my Simpsons underwear to even my girlfriend. After an expeditious appraisal of the swollen area, she quickly declared that immediate surgery would be required to amend the hernia I had seemingly sustained whilst sleeping! I was terrified!
After being referred to the surgical assessment unit for examination, with the hospital being previously notified of my impending arrival by my doctor so as to skip the formalities and bureaucratic nonsense, I was then informed that these supposed enquiries had not been formally noted, incurring further grievance to my already apprehensive clemency. Diplomatic sovereignty is difficult to sustain when an administration error has left you wallowing in uncertainty for 2 hours. But when the lumps sudden emergence was finally validated as an infection discerned from the aggravated wound on my calf I felt relieved. Despite the flagrant violation of my flesh, my own wilful complicity in allowing the infection to circulate uninhibited due to my masculine obstinacy that prevented any intervening prognosis, I felt at ease. Though this composure could be attributed to the immaculate sanitation of the surfaces, the pristine contemporary look of my surroundings or the remedial sedatives and substances that had been administered, but I’d like to believe that the severity of the situation was nullified by the successful diagnosis of my affliction. Of course even once the formulations have been discussed and the suggested medical procedures have been implemented, there’s still ample accommodation for disparate levels of pain, anxiety and harassing humiliation.
Despite the non-invasive, orally administered morphine substitute that lingered long on the palette, I was then poked, prodded and punctured by more pricks than Katie Price, as blood was drawn “just in case” I needed a transfusion, my stomach was injected with some solution that would prevent any blood clots, as well as have a catheter inserted into my arm allowing the intravenous antibiotics to circulate through my system, that by the time they had finished I was adorned with so many abrasions and puncture wounds that my mum would think I’ve been swimming in a pool of wasps. My hirsute figure posed sufficient complication too, when removal of the viscous substance that had adhered the numerable dressings had to be removed for inspection, where slow minimal deportation prompted the thicket of hairs to resist their forced extraction. Whereas hastened duress generated one overpowering torment, as opposed to many modest ones. But its the doctors that elicit the most embarrassment, as they observe you with such judicial restraint as though an inner narration was being conducted by them. With the accompaniment of ambient splutters, the incessant coughing reverberating across the echoing wards, the monotonous tones of heart regulators and the disconcerting smiles of nurses passing, its difficult enough not to feel anxiously incarcerated, without doctors resilient inquisitions into the regularity of my bowel movements and the proposed irrigation?! They appeared genuinely disappointed at the lack of solution attributed to my digestive tract, as though it were a prerequisite, so instead began professing curiosity for my testicular region!
You try to maintain what modest semblance of decorum and self-respect when you have 6 doctors exchange curious glances and murmuring inaudible commerce, while fondling my penile and hairy bean bags, while indiscreetly enquiring whether it was painful? “What the lump that prevents me from walking? Or you twirling my sacks like Baoding balls?”. Also try keeping a straight face when your asked about discharge from your privacy area! Of course the requisition of dignity is a statutory suspension and Doctors/Nurses are exponents for my eventual recuperation, to which I am indebted. But the levity of leaving provides its own restorative purification, despite being potentially more medicated than Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting. Of course once all of the medicinal supplements have diffused you can’t help but envy computer game characters and their instantaneous recovery they receive. I could have simply hidden behind a crate whilst my body regenerated, picked up and elixir or herb to stem the putrid contagion or just press restart! But apparently, this is not an advisable course of self-medication.