An (almost) sigh of relief

So I had to go to the hospital to check things out yesterday. It was a surreal experience. Not all at what I would have imagined, in the process and my own personal reaction.

I arrived only slightly early to the SHOCKINGLY PINK waiting room, which soon filled with an assortment of women. Some were as nervous as kittens and some where as brassy as, well, my mum's old fireside adornments. I hate pink and I particularly hate fluffy pink.

I didn't have to wait that long, or maybe the number of people turning up and arranging themselves and their bags on the plastic seats in the waiting room diverted my attention for a while. I had given up on polite people watching and started reading the Ken McClure thriller I had picked up at the library at the weekend when I was called through to be seen. After having my breasts poked and squeezed and x-rayed I was allowed to sit down and wait again. I went back to reading my book. A few, distracted, pages in and a number of the women had been told they could leave. I kept reading. After a while I was beginning to wonder why the radiographer had not released me to the pastel-hued main corridor of the hospital as well. Another couple of women were permitted to go and I was called back for more boob-torture. This time they marked my breasts with a pen as they attempted to focus in on the offending area. Apparently 'lumpy' breasts do not provide clear mammograms!!!

I was asked to wait again but it wasn't long before I was called for an ultrasound. Cold squirty gel on my chest was quite pleasant actually. Em ....anyway the ultrasound kept them happy, despite the lumps, and the specialist declared she was certain I had some type of fibroid cyst and nothing to worry about. Only after all this was I then allowed to leave, well, at least until I was to see the consultant later in the afternoon.

Kicking my heels for a couple of hours I walked back home and mused over the morning's events. I got the impression that no one understood my medical condition but maybe that was just because I'm so used to seeing experts in that area when I do go to a hospital clinic. I judged the professionals assessing me would know their area well too. My body and spirit felt a bit battered and bruised and in need of a little tlc but I had to go back to the hospital in the afternoon to discuss the results with the consultant.

I was amazed at the number of staff who simply appeared to be standing around the clinic reception area. They chatted, they looked at pieces of paper, they discussed rotas. I was asked my name and directed to a waiting area. I didn't feel like reading this time so I sat and watched while staff walked by. Nurses in blue tops, nurses in maroon tops and staff clearly on a mission to fufill their own self-importance. I recognised a few women from the morning. 'Fur coat' with her spindly legs, 80 if she was a day! 'Blue Cap' who could have just walked off the set of EastEnders. The middle-aged couple who fussed around each others coats for 30 minutes. He was the only man waiting.
After speaking to a sweet but inexperienced girl who attempted to complete a form of my details I went back to the waiting area. I was called to a small room and requested to undress for the third time that day. Then with a flourish the consultanct came in, examined me, confirmed everyone believed the lump to be innocent. He considered this for a moment and perhaps, regarding my confused expression, decided reassurance was required. He took a needle sample which I hardly felt at all and we'll all be convinced there's no need for concern in a month's time.

The NHS is a strange beast. I suspect it is extremely generous and caring in many circumstances. Enfolding patients in clean sheets, kindness and timely, efficacious treatment. However I also imagine there are a number of failures. Truthfully, based on my recent experiences, I have not yet made up my mind.