The walk to the Hospital was in theory a simple one - a mere 50 minute walk max door to door cutting down the canal by my flat - and for that very reason I had laughed off any suggestions to take a taxi there. But now was the time to put my stubbornness into practice.
I still felt the swelling and pulse of the bowels as they contemplated round 12, as my feet crunched down the stone path through the canal. A hole in my converse so not only did I feel every step as to be expected with this footwear, but now I was assaulted with every step too. Joy.
The plus side was that this would be a largely secret trek, free from public for the most part, so my secret shame was safe until I hit the town.
I blended in with surprising ease as walked through the main streets of Wigan, which upon reflection is more depressing than had I been eyeballed. It was only as I neared the hospital, having now clocked in 80 minutes for this 50 minute trek, I passed a group of young girls who could not help but whisper and giggle pointedly. My gut lurched with shame and Moviprep. Great, confirmation of my state. My hair frayed in every direction in individual whisps, my pupils shrivelled, eyes greying and skin bleached and trembling. Sense of direction, fumbling at best. I looked like the lost drunk zombie of Wigan going through a serious crack withdrawal. And now on top of it the hospital was closed.
Fuck. Everyone had questioned if I had got the date right Sunday? No-one operates on a Sunday surely! And they were fucking right. No. Wait. There was another hospital in Wigan. I had assumed this was the one as had been sent here with my specialist to go through it all, and they had not mentioned otherwise when setting the appointment. I checked my phone. Two minutes to get there. Shit. It needed at least 20 in my best state. I shuffled at top speed for a mobility scooter up the hill and to the nearest Taxi office, fielding a particularly stressed call from my mother about my absense. My 5 minute wait Taxi came in 20, but I was not the only one headed toward it. A couple who had arrived maybe several minutes prior were trying to steal my taxi. Even though they would not have heard me book it to the hospital, they had surely seen the shivering pale corpse clutching his Hospital references.
Eventually I made it. "Have you filled in your forms?" What? What forms?! "Urgh. Here. Do these." the receptionist slapped the forms to my hands and eyed me up as an intentional pest. I guess people make regular attempts to shit themselves without the alloted paperwork just to annoy her. I struggled for a grip on the pen, I needed to eat. Okay, done. I got called through into the ward - another waiting room, but one that was themed with a hospital aesthetic of beds and curtains.
A loud sound effect record in the bed next to me, track skipping on "fart" incessently. He didn't really seem to even acknowledge it was occuring, like a coma patient on a whoopee cushion. I took in my surroundings; that didn't take long. Seen one blank canvas of a wall decorated by a gymnasium-mat of a mattress on a metal frame bed, seen them all. Even the curtains were a lifeless blue - a feat I find especially impressive when you consider the liveliness of the colour. A nurse came by and ran me through the options; gas or needle. My mind was already convinced of its choice; I'd already gone through as much as my body wanted to tolerate, that needle could go the hell away from me unless absolutely necessary. "Well, the needle doesn't really put you under per se" she began. Well fat lot of good that anaesthetic is then! "It just relaxes your body to make it easier for us to push in" Have to remember that line in future. "Or there is the gas which is the same we give to women when they're giving birth to stop them feeling pain so it is pretty strong stuff." Right, I'm sold - I'm going to reverse birth a camera and feel on top of the moon doing so.
She smiled in acceptance, scribbled a note (at least I assumed the hyroglyph she had jotted as a note - her writing assured me she would be a Doctor in another life) and left me to wait under the watchful gaze of a grouchy old man who didn't know what on earth had just happened to him, the fart machine and the hospital radio. One thing I learned was that hospital radio died in the 80s. Or it at least felt that way as Human League belted out their domestic differences through a crackle of a speaker that could well have been a vietnam vet in its own right, occasionally switching to eras when Michael Jackson was still free of public stigma, and The Osmonds whose blindingly perfect teeth still managed to work their magic through the stereo format.
A machine was active somewhere else beyond the valley of the side-curtains. A constant bee-bee-beeep on a tight 3 minute schedule a constant reminder of it's prescence. R2 D2 was in critical condition.
And then in stepped The Doctor. His outfit regulation and yet flarred with a care-free personality, the swagger to his walk keeping him aloof to all concerns.
"Hey, yeah?" Oh no. "I'm the Doctor, yeah. So we're going to just quickly run through the procedure if that's okay with you, yeah-yeah?" Great. A doctor who was his own yes-man to every idea he had? This would be interesting. We ran through it all, and he seemed cool and calm enough about it for me to feel this guy could go up my butt and back out without too much trouble. He issued for my bed to be taken in prep for me and I watched feeling it would have been far more convenient had I been on it as it swung to my surgery room. Two hours passed before a nurse returned to say they did infact forget me and took someone else to operate on my bed instead. Great.
Another thirty minutes in my chair, the safety of the half-open curtains enough for me to bolster my inner-rock star as I ran my vocals in a warbled duet with the speaker now running through the rest of my childhood with the likes of Soft Cell, Dead Or Alive, and Blondie. Finally a nurse came through for me. The Doctor will violate you now..
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