I prise my crippled posterior out of this relic of the Spanish Inquisition and am heading across the room when I am summoned again. ‘Jonneee! What thees giant pasty, plees?’
I stagger towards the Gents, after which I find myself on the stairwell, staring, unseeing, out over the car-park, and with eyes closed, I rest my head on the glass. Why couldn’t it be me in there? Poor love, she must be scared to death. Polyps? I imagine them as small, white warty things. Do they need to be removed?
Suddenly I feel a hand on my shoulder. ‘Jonneee. I have mesh-age from Rafi. Cristina fin-ees now. We can to go home. Plees, thees way.’ And he leads me downstairs, into another, smaller waiting room, containing an elderly couple, seated patiently, and my wife, pale as a ghost, supported by a nurse on one side, Rafi on the other.
At that precise split second, a number of different events occur. Chrissie appears light-headed, momentarily, and stumbles.
The nurse, all five-foot-nothing, grapples ineffectually with her patient.
Rafi, similarly vertically challenged, is pulled to one side and is heading for the floor.
I leap to my feet, dash the five yards to the tumbling trio, and wrap my arms around them, keeping my body weight low, just about managing to prevent the four of us ending up in an ungainly heap.
Rafi, arms flailing, catches me a stinging blow to the side of my head, narrowly avoiding gouging out an eye.
Chrissie retches, but mercifully, having been nil-by-mouth since last night, has nothing to bring up, and instead emits those grotesque heaving noises as practiced by Callers For God On The Big White Telephone everywhere. HUEYYYYY! BIIIIILLLLLLL!
The nurse detaches herself from the scrum but trips, staggering backwards onto Pablo’s lap.
I half-drag, half-steer my barfing beauty towards a chair, and ignoring the stabbing pain in my shoulder-blade, lower her to relative safety.
Pablo is grinning, like all his Christmasses have arrived at once.
Rafi, confronted by the pornographic image of a blonde in a crisp white uniform and stockings straddling her errant husband, steps angrily forward as if to slap the startled professional painfully across the cheeks, but at the last second grabs her by the arm, and hauls her upright.
The old man, hitherto looking extremely green about the gills, staggers manfully to his feet, and with a cry of ‘I am off’ heads rapidly, for an octogenarian, towards the door.
His wife lunges desperately for his coat-tails, scattering her x-rays, which the nurse, scrabbling picturesquely on all-fours, is hurriedly attempting to gather.
Pablo is still grinning.
I am struggling to avert my gaze, but fail.
Chrissie stretches out a leg and boots me distressingly on the shin.
I step backwards onto a fugitive raddyo-graffico, my foot slips, and narrowly avoiding falling face-first onto the nurse, which could only have ended badly for my marriage, and immediate future, wrench myself to an upright position, at great cost to my spine, and slump gratefully into a chair.
And, breathe.
The nurse grabs the remaining x-rays, flaps them in the air to remove the dust and foreign bodies, stares angrily at the one bearing the imprint of an espadrille, stuffs them impatiently into the manila envelope, smooths down her uniform, fastens the top button which must have come undone in the melee, although I can’t say I noticed personally, and smiles sweetly at the old lady in a where’s your husband gone kind of way. The show is over.
Rafi takes Chrissie by the hand. ‘Plees, you feely better?’
She lifts her head out of her hands and stretches, blowing out her cheeks, which are already regaining some element of colour. ‘I am, thank you. In fact I have a craving for a Coke, and maybe a bite to eat. Does anyone fancy some lunch? My treat!’
‘Rafi!’ cries her husband. ‘Jonneee say me, must to eaty giant pasty, een Glass-ton-boor! Ees similar empanada, more biggy, meeet, po-tayto, ony-on, toor-neep, but no bloody carrots, he say. Know you what ees bloody carrots? I not know bloody carrots! Come on, we take they our favourite restaurant! No have giant pasty weeth no bloody carrots, but we have good eaty, thees place! Yees.’
Light-headed, we stumble gratefully into the warm sunshine, and avoiding much in the way of collateral damage, Pablo guides us through the hospital car park, which thankfully features nothing in the way of barriers or number-plate recognition cameras, out onto the road, and down a hill towards a giant shopping centre. ‘Thees our favourite restaurant, in HH-ayen’ Rafi confirms. ‘I think you enjoy. Follow, plees!’ She leads us into a massive, domed space, complete with a kiddies funfair, shops dotted around the edge, and, as predicted, the tables and chairs of a cafe-bar. Just as we are taking our seats however comes the vaguely familiar sound of someone bellowing into a microphone. ‘MARIA, POR FAVOR! ALICIA, POR FAVOR! JOSE, POR FAVOR!’
A HUNDRED MONTADITOS! So it must be a chain restaurant, we suspected as much. Therefore, I know which one out of the hundred I am having. Not a giant pasty, either with or without carrots, and don’t mention anything to my Cornish relatives, if you bump into them, but I’ve eaten both varieties. No, the christorra, of course. And we know what that is, don’t we? Correct. Shoshage!
Three weeks later we are off to HH-ayen hospital again, for the polyp-removing appointment, this time on our own, as Rafi and Pablo have finally decided to embark on their summer holiday. And they say the south of France is very pleasant this time of year, don’t they? Grrrr. Still, we know the way, and Chrissie is clutching her appointment letter, which arrived around five days after the MRI session, which I thought was pretty damned impressive, considering the water bills take twice that long, from walking-distance, so surely all we have to do is wave it under the nose of the first medico we encounter, and hey presto, we will be in. Ever the optimist.
Now, don’t laugh, please, but in the boot is an overnight bag. For both of us. Even though, as far as I am aware, I will be a mere spectator, a visitor, a person who is planning on nipping down to Hundred Montaditos, providing I can find it, while my wife is undergoing treatment. Hospitals, like dental surgeries, always leave me feeling a little faint, and in the absence of a branch of Littlewood’s in this neck of the woods, a Spanish Shoshage will be just what the doctor ordered. Gotta follow medical advice, right?
The explanation of this frankly bizarre arrangement was, as always, at the library group, with Marie on translation duties. ‘Thees letter say plees to remember you hygiene personal productos and interior clothes, in casey you must to pass the night in hospital.’ And she gazed across the table and smiled. At me.
I turned to Chrissie on my left, grinning. ‘There you are, don’t forget your toiletries bag and a change of knickers! Don’t want to get caught short, do you!’
‘No no no’ Teri cried, wagging her finger in my direction. ‘you must to take these things.’
I frowned. ‘But I am only a visitor. Cristina is the patient, having the operation. If she has to stay overnight, the hospital will kick me out at the end of visiting time, and I will come home, then return in the morning when visiting starts again.’ I didn’t mention Hundred Montaditos. Probably best keeping that to myself.
There were sharp intakes of breath across the table. ‘What thees kick me out, plees?’ ‘Visiting time, what ees thees?’
‘Sorry’ I giggled. ‘Kick me out is to ask me to leave. At the end of visiting time, when visitors must go home, in the evening, so that patients can get some peace and quiet.’ As soon as I said it, the penny dropped. Peace and quiet? In this country? I flapped my hands in a sorry I have misunderstood way. ‘In Britain, there are usually visiting hours, times during the day when visitors are allowed to come in. And they have to leave at, I don’t know, eight, eight-thirty in the evening.’ And a vision of Hattie Jacques, as a battleaxe matron in Carry On Doctor ordering out the relatives, flashed through my mind.
‘Oh my GAAD! Amador spluttered. ‘You must to LEAVE? In Eengland you visity no sleepy in HOSPITAL?’
‘In the BED!’ replied an incredulous Doctor Tinkle.
‘Yes but what bed? My bed?’ enquired his perplexed patient. Not sure I like the sound of this. I can just imagine Hattie Jacques ripping back the sheets in the morning and jabbing a ruddy great hypodermic up my back-side.
‘In a bed TEMPORARY!’ chuckled Kenneth. ‘In you ROOM! Jonneee must to sleep in bed temporary weeth YOU. Een Eengland you no doo THEES? Fox ME!’
So there you have it. If you are hospital-visiting in this country, plees to remember you hygiene personal productos and interior clothes. Mine are in the boot right now, although we still don’t know whether or not this is actually true. We were expecting them to burst out laughing in a gigantic APRIL FOOL! even though it is July. All will be revealed, very shortly, as here is the hospital, coming up on the left, so I need to concentrate, find somewhere to park, without involving shunting, and all will be well. Or not. Because we cannot find the hospital entrance door. Rafi and Pablo must have taken us in the back way, and there are at least three back doors, one of which turns out to be the boiler house. My wife is, understandably, somewhat tense. ‘For pity’s sake, can’t you remember the way in? And please don’t say you have slept since then.’
Well it’s true, I have, but probably best not to mention it, today. I smile reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry, we have plenty of time, we are half an hour early, the appointment is not until nine-thirty, and it’s barely nine. Let’s go round the front, there is a massive set of steps, that must be the main entrance, so that must be where reception is. Follow me, please!’ It seems however that my optimism is misplaced. There is indeed a massive set of steps, at the top of which is a huge glass entrance foyer, inside of which is….. nothing. Just a corridor, several corridors in fact, leading who knows where. But of reception, even an empty reception where the usual incumbent has gone for breakfast, there is no sign.
Just then a lift door opens and out steps a woman in a white coat. I wave the appointment letter under her nose, she studies it carefully, and smiles. ‘Otto Rhino. First floor. You can use the lift.’ I express my thanks, but honestly, why are there never any signs in this country? I am not panicking, yet, we still have twenty-five minutes, but we just don’t need this. The place is a labyrinth, how is anyone expected to find… the lift pings and we step out onto the first floor, which is exactly the same as the ground. A MAZE OF CORRIDORS. I am starting to become agitated. We step one way, and another, then spot a group of around a dozen people, seated outside a door, which upon closer inspection bears the legend Otto Rhino, in letters about an inch high. Is this it? Must be. Everyone is staring at us so we grin, as if wandering around a strange hospital is an everyday event in our country, and take our seats, although something is clearly amiss here. ‘Tell you what’ I whisper, ‘I remembered my clean pants, but you forgot your x-rays!’
She checks her watch. ‘This isn’t right. We didn’t come here, before. Look, we only have fifteen minutes, what the hell are we going to do?’
Inwardly seething at the disorganisation, I nevertheless manage a smile. ‘Look, you stay here, I will go back downstairs and have a good look round. There has to be a reception or enquires desk somewhere. If not I will strip off naked and run down the corridors! That will get us some attention!’
‘Arrested more like!’ she giggles. But this is no laughing matter, is it?
Back at the lift, I spot a stairwell in the corner, so decide to walk down to the ground floor, where in front of me, as plain as the nose on my face, is a reception. The reception. What the hell? Fixing the location in my mind, I turn a corner to find…. the main entrance, where we came in. They hid the reception around a corner, and didn’t bother to put up a sign? I don’t believe this country sometimes… I dash back upstairs, two at a time, gonna need those clean pants any time now, arriving breathlessly at the Otto Rhino door, where Chrissie is still sitting, nervously checking her watch. ‘Downstairs’ I pant. ‘Reception, downstairs, quick, this way!’ A dozen blank faces are staring at us so I grin, manically, as if dashing breathlessly down hospital corridors is entirely normal, where we come from, bid them a cheerful adios, and we scarper. Five minutes.
Miraculously, there is no-one waiting at the counter so Chrissie presents her letter to the smiling, helpful receptionist, who has not a trace of toast crumbs on her blouse. She reaches behind her and brings forth a clear plastic wallet containing several wrist bands and half a dozen or so sticky-backed labels, all bearing my wife’s name, and medical number, which she passes across. ‘Into the lift, first floor, turn right, fifty metres, on the left is a small reception. They are expecting you. Adios!’ We follow her directions, and arrive at our destination, exactly as described, at the stroke of nine-thirty. Phew!
So, what are we expecting here this morning? Well, bearing in mind my BUPA subscription lapsed the day I retired, I am guessing that a private room and five-star service will be out of the question. And we have been gently cautioned by our friends at the library that when the locals have hospital appointments, however minor, the whole family usually accompany them, not just spouses or partners, but aunties, uncles, cousins, parents, children, nieces, nephews, with a few in-laws thrown in for good measure. And as we all know, Andalucian people are known to be prone to occasional bouts of mild excitement, so we were rather hoping for a smallish ward, populated by an even smaller number of elderly people, in the vain hope that we might avoid raucous Spanish shouting. Fingers crossed….
Actually, all joking aside, the safe removal of the polyps, and a subsequent biopsy report confirming they were benign, would be the best result of all, and to achieve this happy outcome I am sure Chrissie would be willing to undergo her treatment in the car-park, standing up. Anything else will be a bonus. And it appears we are about to find out, as down the corridor strides a Ronnie Corbett lookalike, a tiny, dapper man, sixties easily, rectangular-framed glasses, collar and tie covered by a spotless white medical coat. ‘A cement mixer collided with a prison van earlier today’ I whisper. ‘Motorists are asked to keep a lookout for fifteen hardened criminals!’
Chrissie is holding on to the counter, giggling helplessly, as Ronnie approaches. ‘Buenas dias’ he smiles, taking her plastic wallet and checking the name with a list on his clipboard. ‘Follow me please.’ And he leads us down the hallway, towards….. a huge ward at the end…. no! He throws open a door on the left, peeks inside to check it if empty, and gestures us inside. A private room! Not five-star, admittedly, as the decor is minimalist, to say the least, but one hospital bed, two visitors’ chairs, various medical paraphernalia… and what appears to be a tubular-framed camp bed. So it was true! Looks a bit small for my ample frame, mind you, but still, I’ve slept on worse, and the floor is tiled so there will be no squelchy, lagery carpet to negotiate. And maybe I can persuade Chrissie to swap beds…
‘Make yourselves at home’ Ronnie beams, ‘I will be back soon.’
‘And it’s good night from him!’ my wife titters, perching herself on the edge of her bed.
‘And it’s good night from me!’ I cackle, dropping the bag, kicking off my espadrilles, and climbing onto my sleeping arrangements. Blimey, mattress is a bit thin, probably designed for diminutive, ten-stone Spaniards. I haul myself to my feet. ‘Anyway, you will be very comfortable on that. Now, shift off my bed, will you, I had an early start this morning, I need a lie down!’
‘On your bike, sunsh…’
Suddenly there is a knock at the door and Ronnie appears again, catching us laughing. Blimey he must be thinking, what wonderful, easy patients these British are. No kissing, arm-flapping, hand-waving, standing around arguing, no mothers-in-law giving out orders… He walks over to a cu
pboard in the corner, and extracts a hospital gown. ‘Take off all your clothes please’ he instructs me, ‘put them in the wardrobe there, and get yourself into bed. I will be back in a couple of minutes.’
Now, no sniggering at the back, please. We’re in a foreign country here. Things are different. They’ve provided me with accommodation for the night, maybe they need me to shed my street clothes, to avoid contamination? Chrissie is in stitches. ‘Are you going commando? You will need to maintain your dignity, if you do, you know, man-spreading and all that. Keep your knees together at all times, please! Do you need me to tie you up, at the back? Just hold on while I get a photo!’
‘I’ll give you man-spreading!’ I frown, puffing, mock-serious, stripping down to my underwear and hauling the gown, seams groaning, down over my shoulders. ‘I…can…hardly…get…the…bloody…thing…over…my…gut!’
Another knock at the door and in pops Ronnie again. Lovely people, these English. Always laughing. He extracts a wrist-band from the plastic wallet and places it over my arm. The wrist-band bearing the legend Richards Cristina. ‘No No No!’ cries the person who actually goes by that name. ‘That is me! I am having the operation, not him!’
Sunsets and Olives 2: Back to Spain...... the madness continues! Page 39