Sunday fun, part 4, wherein the tale concludes like a comedy of errors

Probably about 3.15 am Monday morning
Finally we are called and led through to a curtained area by an Asian doctor man (Asian as in Indian or Pakistani, rather than Chinese or Japanese), and he goes through all the same questions yet again. He tells me that he'd like to take my blood pressure, draw blood for testing, get a urine sample, and do an ECG on me. This all sounds like it's going to take a loooong time.

I don't know what order he did things, but I do remember a big fuck-off needle going into my arm and drawing out a syringeful of thick black blood. The missus watches the whole thing; I decline. I'm not a big fan of watching needles entering my flesh. I ask whether it is supposed to look so dark, my blood, and he replies that it is perfectly normal. Okay... Within a few minutes of having half an armful of blood drained from me, I am feeling lightheaded again, so I have a lie down on the bed.

We wait quite a long time then for a nurse to come and do the ECG. When she arrives -- she put me in mind of a Greek, quite stocky but pleasant, and very chatty -- she asks me to lift my shirt and proceeds to cover me with sticky pads. She comments that the tattoos are well positioned to help her with the applications. One is stuck on the right side of my chest; three on the left; another one on each of my sides; one on each upper arm; and one just above each ankle. I think that's all. Then she attaches some cables to me. The cables are connected to a central interface that then feeds into the ECG machine. She turns on the machine.

"Oh...," she says, and checks all the connections again. Back to the machine. "Hmmm... According to this, you're flatlining!"

"I think I'm alive," I say, though to be honest I feel like death.

"Let me go and get another machine." And off she goes.

It must be at least five long minutes later that she returns with a new, snazzier machine. But as flash as it is, it doesn't have a screen, so she can't tell if it's working until actually printing off the results. So I get all hooked up again, and she presses a button. Nothing. Still flatline. I'm beginning to think I am dead and this is my hell. She tweaks my sticky pads and leads and puts sticky tape on some to hold them in place. Try again. Zip. She is staying pleasant, but I'm fast losing my patience and energy.

She decides to get someone to help, and in comes the triage nurse. I am asked to remove my shirt. This seems sensible, and I wonder why I wasn't asked earlier. All the leads and connections are gone over and another attempt is made. Still nothing. So off they go in search of another machine. When they reappear I think they have the old machine again, but I couldn't swear to it... We go through the same rigmarole once more, with the same results, before yet another nurse is called, this time the matron, if memory serves.

I've lost track of the time, 'kay?
Now there are three of them milling around my torso. One of them asks: "Could it be the tattoos affecting it?" A reply comes: "No, it shouldn't be... Are they new, these tattoos?" I say: "This one is, the others no." Of course it's not the tattoos. It's amazing how little people in the medical profession know about tattoos and piercings... Anyway, sometime over the course of the next ten minutes, I stop flatlining, and the nurses flee. Yay!

The doctor comes back with the results of half of my blood work. He'd estimated this would take one and a half to 2 hours, so that gives me some indication of how long I have been there waiting for the ECG. The results show high white-cell count. I'm also showing low blood pressure (which I knew from earlier in the evening). The ECG is fine. I go off to do my urine sample. The results of this come back quickly: slight infection. (This is weird since I've felt totally fine "down there"!) Also, I've got a mild case of gastritis, which could be from food poisoning. I know it's from the pastie I reheated for dinner Sunday night. Urgh! I'm given some antibiotics and am told to drink plenty of fluids and to drink a hydrating solution available from the chemist. We can go, at last.

4.45 am Monday morning
We make our way to the freephone to call for a taxi. I'm asked if I can ring back in half an hour and then they'll be able to tell me if a cab is available. Yeah, right. I dig around in my wallet for details of a cab firm close to where we live. We go outside to call on the mobile. It's daylight; where did the night go? The cab will come out right away; it'll take about 20 minutes and cost £25; and can I pay over the phone with a debit or credit card, please? Sure. I guess they don't want to make such a long journey to find we're gone when they get here.

Taxi man arrives after yet another tediously long-seeming wait. He drives like a motherfucking bat out of hell. I'm clasping, as I have been all evening, a little cardboard sick tray and a plastic sickbag that the ambulance crew gave me, feeling certain that I am going to need them any minute. In the event, miraculously, I don't.

5.30 am Monday morning
We arrive home. It's been five and a half hours since I collapsed. Cat is awaiting our arrival, deeply confused by the whole affair. He wasn't at home when we left with the ambulance, so he came in to an empty house. We go to bed, desperately hoping to get some sleep.

Sunday fun, part 2

About 12.20 am
The paramedic arrives. He takes my details and information about what has happened, doubtless as much to check my mental state as for diagnosis purposes. He then encourages me to sit up very slowly, before helping me to my feet and walking me through the kitchen and into the lounge, where we wait for the ambulance. His name is Les or Len, I remember -- it was on his name badge -- and he gives me some oxygen to help counter my lightheadedness. He also takes a small blood sample from my left thumb to check something...

The ambulance arrives and Wife lets the staff into the house. They are two young blonde women. Even in this debilitated state, my vanity allows me an internal chuckle at how much of a mess I look sitting there, at 37 years of age, probably with vomit round my mouth and wearing a Simpsons pyjama top. This same top (which is T-shirt stylee) will go on to feel more conspicuous as the night runs into early morning.

The ambulance girls ask many of the same questions that the paramedic had asked, and between the three of them and Wife (who was concerned I may have had some kind of seizure) they decided I ought to get checked out at the hospital. We are advised to bring some money to get back from the hospital afterwards. I am helped to the ambulance, where I lie down on a gurney and am given more oxygen by mask. Wife joins me inside, and many of the same questions are asked yet again, this time for the purposes of documentation. We then set off on the 10-mile journey.

Wow, talk about a bumpy ride! I stay on my back the entire time, feeling every dip and hump in the road on the sparsely padded gurney. Once in a while I smile at Wife, who is seated down near my feet, though I don't know how visible my smiles are through the mask.

The short trip takes about 20 minutes, I guess -- difficult to say -- and on arrival I am unhooked from the oxygen and helped down the steps and into a wheelchair in the hospital car park. I sit and immediately throw up once exposed to the cool night air. And again. And again. And I think once more. Wife heaved as the wind carried the scent of my expulsions towards her.

I seem to have emptied myself, so I am wheeled into the A&E (accident and emergency) reception area to await the triage nurse.