Don’t tell the doctor you’re a journalist.

Especially when they’re half way through inserting a cannula into your arm.

The junior doctor, baring his ‘BMA: it’s everyone’s fight’ badge, was distracting me with a light bit of banter:

Dr: ‘I chose this pink one because it looks good. Actually that was a bit sexist of me, sorry.’

Me: ‘Yeah that was a bit but I’ll let you off.’

Dr: ‘So do you work? What do you do?’

Me: ‘I’m a journalist.’

Dr: ‘Oh wow. We don’t like journalists. I’d better be careful what I say!’

I must add that he was joking but was also genuinely taken a back. And it’s had the same effect on other people in the hospital. When Mum came to visit the same doctor came back to explain what was going on and we told him that she has a medical background. “A journalist and a nurse? I really must watch what I say!” It turns out that journalists really are mega mistrusted. If I’m honest, I reckon it’s the estate agents you need to watch out for…

This is me in A&E shortly before Oli almost passed out! 

Update: I have blood clots in both lungs. It basically means that there is something blocking the blood from moving around my body properly. It would explain why I’ve been such short of breath for a while because not enough oxygen is getting to my lungs. But it’s okay, it can be sorted. It’s lucky I came in now or I’d still be a heart attack waiting to happen!

There is another diagnosis that is specifically causing my blue arm but I can’t remember the name of it. And the explanation involves much talk of veins and other innards and I’m worried if I tell you it will have the same affect on you as it did on Oli. We don’t need you passed out on a bed in A&E…

I’m having some more scans today that will determine whether I need an operation or not to rearrange some of my insides and stop the blue arm from happening again. Because of the possibility of an op, I was woken at 6am to have a light breakfast and I’m nil by mouth for the rest of the day. That’s no water either. Ironically I was thinking about giving the 5:2 diet a go but was worried I couldn’t stick to the 500 calories day.

As I munched on my breakfast of jam and toast in the early hours of this morning, I watched the sunrise over the Houses of Parliament. I can see the canteen from my window, slowly filling up with hungry MPs, probably prepping for PMQs. I’m hoping I can hear it over here – I’m that close.

When Dad comes to visit. Top bloke. 

I feel a bit pooey, particularly with slightly greasy hair (despite having washed it last night), no make up, no fresh air and y’know the old lungs situation isn’t helping. But being on the vascular ward (the place that deal with the blood network system i.e. veins, arteries and capillaries) I’m lucky to be so youthful and particularly to have all four limbs. I’m counting my lucky stars.

Anyway, Ethel’s just woken up. Time to hear about this morning’s bowel movements. As always, I’ll keep you updated – with what’s happening with me, not Ethel’s bowels.

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One thought on “Don’t tell the doctor you’re a journalist.

  1. Clare says:

    We had the same response when having Mae. The obstetrician said a Nurse Director and Journalist were worrying combination! See you soon
    PS at least you don’t write for the Daily Mail!

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