Open Writing

There was a lump in my groin.

“Cancer,” I thought. “I’d better see the doctor as soon as possible.”

I made an appointment with the local GP, a tubby man a few years older than me. I was 38 at the time.

I told him about my lump.

“Let me see it,” he said. He probed it with his finger. “You’ve got a little hernia.”

“A hernia?”

“It’s just a minor failure in your system. You’re getting old. Get used to it, son. It’s easy fixed.”

The doctor said his partner was a specialist in this type of surgical repair. “He’s done about 500 of them on Kalgoorlie miners,” the doctor said. “This is one of the reasons we brought him into our practice.”

I was booked into the Armadale District Hospital, and the new doctor introduced himself.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s as easy as crossing the road.”

That didn’t help. I worked for the Main Roads Department at the time and was sensitive on the subject of road safety. We all were because invariably the media blamed the condition of the road as a factor in accidents.

By the time I was given the anesthetic, I was thoroughly alarmed. Then I noticed a photograph on the wall of my room of the local church, St Mary in the Valley. My mother’s name is Mary. I felt she was with me. God, too. I relaxed and went under.

When I came round, a nurse patted my hand.

“It was very successful,” she said.

I left the hospital full of beans, with a tight groin, stitched good as new, one testicle permanently out of line, and determined to add more fibre to my diet.

Despite all this, the other side popped out nine years later. I went to a specialist this time, had it fixed at the Mount Hospital, no worries.

Fear’s a funny thing. I find it best not to throw my straw worries on the fear fire. Think things through, trust in the processes of life. All will be well.

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To read more of Richard's articles, stories and poems in Western Walkabout please click on http://www.openwriting.com/archives/western_walkabout/