Open Writing

A teacher who had the esteemed honour of holding my attention for whole minutes at a time, once informed us that the small paragraphs in newspapers always contain the most interesting news.

Every morning we queued at his desk with torn off flaps of black and white. Consequently, these vital snips catch my eye first whenever I pick up a newspaper.

I learn for instance that Dr Arthur Klatsky, of the Oakland California Medical Centre says, after intensive research naturally, there is strong evidence that drinking moderately may reduce heart attacks.

What decent doctors some patients have. Imagine being handed a prescription for a drop of what you fancy three times a day. I believe some do have super understanding GPs.

An acquaintance of mine was recently ordered to bed for complete rest. ‘No cooking, no cleaning – let your family look after you for a change,’ was her doctor’s prescription.

Now that is what I call expert medical advice, difficult to acquire these days. I mean, how ill does one have to be to qualify for such treatment?

Many’s the time I’ve hinted that a week in bed would do the trick, usually to my doctor’s lowered lids as he scrawls out some scientific cure.

The clue to my condition must lie in the way I say ‘hello,’ because one astute GP sitting in for my regular doctor once, handed over a completed prescription before I was half-way through my symptoms.

Once I was so desperately incapacitated with what felt like a fractured throat, I expected nothing less than a fortnight’s bed rest. Mind you I didn’t realise how fast I was sinking until I looked up my symptoms in a lethal Home Medical tome, which I am surprised does not carry a government health warning.

On my way to the throat section, I happened to thumb through the lung disorders, discovering there was a possibility I had also contacted ‘Black Lung.’ In the heart section I realised my heartbeat was in danger of reaching mortuary pitch, deteriorating with every word I read in fact. By the time I reached ‘throats’ I was almost too weak to lift the phone, I didn’t know who to ring first, the doctor or the undertaker.

‘Just carry on with the tablets,’ smiled my doctor. No mention of moderate alcohol or feet-up therapy. Of course they don’t put us to bed anymore, not like they did in the old days.

Waiting room conversations have advanced drastically, too. Once we swapped coughs and sniffs, now with the wonder drugs there’s no end of im-portant diseases you can walk around with.

You cannot even lie in after an operation. Before you know it you are in your slippers and propped in a chair. Have you ever walked into a surgical ward at bed-making time? Not a pretty sight. It looks like a dressing gown sale. These garments appear to be draped everywhere. On closer inspection though you can see they contain tiny, shrunken post-operative faces, all peering longingly in one direction – towards their beds.

But it’s better for the blood you see. I am frightened that one day sick beds may become obsolete. The ‘How to look after your doctor’ notices in surgeries may be replaced by ‘Operations while you wait.’ Or we could all be sitting outside a garage somewhere under a different sign. ‘Have you had your ten year test?’ Bionic parts re-serviced here!!