Speccie Competition Medical Thread
Competition: Medical record
LUCY VICKERY
SATURDAY, 22ND OCTOBER 2011
In Competition No. 2718 you were invited to submit an account, in verse, of a medical procedure undergone.
The inspiration for this assignment, was James Michie’s characteristically witty and well-made ‘On Being Fitted with a Pace-Maker’: ‘What with sex and fags and liquor,/ Silly old mulish heart,/ Dear unregenerate ticker,/ You needed a kick start’.
Afflictions of the nether regions featured more prominently in the entry than those of the heart. Brian Murdoch captures the mood nicely: ‘Even when there is no malignity,/ You can say goodbye to freedom and certainly dignity...’ And while accounts ranged from the eye-watering to the heartwarming it was a strong performance all round.
The bonus fiver belongs to Basil Ransome-Davies. His fellow winners get £25 each.
An NHS op means a two-year wait?
I frown. The GP says ‘I’ve got this mate...’
(or words to that effect) and soon I go
for private rearrangement ‘down below’.
A local anaesthetic, a quick slice,
a pair of snips — it’s over in a trice.
I glance at the result — two small raw shish
kebabs reclining in a kidney dish —
and then the medic sews me up again.
It’s cost me money, but I feel no pain.
I pay the nurse, a young brunette who winks
suggestively, but I forgive the minx.
A weight is off my mind (and not just mine —
this is a present for my valentine.)
Such is vasectomy, and I’ve been through it.
Forget the sniggering. There’s nothing to it.
Basil Ransome-Davies
It goes like this, the doctor said,
You must lie down upon this bed
Erected in a place apart
And we will open up your heart.
I asked, rebuttoning my shirt,
But will I die and will it hurt?
He laughed, Don’t even think of it.
It will not hurt one little bit.
And for the other, my oh my,
I guarantee you will not die.
A month or two, you will be fine.
I signed upon the dotted line,
He seemed a pleasant sort of bloke.
It did hurt and I didn’t croak.
John Whitworth
‘We go in deep where the sun don’t shine,
And nip those blighters in the bud.’
His choice of words would not be mine —
But I don’t work with guts and blood.
In fact, apart from ill-judged patter,
He seems all right: no obvious shakes,
A steady gaze — the things that matter
When I must trust each move he makes.
‘Turn on your side, please — that’s the trick.’
The needle-wielder, trim and slight
Says, ‘Just a scratch’ (PC for ‘prick’),
And then it’s instantaneous night.
Blighterless, I hope, I lie
In the quiet recovery ward,
And as I watch a pane of sky,
Luxuriate in just being bored.
W.J. Webster
I feel that first sharp jab into the gum
And, gazing up, must wait until it’s numb.
Now, wincing with my mouth held open wide,
I let him poke and prod around inside
Then feel the grip of forceps, fast and firm,
And as I gag and swallow, sweat and squirm,
He starts to yank my throbbing tooth about
While I, unable now to shriek or shout,
Must let him focus on the job in hand
And force this wretched socket to expand.
Once done, I should be on the final lap,
The ligament, like gum, will stretch and snap
And then, with one last wrench and stab of pain
The torment will be over once again
Except for what’s to come, more painful still,
The shock when I’m confronted with the bill.
Alan Millard
There’s a hailstorm outside but it’s torrid in here;
With a sheet round my throat and my hair in a cap
I try not to tremble. ‘There’s nothing to fear.
Just keep perfectly still.’ I’m a mouse in a trap.
A pinprick or two then I feel nothing more.
With grim concentration I gaze at the light.
A nurse holds my hand: I must squeeze it before
I make any movement, though ever so slight.
He pokes, he manoeuvres his tools in my eye,
He mutters, he hammers! — can vision survive?
Then he mops, fits a shield, I can let out a sigh
As he says ‘That went well.’ Should we share a high five?
I sit to recover, amazed I can see
Bright colours, still blurry, but thrilling for me;
I nervously laugh, so delighted to find
I’ve escaped being the one in a thousand made blind!
Alanna Blake
We prep and place you in
A sort of braising pan;
We add warm water, then
We x-ray and we scan
To find your little stone.
You’ll feel the tap-tap-tap
Of lithotripsic sound.
You’ll likely take a nap.
Meanwhile, we blast away
While guided by our screens,
And soon your little stone
Is smashed to smithereens.
It shouldn’t take too long.
Your meds will see you through.
All this will quickly pass.
Your little stone will, too.
R.S. Gwynn
|