Getting sick, I mean vomiting, at work is not good. After coffee yesterday, I went back into my office and felt faint. A colleague saw me staggering to the photocopier and before I knew it I was in the back of an ambulance, puking my guts up and speeding toward Blanchardstown with all of the lights blaring.
Why my boss insisted that the ambulance was called in the first place still baffles me but earlier I was lying, green on the floor about to barf insisting that puking was the worst thing to happen to me. You see, I haven’t puked since about 1985. I have a real fear of it. Long-standing readers might dismiss this as the usual control-freakery but I just don’t like it, a lot. Ms 73man on the other hand almost celebrates vomiting when it occurs. She reckons it is about getting the bad things up, I just think “how do I look?”
Padraig, the ambulance paramedic, was trying to convince us (yup she was there too) us that these new Mercedes ambulances (ambuli?) were shite compared to the older Ford ones and the HSE had ordered 100 new ones so “someone must have been getting a back hander”. I wasn’t interested really in discussing the virtues of this coach builders over another but hey, I wasn’t going anywhere. James Connolly Memorial hospital A and E was quieter than I had expected and within about three hours I was back to normal. There’s a new wonder drug called Stemetil that stops me vomiting. I tried to ask for a year’s supply but the nursing staff didn’t take too kindly to the request. Apparently they don’t do that. Four more hours later (match time dinner with two friends cancelled) and the youngest intern doctor made sure I had to get an X-ray too. Why? Because there might be an infection there too. As it happens, enduring the grumpiest radiologist in Ireland was small compensation for knowing that I have a “twist in my gut” where something took a liking to a section of my duodenum and decided to have a grand old time.
All for the best now but hey, the health system works, up until the time a doctor has to see you. Because nurses cannot tell you what’s wrong with you. Ahhh, hierarchies.