Awaiting blogpost
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No words
I’m seething with anger
Tears streaming down
My cheeks
Smoke billowing
And I’m
Seeing I
Have issues
I’m not in
A good mood
Even if I know
I’m blessed
And should be
Counting my blessings
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Where Is Fanny Stain When You Need Her !
I always spell my surname out when I encounter any officialdom.
It’s a habit, I’ve got into as many people spell my surname as in the colour and not the Scottish/Irish monika.
The receptionist was polite enough, though I did have to wait a little as Karen still hadn’t come back from her break yet , cue much eye rolling.
The ultrasound department is like any other small hospital outpatients.
Faceless and sanitized.
Another two men, patients too were sat in a gown to my right.
One looked nervous .
Another receptionist called out “ Thomas Jefferson “ but no one reacted.
She snorted and picked up the phone
The three of us sat in silence for a while longer.
I got out my phone and started to write this blog after Karen or was it Annette could be heard muttering
“ I don’t know where Mr Jefferson has got to…what does he look like?”
We are all invisible, I thought to myself , invisible men in our sixties
I galloped backwards in my mind to the minors unit at Sheffield’s Royal Hallamshire Hospital.
Circa 1989
A student nurse with a set of false notes was calling a patient into minors for a procedure, she was blushing with the importance of calling the next patient in whilst surrounded by the poorly general public
“ Fanny Stain? Is there a Fanny Stain here?” She called out hopefully
And from behind the nurses station came the muffled hysteria only hospital staff can be responsible for .
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