Furloughed: Checks, posts and views

A furloughed week

As a consequence of a frank professional assessment of a situation I was working on, I have found myself inadvertently furloughed to work just one day this week, as that is the only billable activity on my schedule. The disadvantage for me is that I do not get paid for days that have no billing, I am dependent on my resource manager to assign new projects to my schedule, or I am technically out of work.

However, not to be idle, I chose to book a sexual health check today, as before now, each visit to that clinic has me spending almost 5 hours there, I seem to always be the last to be seen. They have changed the arrangements from a walk-in clinic to an online appointments system that is open at noon for slots the day after. I caught the first slot of 8:30 AM today and still did not get called by a doctor until 9:15 AM. An improvement, but I arrived first, two people arrived after me and they were seen before me.

In any case, we had a pleasant session from answering questions that were heretofore embarrassing to me giving a detail medical report of my situation. Blood was drawn, swabs taken, and I gave a urine sample; all done in about 30 minutes.

I left to post a letter that was processed as registered post, taking time to ask questions about the normal operations of equipment and systems in the Post Office as part of my activities in the last few weeks included investigating the performance of Post Office environments.

Legacies that last

Then as I made my way home, the Whitworth Art Gallery which had undergone renovations a few years before became a point of interest. I decided to consider some appreciation of art, so I walked in first for a coffee and a croissant before looking around.

The gallery is named for Sir Joseph Whitworth Bt. who donated funds for the gallery and is renowned for setting the standards for the screw thread known as the British Standard Whitworth and the pioneer of the sniper rifle. His name features prominently around Manchester on Whitworth Street; where I live, Whitworth Hall, the Christie Hospital which he funded and is now one of the foremost cancer treatment centres in Europe. His legacy also funds 10-15 scholarships for engineering degrees and now to doctorate level.

At the gallery, is saw prints by Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes (1746 – 1828), known to all as Goya and William Hogarth (1697-1764) in a curated exhibition titled Prints of Darkness: Goya and Hogarth in a Time of European Turmoil which runs until August 2019. The subtext is these men challenged orthodoxy and the abuse of power in times when the powerful had an untrammelled ability for impunity without accountability.

History is panels

At the exhibition, I learnt that Hogarth as an active governor of the Foundling Hospital founded by retired sea captain Thomas Coram in 1739, persuaded other great artists to donate works to the hospital and thereby pioneering socially engaged artists.

Then in his moral depiction of the Four Stages of Cruelty, he works progressively from childhood cruelty against pets, to adult cruelty against beasts of labour, then criminality that includes robbery to murder, ending with the reward of cruelty where the criminal having been condemned to disembowelled when brought down from the gallows.

On seeing the print of The Cockpit, I did wonder when the meaning evolved from watching a cockfight to being the helm of a water-going vessel or the flight deck of an aircraft.

We always need rational thought

Hogarth like Goya was a fierce critic of organised religion that held sway over people with superstition leaving little room for rational thought. In his Credulity, Superstition, and Fanaticism, he satirises and excoriates the belief in the Cock Lane ghost and a Mary Toft who was the perpetrator of an elaborate hoax suggesting she gave birth to a litter of rabbits.

One can aver that we desperately need a Goya and a Hogarth in these times to challenge the illogical and mad dash to Brexit along with the lies and terminological inaccuracies that has bewitched the populace into accepting that what is essentially damaging to them is more desirable than the status quo.

Another exhibition, Four Corners of One Cloth: Textiles from the Islamic World, filled me with fascination. On show was a piece of Kiswah, the cloth that covers the Kaaba the holiest shrine of the Islamic world which is apparently changed annually on the 9^th day of the month of Hajj, divided and sent around the world.

Until I saw the narrative of the items of clothing from the last nomadic tribe of the Qashqai from Iran, I had always wondered where Nissan got the name for their Qashqai. Now I know.

I guess I made more use of the day than I could ever have envisaged.

Some of the pictures of panels, prints and exhibits I took at the gallery are in this slideshow.

Clinical Notes

History in bodily detail

A 4-page printout from my local clinic this morning details a two-year medical history drawing in information from London, Wrexham and Amsterdam about observations, diagnoses, prophylaxes and treatments for a condition that is in its 15^th year.

Reading through, I am somewhat amazed at the ability of the human body to face the onslaught of infirmity and find recovery in help from medication, the state of mind and just sheer good fortune, to which I can only say, I have been blessed.

Under pressure to be at ease

Whilst away on a course yesterday, I received a call from my clinic to visit for a bicep cuff encounter with a sphygmomanometer. Yes, when I was last at the consultant’s just over two weeks ago, my blood pressure readings were a matter of great concern.

We agreed for an appointment for this morning and I walked up to the clinic just a little over 250 metres away. Observing the lady who went in, in front of me, she did not stop at the reception but touched a device where she entered her gender and date of birth to be informed about who she would be seeing and where to wait.

It is all now electronic, so I touched the device, entered my details and when the name of the nurse came up, I cross-referenced with a chart to the left of the device on a noticeboard that told me I should wait on the 1^st floor.

Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing

Just under 10 minutes later, I was called into a waiting room where my blood pressure was taken twice, with the second reading much lower than the first and both readings considered normal. However, I was told if there was any indication of abnormal blood pressure, I could be put on a 24-hour monitor to gauge what my blood pressure is on a typical day.

We discussed my meeting with the consultant two weeks ago, the suggestion of prophylaxis for pneumocystis carinii pneumonia (PCP) which was decided against without a consecutive blood test with similar indicators, I was told I needn’t worry about it. My drug regime might be changed in 6 months because the drug is now out of patent and there are more affordable variations of it, though I am not under any obligation to change them if I don’t want to.

In all, it was pleasant and I was back home within 30 minutes of leaving, looking forward to a more eventful day. Despite the many problems the NHS has, I owe a lot to the NHS for my health and wellbeing; long may that continue.

The waiting room

What is there to hate?
For all the time we had to wait,
It’s not like we were late,
For what wasn’t really a date,
A walk-in centre at any rate,
Yet over four hours at the gate,
Flustered and ready to berate,
One man’s anger I had to deflate,
For he was beginning to grate,
Without a cue or a queue to abate,
And though I was not feeling great,
We all chose to relate,
Then I was three down from eight,
Before I knew my fate.

A hospital run in the running

Here and there

The tale of the bloods that provided much excitement when I was a Netherlands resident hardly offers any such fun in the UK.

As I have noted before, the clinics are so hospital-like as to be almost in a hospital and dangerously inimical to health. But for the presence of my friend, the event would have been all the more depressing. I am so thankful for his warm company.

Rush crush

So, a month ago, having booked a day return to London, I overslept that I was in danger of missing the train I was supposed to travel on. The ticket stipulates such strict conditions and offers no refunds.

Half-running and half-halting, I made it to the station concourse and the platform appeared to be empty as I panted in agony and crestfallen pallor asking the conductor what had happened to the train.

Thankfully, it was running quite late and as she heard I was going for a hospital appointment, she cleared the way for me to get a seat on the concourse and said she will let me know when the train arrived.

Fecund refund

10 minutes behind schedule, the train arrived, passengers disembarked and then we got on, leaving 15 minutes later than planned and because of problems on the track, when we got to Nuneaton, the nuisance of Nuneaton would have crawled faster than the train and I was getting worried that the 90 minute cushion I had planned for my journey from London Euston to the hospital will leave me with little time to make it.

We arrived some 40 later than the usual journey duration and I had forewarned my friend to bring in his Oyster card because in my rush to leave home, I had forgotten mine.

Being over 30 minutes late, triggered a 50% refund of my outward ticket.

Clinic times

As I got to the clinic, I asked for the bloods to be taken for tests, then my blood pressure and finally, I was weighed, the numbers always lead to the covering of eyes, I am not succeeding in losing weight as fast as I will like to.

The consultation was brief, not many options to consider but a possible referral to another consultant. I left with 4 months’ supply of pills and we went into town.

We discovered there is now a third Vapiano restaurant in London, in Soho and went for a late lunch, a quick trip to Fortnum and Mason's to stock up on tea and then I wended my way back home.

And again

Once again, the train journey was over 30 minutes longer than scheduled, this triggered another 50% refund on the cost of the return ticket.

Applying for my refunds was easy on the Virgin Trains website and within a week I received vouchers covering the refunds.

Now that I reside in the UK, I am getting fed up of comparing the quality of healthcare between the Netherlands and the UK, but it is beyond doubt that there is room for great improvement on the UK side of things.

Communication, interaction and ease are essential to one's well-being, the absence of such comforts of concern, compassion and understanding at times makes the whole hospital an excursion of trepidation rather than hope. Yet, where I can, I tried to find the hope that helps me feel better.

Thought Picnic: Travellers of a blood cult

Strangers as friends

We all sat in the waiting room brought together by the randomness that accompanies passengers about to board a flight.

One fiddled, the other fidgeted, then the curse of modern gadgetry had others communicating with the world on the lifelessness of their smartphones, tapping, stroking and touching to while the long minutes that made the hour stretch into a day.

Brought together by a pestilence that had found a home in our plasma, squatting with the bearing of a landlord that we the host could barely eject the nuisance.

Our common stories

Our law enforcement being the pills we popped daily and the drugs injected to keep body and soul together, we are not planning to give in without a good fight.

Our common affliction left each one to his or her own, each a world of one hoping to be a universe of one oblivious of others as if we were secretly gathered not to recognise we all shared it.

None came with a friend and none left with a foe, our bloody secrets laid bare before strangers who could read the encrypted details of our lifelines like an open book hung in the town square that the blind could read.

Cult travellers

Yet, in a database with all our identities and details almost too intimate to share but for our circumstances lay the history of the world, diagnosis, disease, prophylaxis, therapeutics, prognosis, referral, and conclusion.

And a name was called, someone rose answering to it to speak, to hear, to be pricked, to be prodded, to appreciate but maybe not to understand that each bit of news confirmed our vulnerability and ensured our mortality

We are travellers of a silent but encompassing blood cult, our very existence governed by the stories of the adventures of pathogens in the meandering wilderness or arteries and veins.

Nightmare Nurse

Self-inflicted excess

I saw a world I never knew existed or ever thought I would ever encounter and I received such great understanding of the quest for health and healthcare and the role of money.

I left my hotel rather late to participate in the Saturday night life, at the main entrance to the hotel an ambulance was being called for a “lady” who had done it to excess, she was retching and vomiting like Niagara Falls, I shook my head.

There were enough friends and people around her including the police, so I walked on by shaking my head at what people get up to, on holiday.

Mugged by thugs

I reached the back-end of Yumbo Centre and noticed some commotion, two guys appeared to be beating up a man, so I hollered at them as they picked up bottles and threw at him and kicked him to the ground.

As a couple of other people gathered round the boys walked away, they just walked away. I went down to talk to the man, he was seriously bloodied, his face covered with blood and his clothes stained all over.

He was a victim of a mugging and it appears he was taken advantage of just as he recovered from an epileptic fit, thankfully, they did not make away with either money or his phone.

The Devil’s Clinic

So, I helped the man up and told him he should be able to get treatment at the Policlinica run by Dr. Felipe Caceres Arvelo which is in front of the tourist office – we went there together and I rung the bell.

In my naivety, I thought the nurse would come out, see the emergency and attend to the man immediately then talk about the formalities later.

I was wrong, the first thing he asked for was insurance and the ability to pay, I said no problem with that, and asked him to take the man in for treatment.

But we were met with such bureaucratic spiel as the man bled and began to shake, I could not believe that a nurse could see another human-being in that condition and still be so particular; as if anyone goes out on a Saturday night with passport, insurance and health papers – this was an emergency, a man was seriously wounded and needed help.

I cannot believe this

I was so distraught, I found myself wailing in disbelieve as I opened my wallet and threw all I had in it on the floor – if you want money, there is the money treat the man – I shouted.

I was drama-queen, histrionics and melodrama personified, making a scene that was getting quite embarrassing for the nurse – it was enough to invite us in and then go through the formalities of filling in the forms and taking all sorts of details before he cleaned up the wound and recommended the man go to a hospital for an X-ray of his face.

The Good Samaritan had an easier time because the people at the inn had a bit of humanity in them – this “nurse” or the business masquerading as a clinic had no soul, in fact, the man could not wash the blood off his hands and arms because the clinic had no hot water at night.

People first, money later

Now, I am not advocating private clinics should be run as the social services, but the primary premise should be service to humanity especially where it was an emergency and where they are in proximity to the scene of the incident – we can sort out the details later.

This really contrasts with the situation I had in Paris when I had taken off a good chunk of skin from my toe after hitting my foot – the nurse at the chemist immediately attended to me, dressed the wound and refused payment – I could not let such kindness go unrewarded.

I fear though that the love of money and only money at the expense of everything else is sapping us of our humanity and compassion, we express greater love for animals than for fellow human-beings.

For the shoddy job the nurse did, I parted with EUR 90, not that it matters, but I would have been happier if he had just got on with it at first.

Finally, I helped the man into a taxi for his hotel where he was to collect his passport and insurance to have his nose X-rayed at another hospital. We are people and human-beings first, everything else should revolve around that.

Unfortunately, my altruistic views are becoming too old-fashioned that I am lost when the simple things like consideration, kindness and compassion are missing from the interaction with others.

It makes one wonder what the world is coming to.