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I visited our overworked village doctor today to discuss an issue I was having. I hoped it was something trivial that I could one day joke about, due to the amusing area in which the issue was occurring, but also feared that it might be something serious. Though to be fair I did start thinking of the stand up show that I could do if it was something involving surgery or if it turned out to be terminal, so comedy will always win.
But though they saw me within 36 hours of me ringing them up, that did give me time to ruminate on the worst case scenario and have to hug my children extra hard (well the one who wants to be hugged) as I thought about the possibility of leaving them. I knew it was unlikely as I am feeling pretty healthy overall, but I realised that once you reach your fifties every visit to the doctors comes with the extra jeopardy that this might be the one where things get serious or at least concerning. It might be years away, but it might be months away and today it might have been minutes away.
But that time is coming. Unless death takes you suddenly and unexpectedly. You can't beat this one.
As obsessed as I am with death I still secretly think I will live forever and so it's a hard reality to face, even in the realm of the imagination, that time could be up at any second. If I hadn't done the stupid thing of getting married and having kids it wouldn't be such an issue. In fact I reckon I'd be luxuriating in that sleep of death right now, or at least be thinking, ah well I've got nothing to live for, come on Jesus, take me to your bosom and let me suckle on your milkless dugs.
But now I have to consider other human beings and a dog and a cat and to prevent the situation where my kids are calling someone else dad, whilst he sits back and drinks my whisky and spends the money that I have accrued by being so fucking funny all the time. I hate that prick and am not going to give him the satisfaction of being resented by my kids and having to live up to the high standards of husbandry that my wife is used to. Though there's a part of me that wants to die, so that she has to marry someone else and will finally appreciate how good a husband I was compared to the other idiots. Oh how she would rue her minor issues with me as a human being then.
Also I guess it would be tough on the kids and I am supposed to care about their well being, so let's say it's that.
Luckily it was a largely amusing and positive experience in which the doctor seemed surprised to see me and revealed that he'd been expecting a 16 year old with the same issue (apparently four males in the village have had the same complaint as me just today, which is odd because it isn't anything catching). I've never been to this doctor before (though he only started in the practice just before lockdown) but he was young, funny and a little scatty, but reassuring. It was the quickest I've ever gone from meeting someone to them cupping my balls. Which would have been fine if the problem hadn't been in my chest.
This is a joke.
He seemed pretty definite that this wasn't the thing that I had been fearing it might be (so I'll have to think of a different subject for my stand up show) and had a pretty good punt at a diagnosis, but I have to go for a scan, just to be sure.
The NHS is, as if you needed to be reminded, fantastic and even in the midst of a pandemic take stuff like this seriously. Keep checking your bits everyone.
But after a day of nagging worry this felt like I had had my death sentence commuted and I felt like I was walking on air. I might live to see my kids grow up. I'd been given a second chance and was going to live every second to the full.
So I spent my evening watching a quite poorly judged Robin Williams Christmas film, which had piqued my interest because according to Amazon Prime it was from 2019, which would have made it at best macabre, but still not as offensive as Patch Adams. It was actually from 2014 and the first of his film's to be released posthumously. I envied him for getting to miss it.
I have learned nothing.
