Yesterday was a bit of a rat’s maze. Had to motor to Nawth Alibam’s Shining City on the Hill for the annual (hopefully!) inquisition by the pump physician. He is not the problem. Rather a nice chap for a medical specialist. The problem is the instrumentality. The efficiency of the visit was minimal: four hours spent for seven minutes with the physician. For the maths challenged (and the actually acalculate,) that’s an efficiency of 0.03 (approximately.) If I subtract out transit time then that figure about doubles, which is still considerably less efficient than my motorcar but not my maternal parent’s nagging.
The carrot, if I may mangle the metaphor, is not having to take a stress test. You know, the thing where you run rather briskly on an antediluvian treadmill and then after waiting interminable periods being force fed horribly salty crackers that are worst tasting than library paste (and, I Suspect, less nourishing) one lies motionless belly down on a narrow board while a rather archaic x-ray machine semi-circles your chest. The latter is the main problem. That board and I are at outs.
Invariably the imposed motionlessness results in a loss of sensation so when the test is concluded I end up being able to get off the board only by rolling off and onto the floor. I have never been harmed but too often the action freaks the junior matron in charge of watching the chap on the board. The last time resulted in some rather impressive histrionics leading me to conjecture that the poor lass would have been better off pursuing an opera career than nursing schule.
That was evaded. Evidently gym plus constitutional is adequate demonstration of moderate wellness for such matters. Thankfully I should say on my part.
Which relief did not erase the trauma of the interminable waits involved in the process. Sometimes when I am waiting in the pseudo-aseptic confines of the hospital I wonder if I will see Semmelweiss wandering about. Which leads me to wonder why I see hospitals as older than colleges?