Christmas 2023: A Proctologist, A Nurse and AStrange Uber Driver - The Serial Reviewer

When reviewing a profession as important as the medical field, one would like to remain positive in one's tone… whilst stoically supporting those brave souls who have held our hands as we battled through life’s pandemic avalanche of ups and downs. Unfortunately, my ability to wish goodwill to all medical staff throughout this Christmas Celebration Season has been sorely tested.

My woeful path began almost an entire month before Christmas Eve. And I lay full blame upon the need to visit my local E.R. solely at the feet of my ‘delightful’ family, particularly Mr Tattersworth - an inbred flea-riddled bacteria-writhing moggy! This is the only positive description I can summon up from my deep bucket of hatred for this feline.

My brigade of dedicated readers may remember my confinement began after my family's Thanksgiving ceremony. During this ‘delightful’ event - (That's a definition any socially inept, inebriated troglodyte would use to describe any gathering that involves my family.) …Mr Tattersworth left his mark permanently on my flesh.

This ‘delightful’ feline is supposed to keep himself clean, but because of his lazy ineptitude, through four needle-sharp slashing micro talons, a little bacterial surprise was delivered into the flesh of my shin. This little present grew to the point that by Christmas Eve, I was in such agonising and delusional pain that I was forced to drag my withering limb and feverish soul through the blizzard-deep snow to find the one only Uber driver still scouring the streets for employment.

Although the vehicle was clean and presentable, its driver was somewhat of a strange individual who was obviously an out-of-work actor still stuck in the throes of method acting. I give him a four-star rating simply because although he was eldritch, he was generally a safe driver who managed to arrive at the hospital without any incident, surprisingly faster than any of my previous multiple visits. Also, he should be commended for using the season to inspire his costume, but really… a grown man in my condition was in no need of said method actor pretending he was Santa. And honestly, it has been several years since I have been informed that even though I’m a reviewer, I am basically a “good boy at heart”.

During the journey, when asked what I wanted for Christmas, the method actor was obviously disappointed when I informed him that I had everything I needed. When I was pushed again for an answer, I felt the only way to ride in silence and bare my cross of infected agony in peace was to appease his inquiry. I simply stated to the faux Santa that I wished the hospital staff not to be pushed to breaking point tonight. He replied that my wish was honourable and kind and, therefore, would be granted. I then further clarified to him that my wish would also ensure I wouldn’t have to sit in the waiting room for hours in agony on the most uncomfortable chairs birthed from Hell’s IKEA, hoping that everyone else near me wasn’t either, infectious, violent, or tripping out of their tiny little gourds by overdosing on eggnog. 

As he mulled over my reply, the trip rapidly became a three-star event.

Even though I didn’t think I said anything funny, every time he’d look into the review mirror at my agonised writhing and thrashing, he would begin laughing in the most jolly, annoying manner. Instead of ‘normal laughter’, he would empty his well of mirth by saying… “Ho ho ho.” Honestly, by the time we arrived at the front entrance of the E.R. Department, if I’d heard one more ‘Ho’, I would have grabbed the large and oversized red handkerchief which he was wiping away the tears from his reddened eyes and used it to hogtie him.

As this pudgy, white-bearded sexagenarian successfully fireman lifted me out of his vehicle and placed me at the front doors of the E.R., he gifted me with a candy cane and stated that I was exactly what he needed to get him through the rest of his long shift and thanked me for my theatrics.

I would have left a scathing review, but somehow, as if by magic, his Uber profile disappeared from my review app.

As I dragged my overheated corpse into the ER, dreading the long and drawn-out Christmas Eve ahead of me, I was, to my surprise, greeted by a conglomerate of medical staff, all standing around with coffee cups in hand. When I depressed the little beeper button at the front counter, I was somewhat stunned as three Doctors elbowed each other to reach me first and claim me as their own. From then on, I was… some would say manhandled, I will say forcibly lifted and escorted to my bed, where I lay with a general medical hubbub buzzing around me, holding court with six E.R. Doctors, nine wonderful nurses and, strangely enough, one proctologist.

I thoughtfully filled the gathering of attentive medicos in on the agony I had suffered since Thanksgiving. And then, when I finally finished with my detailed recount, the mustered medical practitioners flew into overdrive.

Even though I physically protested with clear statements as I slapped away a number of scissor-filled hands, that a) I was not inebriated in any way and b) was totally in control of my fine motor movements. My pants, to my great horror, were ripped off my being in one smooth but frightfully strong manoeuvre by a very small but determined English E.R. nurse named Rhonda, who stated, “I don’t have time for this; me tea breaks in five minutes.”

I do feel, at this point, there was no need to shackle my arms to the side of the bed, as the proctologist seemed to feel this was a sign that his professional services were needed.

The Doctors gathered around and aired their opinions on my physique, leg hair, odd calf muscles and weird little toes, and then commented that it was interesting to see just how close some patients were to Neanderthals.

The nurses asked if I had children, and then when I replied in the negative, they inquired if I had thought of ever wearing boxers instead of Star Wars logo-emblazoned jockeys or if I had thought of shopping in the men's department. When I said these were men’s underwear, they all pursed their lips and raised an eyebrow.  All except Rhonda, who took a quick look and commented, “Bloody hell, the things ya see when ya don’t have a gun, eh!”

The proctologist, who stood at the back of the pack and who I took an instant dislike to, kept jumping up and down like an excited Chihuahua, enthusiastically yelping at everyone to roll me over to the prone position whilst applying lube to his gloves.

I am, though, amazed at how quickly 15 medicos can flip a fully grown shackled man. These are not people to be crossed as they have a repertoire of terrifying manhandling skills.

It was at this point, with my face squished into a brick-hard hospital pillow, that I screamed, then bit the pillow because someone had grabbed my shin. I was, to the proctologist's great disappointment and my great relief, flipped back over so my shin could be examined and operated on.

Several nurses became quite physical with each other as they fought to be ‘The One’ to squeeze my bulbous mountain of infected fleshed abscess. They talked a little about who was the best pimple popper, but eventually, the head of ER pulled rank on Rhonda, who had decided squeezing my infected leg was much more interesting than her coffee break. The surgeon tugged out a scalpel, which glinted sharply under the bright operating lights and said, ‘This is going to hurt!’

At which point I passed out…. Thankfully!

I woke to find that I was outfitted in an open, gaping hospital gown. Star Wars jockeys, winter jacket, shirt, jumper and boots to my left and my buttocks, clearly viewable to all in sundry. Unfortunately, Rhonda said, “Do ya want a lolly pop for being such a brave soldier? And by the way, ya pants are missing.” They, in fact, had been stolen along with my wallet, phone and dignity. I was though, given a rubber ring to sit on.

I commented to my medical team that this device was unnecessary, my wound being on my leg. The doctors then said they wanted to make sure I could cope when I went home because I was about to have a hefty dose of antibiotics with two rather large needles in both my cheeks.

I squealed if this was necessary and began flailing towards my clothing when Rhonda…before she was hushed to silence by her senior staff, commented, “Probably not, but we ain’t been able ta use tha’ horsey needles this year, an’ it’s about time, so why not?’

After reprimanding her, the senior Doctor affirmed, in fact, that the needles were an essential medical procedure, one which would be repeated twice more before the end of the year. He hopefully enquired, …could I make the last one on New Year's Eve as they hadn’t been able to book any entertainment for their department's end-of-year celebrations as yet?

After seeing the size of the needle, I took them up on the rubber ring, and after fainting and waking for a second time, the proctologist said everything looked good down there and he would see me again in six months for a proper checkup.

I have been told to keep the My Little Pony band-aid on my shin for a day before I changed it.

Dear reader, as I slowly shuffled my way out to the front door, I felt very proud that I didn’t cry in front of any of them. However, there was a slight build-up of moisture in my eyes as I stood in the early morning drifts of freezing snow, with my buttocks swelling in my underpants, feeling as if I’d been attacked by two giant bees out for revenge.  

It was at this point that I realised no pants meant no wallet, and no phone meant no way of calling for help or paying for a Taxi. It was also at this point that my Christmas miracle presented itself.

The strange Uber driver was back!

Apparently, he’d finished his route, thought I might need a lift and wanted to know which family member I would like to be dropped off to so I could spend Christmas with them. When I said I just wanted to go home and be by myself because my family would only make fun of me in my predicament, Mr Weihnachtsmann took me home to his little apartment and introduced me to his lovely wife. I apologised for not having any wine to share with them on this glorious day, but my apologies were quickly quelled. Mr and Ms Weihnachtsmann treated me kindly for the rest of the day and helped me blow up my rubber ring… twice.

I would also like to take this point to firmly state that I profoundly disagree with my Aunt Sally, who, in her Post Christmas letter to our outlying family, indicated that the ‘doctors should have amputated my leg at neck level because that would be’ and I quote- “The only sure-fire way to ensure Pam’s Muma’s boy stops whinging about a tiny little scratch.”

Instead, I will rise above her toxic letter-writing and name-calling to send her a gift certificate from Hagar’s House of Hot Ribs, the one with the 10% discount for their ‘Hot Rib Special’. Enjoy Sally…. Enjoy! (Dear reader, please see my ever-growing review catalogue for a description of this particularly ‘delightful’ establishment.)

So, treasured bibliophiles, may I wish you all a festive season of happiness and joy. I hope you, your family or chosen loved ones, whoever they are, have a wonderful and safe time. I pray you are seen and cared for, and I highly suggest you avoid the ER as best as you can.

 I rate my local ER, the Doctors, Nurses and staff as highly as I can, and hope they find smaller needles for my next visit. I also hope my new proctologist enjoys the electric heated gloves I sent him.

Yours sorely – The Serial Reviewer

Ho, Ho, Ho!