Some weeks ago, I detected a lump under my right arm. I paid no attention to it, assuming it would go away. It didn’t, so I went to see my doctor who prescribed penicillin. When this failed to vanquish the foreign object, he suggested I have a biopsy done. Having always had private health care insurance, he assured me I would be seen to immediately. He promptly wrote me a referral letter and told me to telephone a certain private hospital and make an appointment a.s.a.p.

I started phoning the said private hospital on a Monday but was greeted by a very non-descript answering machine. I repeatedly left messages that I needed to make an urgent appointment with the surgeon. After several failed attempts and no response, I thought perhaps the phone number to be temporarily out of order, so I contacted the general number of the said hospital.

Harp of hell

Having endured 8 and half minutes of detestable harp playing, an anonymous woman eventually answered. I explained my situation to her and asked if the number was out of order.

‘’No, actually the number is not out of order. I’m afraid the secretary is out sick at the moment,’ she explained.
‘I see,’ I said ‘so can you tell me who is the stand in and how I can make an appointment with someone else?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid there isn’t anyone else,’ she went on.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I’m afraid you will have to wait till the secretary of Mr. X returns from work,’
‘I see,’ I say a little taken aback ‘this is the private hospital I am on to?’
‘Yes,’ she confirms.
‘I see. So let me get this straight. I have a lump under my arm and could be dying of terminal cancer or some other horrific disease, and I have to wait till the secretary returns before I can see a surgeon?’
‘That’s correct I’m afraid,’ the anonymous voice sounded a little embarrassed.
‘I’m not sure you understood me,’ I say quietly ‘but I may have a life threatening illness and I would like to see a surgeon as soon as possible. There must be something you can do for me? Can you at least find out for me when this secretary will be back?’
‘I can try,’ she says warily ‘please hold,’

I am wearily entertained by Michael Flatfoot and Company, his intermittent yelping guaranteeing the onset of a migraine of gargantuan proportions.

However, I am determined not to hang up, it took me twenty minutes to connect with any sign of the living in the first place. I ponder have I been mistakenly transferred to the mortuary? Just as I am putting the finishing touches to my epitaph and last will and testament, Mrs. Anonymous receptionist returns.

We wish we could help you

‘As far as I know Mr. X’s secretary has a bad cold. She may be back by Thursday, I can’t say for sure,’ she tells me.
My heart bleeds for the secretary. I make a mental note to send her flowers.
‘And what am I supposed to do in the meantime. What about my lump?’ I demand sulkily.
‘I wish I could help you. I’m afraid you have to wait till she comes back,’ she says solemnly.
‘What? Until Thursday? I’m on my mobile phone. It will cost me an arm and a leg to hold on that long, what if I die?’ I point out ‘it’s hardly a life threatening illness she has, its just a little sniffle for Gods sake!’
‘Can you please hold. I have to take another call,’ she says abruptly and I am left holding again. I am furious. I had desperately wanted to tell the anonymous voice that she too could be soon facing a life threatening illness if I ever managed to get my hands on her.

Another ten minutes of Michael Flatfoot and I am beginning to show alarming signs of ‘Riverdanceitus’. My head is jerking spasmodically and my feet are beginning to tap frantically without my permission. I decide I might as well have my daily nap while I am waiting. At 4p.m. I am brought back to consciousness by the sound of another woman’s voice.

‘Hello?’ she is yelling down the phone ‘is that the private hospital?’
Great. A crossed line. A strike up a conversation with Mary whose husband is waiting three years for a heart transplant. She spends most of her days trying to get through to the hospital and has moved the kitchen and bedroom out to the hall where the phone is. She claims it’s more comfortable. We come up with an elaborate plan. If either of us sees an ambulance going less than 50 miles per hour, we’ll thrown ourselves mercilessly under it. When the driver gets out, we’ll ambush him and knock him out with some ether. She promises me, if she gets lucky first she’ll mill around to Kilbarrack and drive me straight to casualty. By the time I’m finished talking to her I know the ins and outs of her thirty-year marriage and that grapes are a great remedy for piles. I in exchange, have promised to send photos of the kids by scanner on the e-mail.

A click, and anonymous is back.

Ambulances

‘Hello? You’re holding for?’
I reiterate my story.
She vaguely remembers me.
‘I’m sorry but if there was anything I could do for you I would,’ she says whilst yawning heavily in to my swollen ear.
‘Would it help if I hacked off my legs and called an ambulance, surely that’s an emergency?’ I suggest in desperation.
‘I doubt it,’ she sighs ‘we already have an epidemic of hacked off leg patients and the ambulance men have copped on,’ she informs me matter of factly.
‘What if I drove in myself, in my own car?’ I ask.
‘How could you, with no legs? Unless you have a friend who is willing to drive you?’ she says.
Massive intelligence. I’ll give her that.
The line suddenly goes dead.

It doesn’t matter, I say to myself. I conclude I have already contracted cancer from the mobile phones radiation waves. After all, it’s been stuck to my ears for three hours.

By the way, please note that all the above characters are completely and utterly fictitious. As is the notion of private medical health care insurance in Ireland.

Click here for more information on cancer from The Irish Cancer Society