The Chat 1: Campfire horror stories

[If you haven't already done so, you really should read the "READ IT FIRST" entry below.]

Last Tuesday, while reading W. Somerset Maugham's writing journal (well someone has to) I realised that over the past year or so I’ve had little humour in my life. Joy, I have in (relative) abundance, but there can be two or even three days at a time when I do not laugh. There may be a vaguely amused smile at someone else’s misfortune, or a quiet harrumph during some insipidly harmless TV program, such as QI. Helen Garner’s description of herself “as a small grim figure with a notebook and a cold” was amusing at the time, as were many of Kate Llewellyn’s exploits as a septuagenarian gardener, but reading is sort of humour at a distance, vicarious fun.

It is a strange sensation, to not laugh.

There have been moments, of course, which at the time were not entirely pleasant but, when recalled from the safety of the future, provide amusement. Perhaps we smile at what we survive…

Having had an arterial stent inserted a couple of years back and my first BCC hacked out of my back some months ago, I thought it might be jolly fun to see about the recurring aching pain in my groin. It had been getting worse over the last few weeks, to the point that our long morning walks were now difficult and I could not sleep for the last couple of nights. Though I regularly vow to never do so, of course I had consulted Dr Google, who informed me I had testicular cancer, kidney stones, bladder infections and/or a sexually transmitted disease. How humorous!

The GP I have been seeing for the past 30 years is my age and is sidling towards retirement. Consequently he is often absent. Lazy bastard. Recently I’ve been going to an excellent young female Asian doctor who is interested in heart problems. However, this pain was nowhere near my heart and not something with which to burden a young woman, so I was left with Dr d’Millo, a small Pakistani gent with wild eyes and an enthusiastic gait. After I’d described my symptoms, he donned the Blue Gloves of Terror and proceeded to examine my, um, groinal area. He thought the pain might be caused by a hernia and advised an ultrasound. I was happy enough with this, as it was so much better than the alternatives I’d been imagining.

Down here in SYD we often see awful news from a small, south-east Queensland town. The folk involved invariably appear to be emaciated, toothless ex-heroin addicts who have found new joy in ice. Of course, this is probably a horrible stereotype, but that’s the impression we are given by our reliable and totally unsensationalist media. Certainly, whatever the incident – robbery, shooting, car accident, late-returned library book, political scandal, home invasion – the witnesses, the passers-by, the culprit, their legal representatives – all fit that skinny profile.

Now, thanks to the caring policies of our governments, my surburb also has an ample proportion of these “deplorables” in its population. Frightfully shocking to all those blond-haired, blue-eyed Shire folk who believe that local crime is caused by Westies passing through and that anyone north of the Georges River should require a visa before crossing the bridge. On the morning of my ultrasound, a number of these unfortunates had gathered in the imaging centre waiting-room. Filthy plastic thongs clung to distressingly grubby feet; oddly sweat-stained clothes revealed inexpertly executed tattoos on skeletal, scarred and blotchy limbs; greasy, stringy hair fell over tight and angry faces. They all seemed to be preoccupied with their shiny mobile phones, although I noticed that a couple were staring vacantly at the floor while their thumbs twitched around the phone screen. One man constantly gnawed at his blackened finger-nails and, as not once did he spit out the bits, I assume he swallowed them.
Dressed in my leather sandals, Mambo shirt, Sportscraft shorts and carrying a man-bag, I was totally ignored, which surprised and relieved me. Let the fun begin!

Nabil was the lucky radiologist to draw my card. (The others – both female – were a mature, primary school librarian type and a flibbity, very young Asian.)

The youthful Nabil neither met my eyes nor shook my hand as I entered his darkened room. Given the task ahead and how soon it was after breakfast he had to perform it, I cannot blame him for wanting to get it over with. I was of much the same mind.

All in all, the procedure went as well as could be expected, with a minimum of fondling. I focused on the pinging machine and restrained my urge to chat with Nabil about how George Costanza might have coped in my situation. I could count on the fingers of one warm hand the number of people with whom I have had such an intimate relationship. Nothing in Nabil’s manner indicated that he was aware of his belonging to this exclusive club, which is probably just as well.

Thankfully it was over soon enough, even a tad sooner because Nabil had saved time by not bothering to warm the lubricating gel – a point on which I will mark him down in my Trip Adviser (Sub-section: Medical Imagery) review. He passed me one of those shiny towels, designed and manufactured in Indonesia by a chap who believes that in these circumstances infidels deserve nothing more absorbent than a plastic bag. I mopped myself as quickly as I could, without having too much fun, and quickly dressed. Tucking my shirt in, I discovered a large blob of lubricant. For some reason it had been just under my rib-cage, but was now smeared, slimy and cold, across my abdomen. Perhaps young Nabil had a sense of humour after all. He strode busily from the room.

As I left, I passed a new emaciated ice-addict pacing the waiting room, sobbing and muttering, “I want to go home. I want to go.” She was being ignored by the others, who continued their numb staring at the floor or their phones.

And the up-shot? Well, proving that there is indeed humour in my life – God’s own sense of humour – the ultrasound showed I do have a hernia. As he went through the results, Dr d’Millo, his wild eyes becoming wider and wilder, explained in colourful detail what could happen if I did not have surgery to correct the problem.

Laugh? Oh, I laughed until I stopped.