I’ve certainly been asked to stop talking – both politely and impolitely – but to have someone of the medical profession lay that one on me was a bit of a surprise.
By way of quick explanation, I should point out that at the time the phrase was uttered, she’d just sliced a lump off my forehead. It’s one of those things I’ve had for a while, but which she deemed worthy of further investigation. Just in case.
Anyway.
Just after she’d removed it, the hole left behind started to bleed. Naturally, pressure was applied, but the bleeding continued.
It took a few minutes, but it soon became apparent, for whatever physiological reason, the bleeding was linked to my talking. When I stopped, the bleeding stopped. When I started, the bleeding started.
That’s when she suggested I should desist. So I did.
Of course I knew my head wasn’t going to “explode” exactly but I knew what she meant. We had a good giggle about it too and I put her down in the “doctors to have a laugh with” column.
She will be the third doctor I’ve enjoyed some fun with over the years.
I’m sure I’ve mentioned him before, but my first medic, way back when I was but a youngster new to this country, was a dour Scotsman who came to see me when I was laid low with terrible stomach pains.
Fearing appendicitis, after I had been up half the night, my dad had stayed home from work and my mum had rung the doctor first thing. He’d come straight round.
Various tests were performed and questions asked as Doctor Scotsman poked and prodded away.
Fortunately, I was able to answer most of his questions, even though his thick, broad, gravelly Scottish voice required a close ear and several seconds of thought before I could reply.
But one question left me completely flummoxed – and I’ll ask you to forgive me if the word involved causes offence, but it is necessary for the story.
“Did your balls move?” he asked as I lay there waiting for his diagnosis.
“No,” I replied in equal amounts of puzzlement and indignation as he went off to talk to my worried parents.
After he’d gone, my dad stood in the doorway of my room and casually asked what I thought Doctor Scotsman had said when he’d asked, in his thick accent, if my “bowels” had moved.
To this day, it brings a smile to my face when I think of my dad barely able to breathe and doubled up with laughter at my reply.
As for the second doctor on my fun list, he had a hole in the plasterboard at the end of the bed in his examination room. It looked to me like someone had put their foot through it.
I queried, tongue in cheek, whether it had occurred when a patient had lashed out with his foot during some internal examination, if you know what I mean.
The notion brought a wide grin to his face and we were mates from then on.
Anyway.
Back in the present day, and I’m back at home base for the Boomerang Child’s birthday tea,through and I’m relaying the tale of my minor operation and the doctor’s comment. Naturally, we all had a laugh.
After 10 minutes of more chat, I could see Miss Four, who had been listening intently, starting to get a little agitated, so I asked what was the matter.
“I don’t want your head to explode Grandad, so please stop talking,” she said.
All together now. Awwww.
A little choked by her concern for Yours Truly, I assured her I would be fine and there really was nothing to worry about.
,The little cherub then put it all into perspective, letting me know at the same time where her real concerns lay.
“I just don’t want your head to explode and make a mess all over the cake,” she said.
