Carol’s Column

Flying high in hospital

I DECIDED to make a will, just in case.

I left my purple shirt to my good friend Betty because I know she’d always coveted it.

My false teeth to Loda Mphela, our own personal minister of agriculture who, for the past 15 years, has pulled up every plant in our garden and left the weeds to flourish, because I knew his mother coveted them — the teeth not the weeds.

And to the children I left my bric-a-brac — the Portuguese drinking jug with the blocked spout, my car with the radiator that leaked, my made-in-Taiwan diamond earring (to have two is extravagant).

To my mother-in-law I left my drip-dry acrylic wig and to my husband last, but not least, I left all my parking tickets (they make wonderful lampshades).

And then I went to hospital, — just for a minor thing, you understand.

“Perhaps your innards aren’t quite as healthy as they should be,” the doctor had said, inhaling his cigarette and choking as he coughed.

“I think we’ll pop you in for a little check up.”

Which was why I found myself wandering around a vast, antiseptic smelling hospital looking for a ward nobody seemed to have heard of.

Although I’d booked for a general ward (why waste money that can be spent on a happy wake should things fail) it seemed the whole of Johannesburg was also having organs removed that Friday.

So, by a stroke of luck, I found myself in a semi-private ward with a young, pretty lass who was in a state of joy as she’d discovered we had our own private bathroom. Such luxury.

With bustling efficiency they took our temperatures, blood pressures and other such things.

And then they togged us up in little white jobs. Operation gowns the theatre they call them.

We did not look elegant.

Then came the pre meds — the euphemism for pre-operative medication. Most people it dries out and knocks out.

Me — I got high. I didn’t stop talking for a minute until they muzzled me.

My operation was scheduled for 1.30pm. At 2pm I was still lying there giggling. When in the distance I heard a plaintive voice calling “Has anyone seen a Lazar. We’ve lost a Lazar!”

Eventually Phineas arrived to wheel me to the theatre. He shot along at top Kyalami speed, firing questions all the way. “Any false teeth, false eyes, false nails, jewellery, crowns, wedding ring?

And then horror of horrors, we discovered I still had knickers on.

The trolley came to a halt. “Sister,” said Phineas, “patient Lazar still has knickers on.”

“Nurse Kruger,” bellowed sister, “Lazar’s off to the theatre with knickers on. Do something.”

Have you ever taken off your knickers in a crowded lift? It is not dignified.

Nurse Kruger stuffed them in her pocket. Don’t worry love,” she said, “you’ll see them again.”

I was wheeled into the anaesthetic room by nurse Kruger who’d placed a white cap on my head that made me look like Rod Stewart in drag.

Like sardines, six prospective operations lay in a state of semi-sleep. Except me.

“Do you come here often?” I asked the woman on my left. She didn’t respond.

Good heavens I thought to myself and that’s before the operation.

Suddenly, before I could change my mind and escape, I was wheeled into the operating theatre.

The spot lights were superb. His Majesty’s Theatre never had it so good.

It’s obvious Peter Soldatos has been busy here for the surgeons wear the most attractive floral masks to match their spring green outfits.

In fact, I’d never seen such a goodlooking team before. A blonde Farah Fawcett Major’s theatre sister. A tall, handsome assistant with piano playing fingers.

And, best of all, hovering over me, with his floral mask and Omar Sharif bedroom eyes flashing, my surgeon.

My last thought, before I popped off (figuratively not literally) was — what a waste!

Here I am, supine and knickerless and all he’s interested in is my blood pressure, jugular vein or whatever it is that surgeons go for.

Such is life.

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