Category Archives: health

V-Day: On getting vaccinated in Dubai

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I’d been mulling getting vaccinated for several weeks, but didn’t really fancy the enormous queues at Dubai Parks and Resorts field hospital. When it first opened, huge numbers of people waited for hours in their cars as Dubai Police officers guided them to the hospital in batches, 40 vehicles at a time. 

But then I started to hear that more vaccine centres had opened, and that getting vaccinated was easy and quick. I can vouch that it was! And as an epi-pen carrier who had good reason to be worried about a bad reaction (more on my anaphylactic tendencies here), I can honestly say I’m so glad I’ve done it!

My thought process was that Covid seems rampant just now, with outbreaks at work and my kids’ school, and so many friends of friends getting infected. But there was more to my decision: I want to be part of the solution to this dreadful pandemic so we can all live and be well. By being a teeny tiny piece in the most complex Covid jigsaw, perhaps I could help humanity in its journey towards herd immunity (or community immunity is probably the more PC term). I’ve felt pretty powerless throughout this crisis, and so getting vaccinated was the least I could do, because this microorganism we can’t see is destroying not just lives but also society. 

On a personal level, I’m longing for the pandemic to be over, or at least contained. My pilot DH hasn’t worked since March 2020, and is now on a year of unpaid leave. I’m just so very, very tired of it all, and missing friends and family back home. Borders, meanwhile, are clamping shut again, closing off arteries to my homeland and any hope of my DH getting back to work anytime soon.

It was time to do something proactive.

The number of people milling around outside the vaccine centre this evening in the dark suggested anything but a quick and easy experience. I thought we didn’t stand a chance. But myself and Catherine the Great were waved through the gate. It was ladies and families only. You’ve gotta love this about Dubai.

I felt horrible for all the single men outside, though, many of whom were desperate to get the jab. The poor chaps – especially as men appear to be worse-hit when it comes to Covid. There was one group standing nearby made up of three men and a woman, clearly not a family. An attendant said to the female: “One woman can’t have three boyfriends, sorry!”

So she had to choose which male to take in with her. 

I hope they have a male-only day soon. 

Covid-19 vaccine centre, Dubai
vaccinated in Dubai

To cut a long story short, it was all very well organised inside – more of a vaccine factory, with at least 30 vaccine stations and a seating/queuing arrangement reminiscent of a passport office. I was also reminded of musical chairs – as the rows of queues moved, you shuffled up a chair, bums on seats rotating fairly fast.

It truly was mass vaccination – at scale. It was also free (just your UAE ID card needed). Whatever doubts I’d had before about the Chinese Sinopharm vaccine had already lessened greatly – and I’m happy to say, it was painless and no side effects at all. 

Nǐ hǎo!

Where to get vaccinated in the UAE
Dubai: Free Covid vaccine now at 120 centres; full list

The emergency landing

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“Is there a doctor on board?” They’re words you hope never to hear when you’re hurtling through the air 35,000 feet up, but hear them we did on our 13-hour flight to the US from Dubai earlier this summer.

At the point at which a decision had to made whether the airplane would traverse the Atlantic or not, the captain spoke over the intercom to tell us that a passenger was seriously ill (suspected heart attack) and we’d be landing at Manchester airport as soon as possible.

On a beautiful, almost cloudless morning in England, the plane swooped towards the Earth, turning full circles in the sky as it jettisoned fuel. On reaching the correct weight, we were vectored straight in for a priority landing, then trundled along taxi-ways to an ambulance waiting on the tarmac.

A medical drama it was (and my heart went out to the poor lady travelling alone, on oxygen, and being cared for by the doctor who’d stepped forward, a team of specialists in Arizona via a satellite medlink and flight attendants). The paramedics on the ground, who must have seen it all, were chatting to each other calmly as they waited for the steps to be maneuvered into place. Finally, the aircraft door was opened and they boarded the plane with their equipment and a George Clooney-esque air.

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All in a day’s work

It was all very surreal – one minute you’re in a sealed tube skimming the upper atmosphere, plugged into the in-flight entertainment and wondering when the next meal is. The next there’s a sort of grave hushed silence as the plane diverts and is met on the ground with flashing lights and medical personnel.

I never did find out whether she was okay, although I was heartened to hear from DH that the medical facilities at Manchester airport are excellent.

Imagine if we’d been flying over the Pacific, or some other desolate part of the world.

Sixteen hours after leaving Dubai, we reached the East Coast of America (refuelling and paperwork took ages to complete, and, no, you’re not allowed off). Understandably enough, everyone was massively relieved to finally disembark the plane – while at the same time hoping the poor fellow passenger we’d left behind (thousands of miles away from her home) was making a recovery.

Kudos to everyone who acted so proficiently during this life-saving mission – and may your flights back home this summer be uneventful!

When the drugs don’t work

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“But I’m the patient!” The words roll of his tongue, and we can hardly argue with him. Not after everything that happened after the surgery.

This is the last medical post, I promise, but I’m writing it because it might help other parents in similar circumstances. And because, I guess, I’m still processing it all myself, and filing the memories in a safe place in my heart.

Everyone told us he’d bounce back from surgery fast. “He’ll be on his feet in no time,” people said. “Kids are so resilient.” I believed them because I wanted it to be true; I’d nod, agree and remind myself what the doctors had said about doing this surgery (on his bladder) while he’s still young.

I imagined him eating jelly in bed, and being discharged a few days later.

The first hint that these things don’t always go to plan was when the surgery to remove a diverticulum took longer than expected. At the allotted time, DH and I nervously positioned ourselves outside the OR, where we’d been told to wait. I anxiously peered through the oblong window, willing the surgeons to appear.

They didn’t.

We went back to the room to wait, for another hour – until finally, the tension was over. Five hours after Son1 was wheeled away, we got him back, half asleep and wired up to medical equipment.

After becoming a pro at calling the nurse, Son1 now wishes he had a call button on his bed at home

After becoming a pro at calling the nurse, Son1 now wishes he had a call button on his bed at home

When the surgeon told us all had gone well, I could have hugged him. He then went on to explain that it had been more technically complex than anticipated; he used words like ‘stent’ and ‘reattaching a ureter’, and, again, I nodded, in full faith that they knew what they were doing.

Which they did. Our doctor is great (he’s promised to take Son1 out for a burger), but what they didn’t know was that Son1 would suffer from the most excruciating bladder spasms – a distressing side effect of catheter useage that can cause severe cramping.

I can only compare these spasms to labour pain. They’d come on suddenly (3 or 4 times a day), and Son1 would scream for an hour or more in absolute agony as his bladder involuntarily contracted. He’d sweat profusely, his hair matting to his head, and at one point – after becoming horribly sensitised to any kind of pain – I was terrified he was going to black out.

The painkillers they administered didn’t touch the pain. Morphine would eventually send him into a drowsy stupor, but the other medicines did little to relieve the spasms. The only thing that worked was flushing the catheter, a procedure only the doctor could do at first. And, believe me, I fought tooth and nail to get the doctor into the room. (I quickly figured out that with all the nurse shift changes, we knew more than they did about how to manage the pain.)

But the truth is, we weren’t able to manage his severe spasms. While he did have long periods of being perfectly fine, when the spasms hit, he was demented with pain, and after seven rough nights, during which DH and I took turns to attempt to sleep on a narrow sofa in the hospital room, we were going out of our minds too.

To cut a long story short, the catheter was removed a little earlier than it should have been, and once we’d got over the hurdle of retraining his bladder to pee (major potty training flashbacks for me), and teaching him that peeing would hurt for a while, the spasms stopped, and he hasn’t had one since. Thank.God.

The thing I want to remember, however, is how brave Son1 was. Yes, he screamed the hospital down (I saw a lady with another child deliberately avoiding walking past the door), and was frequently inconsolable. I’d stroke his hair, wishing I could take the pain away, and cried myself several times as my heart broke in two. But I saw a strength in him that took my breath away.

He walked on day 1; accepted and understood what was going on without question; and really tried to follow the nurses’ instruction to breathe through the pain, until it became overwhelming. I was so proud of him, and for many of those endless hours spent sitting with him, we enjoyed a closeness borne out of his new-found maturity (as well as lots of jelly).

On day 8, they let us go home. I can’t tell you how good that felt, and now he’s bouncing back, like everyone said he would, and I’m beginning to breathe easy that the ordeal is over.

EDITED TO ADD: Six weeks post-op, and it’s like it never happened! As soon as we got home, he recovered fast. It’s amazing how kids bounce back, and move on. As for us parents, it takes us a little longer!

The Wii fit addiction

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Just after the new year, I started on a new fitness regime. Bored to tears with the gym (I can’t be the only person who sets out hoping it’s burnt down?), I decided the way ahead was to use Wii Fit Plus on our new Wii machine at home, combined with some cycle rides outside.

If you don’t know what the Wii fit is, it’s basically a video game from Nintendo. And it’s really quite ingenious – the perfect balance of barely moving while standing in front of the TV (you can even watch TV if you do the Free Step).

You can do some really exciting exercises on it, like leaning from side to side, and sticking your leg out; then you can add a challenge like rolling a ball into the hole, or catching hula hoops while gyrating your hips in circles.

That's mii on the Wii!

That’s mii on the Wii!

That’s not all: you can also get the whole family involved with, say, a snowball fight, skateboarding, or taking a swing from the driving range. There’s really no better way to bring your children in from the garden and back in front of the TV.

It’s all based on the white, not-very-high step that you stand on and off, called the balance board. For the longest time, video consoles concentrated on being fun and entertaining. Nintendo changed all that by putting pressure sensors inside the board to control what you see on the screen.

And THAT is why the damn thing has got me hooked.

Not only can I weigh myself every time I turn the board on (and see a progress graph), but it’s also worked out, via some initial balance tests, what my Wii fit age is (don’t ask!) – and I’m determined to bring both these figures down.

Plus, succeeding at the low-intensity exercises gives you harder versions of them and accumulates time in the Fitpiggy – Wii Fit’s piggy bank which unlocks new mini-games the more you play.

I should also add that it’s very rude, yelping ouch in a pip-squeak voice when I stand on the board, and putting weight on the slender Mii character I selected to represent me – but it, somehow, all conspires to make me come back for more.

Except that pleasing sense of progress and achievement is eluding me.

I’ve gained TWO pounds.

The ninja lunge (and food allergies)

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Over the school holidays, a great friend and I took a trip to Al Barsha park to exercise the children. It’s a park I’m fond of, with bicycles for hire, a (manmade) lake with a track round it and ample play areas.

It was sunny, warm and, without the routine of the school day to contend with, there was a relaxed atmosphere among the mums, who’d spread blankets on the grass, brought picnics and were exchanging details about their plans for the holiday.

“We’re staying in Dubai, how about you?” “Lapland, just for five days – we’ve booked a glass igloo!” The conversations were peppered with the names of far-flung places, visiting relatives and venues serving turkey.

mom with eyes in back of her headI can’t remember exactly what B and I were talking about as we watched our children play, but, all of a sudden, she leapt up, ninja-style, and ran to her two-year-old son – reaching him just in time, before the snack a nanny had offered him touched his lips.

“I’m sorry,” she said, politely – but urgently – to the lady in question. “He’s got food allergies and can’t eat the things other kids eat.” The moment passed, little K got back to digging in the sand, and the nanny he’d wandered over to turned her attention back to feeding her tribe.

But the episode, which all happened so fast, has stayed with me. Not least because, now that my children are a bit older, I don’t have to watch them quite so closely. I can sit in the park, chat, even read a book (it’s so much better). My friend, on the other hand, needs eyes in the back of her head to keep her severely allergic tot out of harm’s way. That kind of vigilance is a full-time job.

B put a post on Facebook yesterday and I’m sure she won’t mind if I copy it here, as it sums up perfectly some of the frustrations that the growing number of parents of allergic children go through, and how people (including celebrities) can help.

“It really bothers me when a celebrity comments on something important that they know nothing about. For instance, writing about having food allergies and being able to add these foods in and out of their diets.

I understand unless you are affected by food allergies, you may not know the difference between a food intolerance and a food allergy. However, if you are influential, you should learn the difference before you affect the way so many view food allergies and their potential consequences.

My child has severe food allergies. Ingesting a peanut, milk, or eggs could kill him. Not just upset his stomach. KILL HIM. The first time we had to inject him with an Epi-Pen, within minutes of coming in contact with the allergen, he had quarter-sized hives all over his little body, then his voice changed and we knew his throat was closing shut. He hadn’t even turned 2 yet.

It was the scariest experience of my life.

I think about his food allergies constantly. And although it’s become second nature to read every label, worry about cross-contamination, and make sure he always has safe food to eat, it still can be a daily struggle.

My child is never more than 5 feet away from an Epi-pen. We are never able to go to a restaurant here and order food off the menu for him. They either don’t have anything safe or they really don’t understand how serious the consequences could be if they made a mistake, or cross-contaminate his food. I don’t want sympathy. My child is just like every other child; he is happy and full of life. His food allergies don’t define who he is. I need everyone to know that a food allergy is not a food intolerance.

Would you know what to do if you stumbled upon a child who was going into anaphylactic shock? I hope that even if you’re annoyed with my long rant, you will take the time to read how to use an Epi-pen because it could save someone’s life.

It could save my child’s life.

So please, Mr. Celebrity, before you go off complaining about how your “food allergies” are upsetting your stomach, please learn what the hell you’re talking about.”

How to use an Epi-pen: Click here

The Color Run takes Dubai by storm

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I’ll admit that as I stood in line at Adventure HQ on Friday, queuing for my racepack, I had second thoughts: I had a fluey cold, I’ve been working too much and my friend who persuaded me to do a 5K race last year had gone on holiday.

DH was also leaving that night, which meant there’d be no one to force me out of bed and into my running shoes, to attend a race by myself.

Then he said those fateful words: “You won’t do it.”

Whether he just wanted to spur me into action, I don’t know. But it worked. “What makes you think that?” I retorted, replacing the negative thoughts with images of an athletic me (haha!) bounding round Dubai’s Autodrome on a sunny morning. “Of course I’m going to do it! [I said indignantly].

Turns out, I needn’t have worried. The Color Run, an American phenomenon that’s gaining worldwide popularity, isn’t a race at all. It wasn’t timed, most people walked, you could cut huge corners (shaving off at least half a kilometre), and, best of all, it actually lived up to its moniker as the happiest 5K on the planet.

As more than 8,500 people made their way round the racetrack at Motor City, the venue literally exploded into a puff of colour. Runners started in white t-shirts, and at each kilometre were caked in brightly coloured powders (made from natural food-grade corn starch) thrown by volunteers.

The 5K with a twist turned Dubai's Autodrome into a kaleidoscope of colour on Saturday morning

The 5K with a twist turned Dubai’s Autodrome into a kaleidoscope of colour on Saturday morning

The atmosphere was uplifting and, needless to say, the finish line was one big party, with music blaring, colour throws, dancing and entertainers. It was also remarkably well organised, even down to the plastic kagool included in the racepack so you could drive home without smudging powder all over the seat.

Before the big clean-up, I nipped into our local shop for some essentials and got chatting to the store manager. He eyed my splattered clothes and wild hair style straight out of the good old punk days, and – in a nod to the way the UAE respects all kinds of beliefs – asked: “Have you been celebrating something? Must have been quite a celebration!” he commended.

It was – of health, happiness and getting active. Well done Daman’s Activelife, for making 8,500 people smile from ear-to-ear while exercising and for bringing more colour to the desert than I’ve ever seen.

Colour throws at the finish line party

Colour throws at the finish line party

Sunscreen: The new rules

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“But I DON’T like it!” [Makes face as though I’m about to smother him with acid.]

It’s what I hear every time I put sunscreen on my boys at the pool or beach. “Well, tough,” I reply, barking marching orders. “Stand here, arms out.”

I’m quite determined, because sunscreen is, of course, as essential as sweat-busting deodorant out here. But even so, I then only have about 15 seconds to do a high-speed all-over application before Son1 jumps into the water and swims away like a fish being chased with a net (and yes, I know, I should really apply it before we even leave the house).

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Why do boys as young as 4 think sunscreen is “just for girls”? Sigh!

My boys have skin with a slight olive hue, thanks to their Lebanese roots, and in five years, we’ve thankfully managed to avoid a bad burn, but for blonde children with a whiter complexion the intense sun in the Middle East is a major concern.

As it also is, on a cosmetic level, for desert-dwelling Mums who don’t want to resemble a leathery handbag by 45. Like many expats whose path to Dubai has included postings in Singapore, Hong Kong and other hot countries, we’ve spent time living in Florida, as well as the sun-drenched UAE, and so I thought I knew all there was to know about sun safety.

Turns out I didn’t: I learnt yesterday that many sunscreens aren’t as good as we think they are.

Rates of melanoma – the deadliest skin cancer – have tripled over the past 35 years, and part of the reason could be the decades of deceptive marketing claims made by sunscreen manufacturers, according to the US’s Washington DC-based Environmental Working Group (EWG).

We all know, by now, the old rules: Look for products with an SPF of 15 to 50, labeled “broad spectrum protection” (meaning they protect against both UVA and UVB rays); reapply every two hours; keep babies younger than 6 months out of the sun; and avoid the really harsh sun between 10am and 2pm.

To these, we’re now being urged to add the following new rules:

Higher SPF values (above 50) are misleading: Go on, admit it – if you see an SPF of 75, isn’t it tempting to think you can enjoy the sun 75 times longer before you burn? Not so. These products encourage us to apply too little sunscreen and stay in the sun too long; in the US, there are even calls to ban the sale of sunscreens with SPF values greater than 50+.

Avoid sprays: With my two boys already thinking suntan lotion is “just for girls”, I was dismayed to read that this easy-application method is frowned upon. The concern is twofold: that not enough sunscreen makes it onto the skin, and that the spray may be inhaled into the lungs.

Remember the days when we attempted deep, dark tans by sun-baking?

Remember the days when we attempted deep, dark, mahogany tans by sun-baking?

After a swim or sweating, reapply: Under new rules in the US, companies are now prohibited from making misleading advertising claims such as “sunblock”, “waterproof” and “sweat-proof.” Labels must also note a time limit of either 40 or 80 minutes before the sunscreen is ineffective.

Be generous: Aim for a golfball-size dollop, or roughly one teaspoon per limb. Use too little and your SPF 15 won’t work effectively, becoming more like an SPF 4.

Read the ingredients: Avoid products with vitamin A, retinol or its derivatives (such as retinyl palmitate and retinyl acetate). Although the jury’s out, Canadian health authorities are worried that the additives increase sun sensitivity. They’ve even proposed requiring that sunscreens with retinyl palmitate carry a warning saying they can increase the chance of sunburn for up to a week.

Steering clear of products containing oxybenzone, a chemical that may disrupt hormones, is also advised. Opinion is, again, divided (many scientists say the effect is so weak as to be insignificant), but the EWG recommends products that use zinc oxide and titanium dioxide as active ingredients.

Opt for fragrance-free: Scents bring more unnecessary chemicals and potential allergens to the mix.

For a list of the EWG’s best sunscreens (such as Coppertone Kids Pure & Simple Lotion, SPF 50), click here

A list of the best moisturisers with SPF can be found here

Safe tanning fellow sun worshipers. Circles x

A medical lesson learnt

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About 14 months ago, I found a lump. It was in my lower stomach and was a solid, unmistakable mass that I could palpate myself. “What the HELL is that?” I thought, and panicked.

I got it checked out, and was told by an ultrasound technician it was a haematoma (an internal bruise). This did make sense as I’d been accidentally kicked pretty hard by my youngest son, who cannot stay still. ‘Kids, eh!” I laughed, and notched it up to an occupational hazard of being the occasionally banged-up mother of two boisterous boys.

Over a year later, it hadn’t gone away, but I’d got so busy I didn’t give it too much thought. (You know what it’s like, you deal with everything else, school problems, meal prep, work, chores, hair colour, manicures, before dragging yourself to the doctor, getting a mammogram, etc). Besides, I thought I already knew what it was.

I finally got round to mentioning that the lump was still there at a doctor’s appointment about something else.

“Hmm,” said the GP, “this needs further investigation. They often don’t know what it is until it’s under a microscope being biopsied,” she explained, picking up her phone simultaneously to make an appointment with a specialist.

“A BIOPSY?” I replied, wide-eyed with fear. And why was she making the phone call FOR me?

“But don’t worry,” she said brightly (I had to ask, was it the big C?). “After this long, you wouldn’t be so well now, if it was.”

I hear lumps and bumps are more common after 40. Be vigilant, I say

I hear lumps and bumps are more common after 40. Be vigilant, I say

A few days later, I found myself lying in an MRI machine for 45 minutes, listening to piped music and artillery-like banging noises as loud as a balloon being popped right by my ear. The clinic threw in a free ultrasound and I learnt that when they’re looking at a lump, rather than a kidney bean of new life, ultrasounds are not joyous.

The initial diagnosis was wrong. Next, they thought it might be a benign tumour, then they decided it was probably a complication from my two C-sections that was slowly growing!

And herein lies the lesson: all turned out to be fine, but I should have followed this up months ago. It’s strange that I procrastinated, because I’m a hypochondriac at heart, which just goes to show I worry about the wrong things 98 per cent of the time. If there’s something you’re putting off, be it an annual breast exam, pap smear or a niggly problem, don’t delay any longer! I don’t need to tell you that, if God forbid it is serious, early diagnosis is vital.

I went back for a check-up the other day, and the surgeon caught me by surprise.

“We did a wide-excision removal,” he explained, “a good 7x4cm, and you’ll be left with a dent.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Even better than liposuction.”

“I took some pictures,” he continued, fishing out his iPhone.

“Really? You did?” I blurted, not sure whether to believe him, but itching to see.

I worried a little that I was plain weird for being so curious, but then my friend told me she knew someone who’d kept their gallstones, and that made me feel better.

I’m sure that, by now, the photo of my rather peculiar, ignored-for-too-long lump must be online, on a medical equivalent of Facebook. How about that, for fame at last!

Hospital bed buddies

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I had to go into hospital last week for surgery (more in a mo). I was only there a day, but during that time, I proved once again that I’m not only a medical marvel with odd problems, but that I also always meet interesting characters in hospitals.

Best example was in the UK, giving birth to my second son. My five-day hospital stay felt a little like youth hostelling, with women of different nationalities bed hopping around me, packets of cereal and a toaster outside, and lots of comings and goings at night. (Great medical care and staff, but oh the joys of co-habiting on the wards.)

After my C-section, my first night was spent separated by just a curtain from a really overweight, pregnant lady who was clearly in a lot of pain judging by the amount of noise she was making.

We talked a bit and I tried to offer some encouragement as the poor thing was alone most of the time, and screaming in agony. I was sceptical, though, because she kept disappearing for cigarette breaks – a fact that wasn’t lost on the nurses.

On stepping outside...

On stepping outside…

Turns out, the consultant – who caught her on a fag break – wasn’t being taken for a fool either, and in the morning informed my bed buddy, in a very direct, matronly manner: “You’re NOT in labour. Absolutely not.

“You’re constipated.” Yes, really!

Her skinny-as-a-rake husband finally arrived and was sent to the nearby supermarket with instructions to buy a basketful of fruit to help ‘get things moving’.

A day or so later, now on a different ward, my DH told me he’d seen her again and had overheard her talking about the weight being 5 pounds.

A 5-pound POO, I wondered? Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have thought the same?

I went to investigate and found out she had indeed delivered her baby, at 32 weeks gestation. Happily, the baby was doing well in the NICU and my new friend and I continued bonding in the hospital canteen, sharing a variety pack of chocolates that she ripped open with the excitement of an addict.

If you’re desperately bored, my NHS labour ward story is on my first blog here.

Last week’s hospital trip was to remove a (benign) lump from my stomach (oh yes, this provoked a severe attack of cyberchondria, and if anyone else suffers from this I do have some advice: DON’T leave your iPhone by the bed so you can Google rare conditions at 3 in the morning. Promise me you won’t.)

cyberchondria

The surgery took place at Dubai’s American Hospital and was a good experience as far as going under the knife goes. Even the Emirati admin lady with bright-red nail polish, an abaya, head veil and forms to fill in tried to make it less stressful by telling me to ‘Have fun!’ as we left her office.

There were loads of staff buzzing around, from all over the world: a lovely, talkative Scottish nurse; a Russian surgery nurse with thick black eye make-up; a German anaesthetist who promised me my best.nap.ever; and my sweetheart surgeon from Pakistan. Dubai’s multi-cultural ethnic mix extends to the hospitals too.

Is it just mums who rather than enquiring about the method of anaesthesia, ask: How long can I sleep for?

Is it just mums who rather than enquiring about the method of anaesthesia, ask: How long can I sleep for?

But, while I really liked all the medical staff, it was my bed buddy behind the curtain – a young man with no companion – who really made me smile.

The Russian nurse with the heavy eyeliner was walking round with a clipboard taking pre-surgery notes. She’d already made me a red wristband signalling my allergy to penicillin, and I overheard her ask him the same question: “Do you have any allergies?”

“Nah,” he replied. “Just traffic…” he quipped, “….and cats!”

After surgery, our paths crossed again in the recovery room. I wasn’t very with it, and quite possibly high on intravenously injected pethedine – which must explain why I gave him a cheery thumbs up.

He waved back like an old friend, grinned and mustered the strength to call over:

“See you on the other side!”

I think he was in for a biopsy on his trachea, and I really, really, sincerely hope the news was good for him.

Shortly after, the anaesthetist – keeper of those marvellous sleep drugs – came by to check on us. “So, you’ll be back tomorrow, for another nap?” he asked me.

surgical-cartoon-3