Last week was my first visit ever to Tower D of the Pembroke Regional Hospital (PRH).
When it comes to parking fees, I will use any trick in the book to avoid paying if possible, like a four or five block walk from somewhere else in the neighbourhood but never climbing a private fence six feet or higher. That appointment permitted free parking without even a challenge. You see I happened to have an eye appointment scheduled an hour after the hospital one directly across the street. So I parked there and simply walked across the street to the Tower.
Inside the building, the receptionist after listlessly asking the long routine questions that everyone gets asked about Covid, she sent me down one floor by the elevator. The room was four walls of concrete blocks except for a stairwell up and one doorway that shouted ‘private.’ I climbed the stairs and said to the receptionist, “There is only one door. Am I to go through it?” She replied, “I’ve never been down there.”
I entered into a large comforting area and over to receptionist #2. There I was asked more pertinent questions. One was who to call in case of ‘emergency,’ Sheila or my sister Margaret whose phone number wasn’t up to date. So I said, “Scratch her as she is not as reliable as she should be.” The receptionist thought it funny and laughed. I felt good as I haven’t been getting too many laughs lately myself.
I was sent to the nearby waiting area with comfortable chairs. Minutes later, someone came and led me to a room, asked questions, recorded my meds, and took my weight and height. I asked for conversions from metric which revealed that I was five pounds over my usual weight but surprisingly my height had remained as it was years ago. Most seniors shrink as they get older. Maybe I will be giant amongst them some day!
I asked about my BFI. It was good. I next asked if she was a doctor. No, a nurse she said. And I remarked, “A darn good one at that.”
Back to the waiting room. I was shortly asked to follow another staff member to a room at the end of a long hall. She sat on my left – my doctor I assumed. At that Instant, a large monitor at the far end of the room woke up frightening me a little. A woman sitting virtually at a desk said, “Good morning Robert. I have some good news for you.”
I should explain why I was there in the first place. For the last two years, I have had the level of thyroid-stimulating hormone (TSH) monitored. This is the best indicator of the thyroid function. This hormone stimulates the thyroid gland. TSH readings are high when the thyroid gland is underactive (needs more stimulation) and low when the thyroid gland is overactive (needs less stimulation). My level after being normal has decided to be high or low despite taking the medication thyroxin failing to stabilize it. When out of whack either way, my personality gets whacky too. It often means Sheila or my friends are taken by surprise when I’m in a mean, anxious and impatient mood. I just say, “Wait 6 or 8 weeks and I’ll be my nice self again.” I sense they feel this excuse has been worn thinner than a dime.
This doctor, an endocrinologist was checking further for any need of surgery on my thyroid gland. Now that it wasn’t, I’ll be a patient of a new doctor at the Wellness Clinic to investigate new measures to get my TSH under control. In the meantime, to everyone I’ve brushed off unintentionally, I apologize.
I did have one question for her. “As if she was a mystic, I asked what my future has in store for me? ”you’ll have a few good years left.” The elation I was feeling about no surgery for my thyroid plummeted to zero.
The interview was over and I couldn’t help but contemplate if she was serious or just made an off-handed comment on my future. And should I get my affairs in order – as they say.
What the heck! It is what it is. I’ll worry about affairs when the time comes.
