29th April ‘Will patrons kindly refrain from running, pushing, acrobatic or gymnastics, shouting, ducking, petting, bombing, swimming in the diving area, smoking… and now breathing’

 

29th April ‘Will patrons kindly refrain from running, pushing, acrobatic or gymnastics, shouting, ducking, petting, bombing, swimming in the diving area, smoking… and now breathing’

Like most children, I was ‘forced’ to learn to swim. The local swimming baths in Sutton-in-Ashfield had two pools. One was an original old Victorian ‘self-improvement, cleanliness is next to godliness’ type and connected to it, the other – a Hi-de-hi- esque Olympic-size swimming pool.

It was in the old one that I learnt essential skills which have carried me through life, such as swimming in my pyjamas and retrieving a rubber brick from a depth of two meters. However, apart from these novelties, I never really enjoyed swimming, nor was I very good at it. This was despite the constant reminder in our house that our great, great, great uncle (Thomas - Bill - Burgess) was the second person to swim the Channel. It seems Uncle Thomas’s genes were as watered down as his Channel-crossing trunks by the time they got to me. My main problem was my complete inability to hold my breath, although this had never really been a hindrance… until today.

For some reason I was sent for an MRI scan on my liver. I don't know why. I haven’t been told why. Do they think there’s a problem? Are they worried about something? I know I am now. I can barely bring myself to say what I’m fearing out loud... I am trying not to think about it. When I asked the hospital when they rang, and the radiologist, why I was having it, they simply said, “the Consultant’s requested it.” In my heightened (irrational?) state of mind that did sound rather like, “I was just following orders.”

Whatever the rationale there I was, once more, in my slinky open-back(-side!) number; this year’s must-have-fashion for the patient about ward (the ties at the back always make me feel like I am putting on my own straight-jacket).

As usual the assistant struggled to find a vein in which to insert the cannula, and, as usual, I assured him, rather lamely, that my grandpa (a local GP) had similar problems. I quipped something about vampires struggling as my arm and hand began to resemble the focus of Phil ‘the Power’ Taylor’s attention at the Ally Pally. Was this nurse trying to win a speed boat from Jim Bowen? 

At long last he got it in, and into the MRI scan I went. I had heard from others about the noise and claustrophobic nature of the experience and it didn’t disappoint in this regard. However, nothing prepared me for the struggle to adhere to the instructions.

“Breathe in” the gentle voice says. Not a problem.

“Breathe out” is the next command. Not a problem.

“Hold your breath" OK(?!)

What followed was all my nautical short-comings coming back to haunt me. What this machine wanted was an Ama (a Japanese pearl diver). Instead, it had me, a man who can barely hold his breath long enough to find a bar of soap in the bath. The whole episode warranted a gentle, but firm talking to from the radiographer. I whizzed and spluttered my way through the rest of the hour; no badge to sew on my trunks this week!

In the end they seem to have got what they needed. I just wish I knew what it was they needed!