Dordogne Angst Unlimited.
This nightmare that I had
woke up in the hospital suite
And thought “my, this is worse than bad”
just where on earth did I meet
That chick with whom I share this room?
Champagne’s inappropriate
right now and so are those balloons
got no cause to celebrate.
I was determined that I wouldn’t turn this blog into a ‘how I fought the cancer and won’ victim saga – but Daz’s comment late last night was so ‘orribly appropriate that I thought surely someone must have told him?
I have had the week from Hell, since last we spoke.
Everyone has moved heaven and earth to get me into the Institute Bergonie in double quick time, and less than six days after I was diagnosed; I had an appointment with the surgeon.
First I had to have a scan, pretty pictures for the butcher. No problem, don’t like it, had one before, claustrophobic and all that, but we’re a big girl now, we can handle it, and we did.
Next day, set off for Bordeaux to see the surgeon clutching my pretty pictures. I seemed to be awfully hot, but it was 40 degrees here, so to be expected. Passed his finger tip examination with flying colours, everything in tip top order – ye God’s they are thorough!
Saturday I just got hotter and hotter; by the evening Mr G was fielding bowls of iced water and flannels to cool me down. By the morning, Mr G was panicking (so I thought!) not only was I red hot, I was covered in beetroot coloured blotches that were fast joining up. He bundled me into the terribly chic, paper thin, silk pyjamas he had just bought me, with a skimpy, oh so sexy, camisole top, and drove me straight to A & E. I was too bloody hot to put up any serious resistance.
Crack of dawn on a Sunday, A & E is deserted – I saw a nurse within minutes – and suddenly all Hell broke loose. I was on a trolley racing down a corridor and an army of little people (I know the Aquitainoise are a short race, but you obviously don’t get through medical school if you are over 5’4”!) were swarming all over me. Two on my left hand side sticking needles in me, more on my right hand side wiring me up to the national grid which was travelling at roughly the same speed along side me, and more at my head barking gonflé, soufflé at me just in case after 63 years of remembering to breathe in and out all by myself, even when I’m asleep, I had suddenly had a lapse of memory. She punched me in the chest to get the message through to the English giantesse. Gee, thanks, I feel heaps better now.
It seems I might look like a human being to the untrained eye, but injecting a Raccoon with radioactive isotopes doesn’t agree with them. Roughly the same effect as sticking them in a microwave on full power for too long. They cook from the inside out.
Thus I spent the last few days roped down on all sides like Gulliver amongst the Lilliputians, wondering where I met the 84 year old ‘chick’ with whom I shared a room….thanks Daz!
By Tuesday I had turned an ecclesiastical purple that Mr G assured me went perfectly with the turquoise and purple colour scheme of that room. I was unhooked from the national grid, and given a special travelling pack round my neck of ‘whatever it was’ I was mainlining – I was being transferred by ambulance to see a specialist. I hadn’t had a fag or a cup of tea in days. Climbing the turquoise walls as you can imagine, and itching like a dog with fleas.
The specialist carefully inspected me, slathered me in some ghastly smelly unguent, and replaced the only clothing I had – yeah! Mr G’s ravishing negligee set, which promptly stuck to me at every point, a bit late to join the wet- t-shirt competition, but there you go.
Ambulances here treat you like prisoners; you are signed in and out of everywhere you go, and to my surprise, when I emerged from the consulting room, my guard had vanished on an ‘urgence’ and I was to wait in the waiting room.
Well, you know what it’s like when you are let off the leash for ten minutes and haven’t had a fag for three days? Your mind is working overtime. It is if you are a true nicotine addict. I am that woman.
I knew where I was, centre of Bergerac, it couldn’t be more than 60 paces to the High Street, sharp right turn, another 20 paces to the Tabac. I could do it, course I could. So off I went, slipped past Madame la Receptioniste when her back was turned, stomp, stomp, stomp, corner, right wheel, past goggle eyed café customers, stomp, stomp, stomp, made it!
M. le Tabac, to his credit, took it in his stride and sold me a pack of Fine vert and a lighter with a dead straight face, and I stomped off back to the Clinique Pasteur.
Sat on the window sill – and oh, that ‘Hamlet’ moment. Wonderful, my brain went back to normal.
No longer deprived of nicotine, it looked about itself. Took in the full effect of the ecclesiastical purple and beetroot red from head to foot, the fluorescent pink unguent, the skimpy and clinging silk camisole, the travelling pack of intravenous God knows what stuck in my arm, the lack of hairbrush or mirror for three days, and especially the elderly pair of slippers…and wondered at the French savoir-faire. They hadn’t stared, well, not that I noticed; if they did, it would only be because I am a giant in Lilliput land. Surely?
Yesterday the ambulance took me to Bordeaux to see the surgeon there, still in my fetching garb, très chic – Mr G, unimpressed by my escapade the previous afternoon had declined to bring me any more clothes, rotter! – and sadly they have cancelled the operation for next week. It seems there is less danger from my unwanted ‘squatter’ than there is from operating whilst I am like this. I have to wait another couple of weeks – so the ambulance dumped me back into Mr Gs care and control late last night.
Glad to be home – my new nurse, Mr G, knows better than to deprive an angry Raccoon of nicotine, he serves up mugs full of steaming hot builders tea every hour, and having him turn me into a human fly trap with the pongy unguent is actually quite enjoyable. He’s even let me sit in front of my computer to see what you’ve all been up to.
I don’t know which I welcome more, the tea or the nicotine. Whoever told me that French cuisine extended to hospital food was a bluddy f***ing liar. A plague on all their houses. It is terrible, worse than terrible, bluddy ‘orrible. Disgusting.
Once they had decided that I could be trusted to breath on my own, the nurse (and they are all wonderful, superb) asked if I wanted anything? ‘Une tasse de thé‘, said I, ever the innocent. ‘Thé Anglaise‘, she said? Boy, that sounded good. I’m too gullible.
It arrived. A glass bowl with no handle. A thin brown liquid in the bottom, no milk, no sugar, an oily scum on the surface on which floated a label on the tea bag … ‘Madame Butterfly’s English Breakfast Tea’……
Dear Madame Butterfly,
You haven’t a pigging clue what a cup of tea should look like. Or taste like. Or be served in. Not a pigging clue.
Regards,
Ms Raccoon.
Mr G, alerted to my distress, brought some Yorkshire T-bags in for me. Sadly, the only time you get the chance to use them is breakfast, served three hours after they wake you by sticking a vibrator thingy in your ear when you’ve finally got to sleep (my neighbour snores like a hibernating bear) and if you’re smart, and Raccoons are smart, you can request the glass bowl be filled with lukewarm water and ‘un peu de lait’. A Yorkshire tea-bag, floated in this concoction, and bashed over the head several times with the blunt end of your Biro can be coaxed into something resembling a cup of tea. It’s the only tea-bag man enough for the task.
I’ve come home to discover that Yorkshire Tea are running an advert proudly demonstrating their converted ice-cream van ‘Lil Urn’ – running round America, for God’s sake. Americans don’t need tea, they don’t understand it. Raccoons do.
So please, just for me, petition Yorkshire Tea, threaten them with the wrath of the Raccoon, whatever it takes – but make sure ‘Little Urn’ is stationed outside the Institute Bergonie by the time I am incarcerated again. Tell them to honk when they arrive – I will get to them, even if I have to trail the entire bloody hospital behind me.
In the meantime, have a look down the back of your sofa, search the back of your cupboards, and donate any spare Yorkshire Tea-bags to Ms Raccoon, care of Madame Nundy, Issigeac, 24560, France.
I might just survive with your help.
Ps. The fags are no problem. The biggest cancer hospital in France thoughtfully provides a beautiful water garden full of flowers, shielded from the sun and the rain, right in the centre; knee deep in cigarette ends, despite the ashtrays, packed out with stick thin, bald headed patients, nurses and ambulance staff all happily smoking their heads off. I know, because my ambulance crew introduced me to it yesterday, they wanted a fag too before the long journey back to Issigeac. So very French.
July 6,
2011 at 12:09How did you manage to get a hospital with a fag shop round the corner? Here
they build them miles from any tobacconist and of course they employ the
doup-nazis (doup being Scots for fag end). They’ll take doups away to the lab
and have them processed for DNA and find you. I should say find and fine you.
There’s talk that visitors will also be required to give a swab for DNA
analysis because they need the fine income to pay for more of them. There’s
little concern about hygiene only nicotine addicts.You had cellulitis (you see a little knowledge can be useful). I preceded
you by a few weeks and aye you feel hotter than being a spit roast. Well done
fighting it. It shows us more mature women are capable of nearly
everything.Will be thinking of you of course. My mind is a peace though because I know
you’re in good hands. It wasn’t until I had complications after a gall bladder
op three years ago that someone told me my surgeon’s nickname was Mac the
Knife.
Chin up or you’ll get jowls.
July 6, 2011 at 12:23
July 3, 2011 at 00:28Anna – just a quick note to echo the sentiments that so many have already
expressed. It’s good to have you back, even if only for occasional visits, and
gems like this. Hope all goes well.You do realise the hospital is now going to need a separate room to store
the boxes of Yorkshire Tea heading your way.
July 2, 2011 at 13:25Some folks put much reliance on politics and science
There’s only one
hero for me
His praise we should be roaring, the man who thought of
pouring
The first boiling water on to teaI like a nice cup of tea in the morning, for to start the day you
see
And at half past eleven well my idea of heaven
Is a nice cup of
tea
I like a nice cup of tea with me dinner, and a nice cup of tea with me
tea
And when it’s time for bed, there’s a lot to be said
For a nice cup
of teaYou can talk about your science
And your airships in the sky
I can do
without the wireless
And you’ll never see me flyThe public benefactor
Of the universe for me
Is the genius that
thought of
Pouring water on to teaI like a nice cup of tea in the morning, for to start the day you
see
And when I’ve sent the breakfast in, my idea of sin is a 4th or a 5th
cup of tea
I like a nice cup of tea with me dinner, and a nice cup of tea
with me tea
And when it’s time for bed, there’s a lot to be said
For a
nice cup of teaThey say it’s not nutricious
But still it is delicious
And that’s all
that matters to me
It turns your meat to leather
But let’s all die
together
The one drink in paradise is teaI like a nice cup of tea in the morning, for to start the day you
see
And at half past eleven well my idea of heaven
Is a nice cup of
tea
I like a nice cup of tea with me dinner, and a nice cup of tea with me
tea
And when it’s time for bed, as I think I may have said
I’d like a
nice cup of teaYou can talk about your liberties
You talk of women’s rights
I don’t
want to make no speaches
‘Cause the ones that does is sightsAnd anyone can have me vote
And chuck it in the sea
But golly there’d
be trouble
If they tried to touch me teaI like a nice cup of tea with me dinner, and a nice cup of tea with me
tea
And when it’s getting late almost anything can wait
For a nice cup
of teaLyrics supplied by: Other Pete
Best of luck Anna.
July 1, 2011 at 21:02A tip. Yorkshire Tea is made to a different blend depending on the water
type of its intended location.
Let them know where it’s going and they’ll
supply the ideal blend.
July 1, 2011 at 19:17Don’t forget, I’m going over to see Mme R in August and, while I have been
forced to promise not to ‘help’ with the catering during my visit (Mme R and
Mr G having been ‘starteld’ by my culinary flair before), nothing has as yet
been said about making people cups of tea…- July 1, 2011 at 20:12
Gee, Smuddle, I’ve just got over toxic shock syndrome……and you want to
make tea for me?Heaven help me.
-
July 1, 2011 at 20:30 I realise now that Rockcake Lasagne was an ill-conceived dish and that
salmon shouldn’t ever go with banana – Please let me try making tea ?- July 1, 2011 at 20:58
One last chance – Mr G can taste it first!
- July 1, 2011 at 21:03
July 1, 2011 at 21:45I would love to come too. It’s hard to describe why I have had no
money. It has been the perfect storm. I would love to meet such admirable
people
G
July 1, 2011 at 18:20I hope you are getting the general idea of how much you are loved. But
being a PG tips consumer (at least 5 pints a day) I can only offer my best
wishes to you. God bless…
July 1, 2011 at 15:44Dear Anna
When you’re better I could line up a photo-op with the
gangsters of Cape Town upon whom my intern surgical skills were honed.
Saturday nights they’d find themselves in Groote Schuur’s casualty dept garbed
in pink backtying garb, with a chest drain and bottle apiece, harassed by
physiotherapists to keep moving, to sort out punctured lungs, with the fags
and soggy chips at the caff at the bottom of the hill. They’d get there
alright but the slog back on one lung(most likely reinflated courtesy us
several previous times) meant that an ambulance had to collect them for the
round trip. If one wasn’t part of the turf war they were really funny, brave
and gallant and I’m sure would love to meet a giantess with chutpah.
July 1, 2011 at 10:17Best of luck Anna from a fellow cancer sufferer. After 12 weeks of chemo
and a further seven of radio therapy, it’s still pain almost 24/7. Only three
weeks to go though, until they tell me what’s next.- July 1, 2011 at 11:01
July 1, 2011 at 08:36Good luck, Anna. Long may tea and fags be such urgent concerns.
July 1, 2011 at 08:03Good gracious, Anna, what a story. Yes, keep it for the book that you
really have to write one day. And next time, do as I do. Whenever they ask you
if you have any allergies or adverse reactions to contrast fluid, say YES.
When they ask which ones, day EVERYTHING. And then they suddenly realise again
that they make a scan perfectly well without it. Bisous, Châtelaine :-*Oh, and the food in Private clinics is outstanding. They even serve
3-course menu choice lunches for your visitors. And as for the tea, have you
tried the readily available lapsang souchong? It tastes like you could tar a
road with it, so it might be strong enough to your taste
July 1, 2011 at 06:25I’ve been drinking a hell of a lot of tea.
And been detained by about 8 viewings and a couple of offers on a house for
sale in the last week, while simultaneously dealing with the pub a few yards
away from it having suddenly put in an application for a 7 day 2am
entertainment license, to which one only has a few days to reply. Much as I
worship the ground the Raccoon walks on, a potential £25k off the value of a
house sale takes priority.Bugger Bert Bacharach, as Anna would say.
I also have a couple of Johann Hari self-immolating exclusives, one of
which I am now writing, and one which has required most of a night of detailed
textual analysis, and may need the weekend.>Whoever told me that French cuisine extended to hospital food was a
bluddy f***ing liar.Sorry but lol after your rudeness about NHS food
.
This was my NHS menu last time I was in:http://www.sfh-tr.nhs.uk/content/showcontent.aspx?contentid=14272
- July 1, 2011 at 09:05
July 1,
2011 at 05:05You know this is all going to make a fantastic, hopefully best-selling book
someday, don’t you?
-
July 1, 2011 at 05:41 You are so right. And when the film comes out who will play whom? I going
for Helen Mirren as La Raccoon, Jack Nicholson as Mr G, Russell Crow for
SadButMadLad, and as for my own bit part….I make no comment. Tea in the
post.
July 1, 2011 at 00:38A most amusing account, I begin to understand why the world considers a
certain minority of the English extroverted. I think monsieur le tabac, his
children and grandchildren will be recounting that tale to their countrymen
for generations.It would seem that la Raccoon’s fame may yet spread wider as she ventures
out in the evening with a radio-active glow.It is so good to read this account, it confirms that the patient is in
fighting form and a speedy recovery must surely be implied.
June 30, 2011 at 23:18Classic Raccoonage. I have every hope that you, of all people, will come
sailing through this illness and continue to inform and amuse us for many
years to come.
June 30, 2011 at 22:17A tune to remember …
When I find my self in times of trouble Mother Teapot comes to me
whispering words of teabags, Let it Brew, Let it Brew.And in my hour darkness she is standing right in front of me, stirring
teabags thoughtfully, Let it Brew, Let it Brew.Oohh, Let it Brew, Let it Brew, Let it Brew, yeah Let it Brew,
Whisper
words of teabags, Let it Brew, Hm,Hm, HmmAnd when the broken hearted people, living without nice strong tea,
They
will be an answer “let it Brew, Let it Brew”. Da Da-Da Da Da-Da Da-Da-DUM
Hhhhhm… (Tea!)Get well Soon, Timbo
June 30, 2011 at 21:38I feel like an interloper here because I can’t stand tea of any variety. In
fact I have a large box filled with plastic bags of tea bags that well meaning
friends have brought over for me assuming I can’t get descent tea bags here. I
even have a couple of tins of Twinings something or other tea that I used a
little of to fix a leak in the trucks radiator.
June 30, 2011 at 20:49Please give the “squatter” a knee in the groin followed by a good kicking
at the earliest opportunity.
June 30, 2011 at 20:52…..or drown it in Yorkshire’s finest…
June 30, 2011 at 19:14And indeed I am a pleb, allow me to correct my pathetic spelling, Ms
RacCoon.- June 30, 2011 at 19:10
Oh dear, I’m beginning to feel like a pleb, I can’t get past English
Breakfast tea.No excuses, just hooked on it I guess.
Since we share a common age Ms Racoon, I would appreciate a very speedy
recovery on your part if you don’t mind. It would help my confidence no
end.
June 30, 2011 at 18:25I recommend Rington’s Tea though Yorkshire Tea is pretty damn
close.
Best wishes
June 30, 2011 at 17:56I will put some in the post tomorrow morning!
-
June 30, 2011 at 15:47 It’s even worse than that. I am a devoted Red Rose man, but I prefer
Yorkshire Tea. I feel like a a collaborator. Oh, the shame !
June
30, 2011 at 13:44Just a quick note (busy as hell here) to say welcome back even if only
temporary.However, I hope this doesn’t put you off our friendship – I go for
Lancashire Tea (when I’m not having strong coffee).- June 30, 2011 at 15:33
That’s all La Raccoon needs – Tea Wars!
(The Wars of the Roses somehow sounds far more romantic than the Wars of
the Teabags.)
June 30, 2011 at 15:39Teaspoons at dawn. A very civilised dual.
- July 3, 2011 at 00:20
Ugh! I’m from Lancashire originally and made a point of trying Lancashire
Tea when it came out, out of some kind of parochial loyalty. Horrible stuff
– weak with a hint of cardboard! The unfinished box is still stuck in a
cupboard somewhere. I know I shouldn’t say it, but Yorkshire is far
superior.
-
June 30, 2011 at 12:23 Goodness me! As La Raccoon may know I have been somewhat detained by what
may best be described as “work” for the past few weeks – necessary but all
consuming and have missed all this drama. Please get and keep well. My very
best wishes and if you want a delivery of Yorkshire tea it can be arranged.
Please can I also sat thanks to all who have been contributing and sorry that
I have not been able to do more.
G- June 30, 2011 at 12:47
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