Cheeky Pong

I am currently in hospital and am here cause I was bamboozled. Bamboozled by Dr Cheeky Pong. That's right. Cheeky. Pong.  Let me explain......

A few weeks ago my husband and I went around to a colleague's home for Sunday dinner. Actually it was cupcakes, then homemade pizza on pastry, then dinner. CF heaven! What a day!  Between pizza and dinner, Alastair went outside to play football (soccer for my American peeps) with her little boy, who is a charming, well spoken, clever little guy of six. Now, Mr Few Skills, is, as his name suggests, laking in the football skills department (To be blamed on is his father who is lovely but is American and has no football skills to teach). When Alastair sees MFS he does his best to impart what he knows of the 'beautiful game' to the poor child, who lives in football-mad England but by no fault of his own struggles to play. The two were in the garden taking turns in goal but the points were seriously skewed as MFS kept changing the rules so that many of Alastair's goals didn't count. Soon MFS had lots of goals and Alastair had very few. Alastair obliged him for a time but then enough was enough. He was going to let MFS wins, obviously, but by a sensible amount. So on MFS' next play, Alastair made up a rule and informed MFS 10 points had been deducted from him. MFS stared cooly at Alastair and in lowered tones declared that Alastair was a "cheeky pong.' A rule-changer.

Fast-forward to last week. I called the docs on Monday to let them know that the oral antibiotics I was about to complete had not done the trick and I wanted to move onto the hard-core stuff but that I wasn't, by any means, so unwell that I needed to be hospitalised. The nurse said he would call me back after speaking with the docs. He called back and totally caught me off-guard when he said the docs wanted to bring me in to 'knock the problem on the head' but that there was a 1-2 week waiting list. I huffed and puffed and put several well-reasoned (I think) arguments to him about why this was not a good plan. And how did it make sense to say they thought I needed serious sorting out (enough to be dragged in) but that I could be made to wait two weeks? He agreed the plan had its flaws and said he would speak to the docs again and ask that I be started on home IVs while I waited for a bed. The doctors agreed to this and I secretly thought I had outwitted them. My plan being that I would start home IVs, my lung function would go shooting up, and then by the time a bed became available, I would be so well that they docs would no longer want to admit me. Genius. Then we would all stand around and chuckle about how silly they had been, while they told me how I had been right all along and that they really should listen to me more often. And I would smile warmly at them and tell them, yes, you all really should listen to me more often, but I know you were just trying to do right by me.

So off I went to the day ward on Friday to get home IVs started, safe in the knowledge that there was a very long waiting list for beds. Plus, nobody gets admitted on Friday afternoon! All was going well and the doc who was seeing me agreed that if I were to show improvement, she would call off the senior dogs...I mean docs...and try to make them see I didn't need to be admitted. I even heard the nurses discussing who would deal with the home healthcare company that deliver the IV meds pre-made to your door. I sat around while I waited for my first dose of drugs to finish and worried if I would be home on time to see the friends I had made plans with for the evening. And then it happened....

I was sitting minding my own business when a doctor (whom I recognised but thought didn't do CF) comes up and starts chatting. He's all smiles as he says he is a registrar and reminds me of his name and that he saw me many years ago when he was an SHO (Senior House Officer. AKA low on the career totem pole).  Foolish girl that I am, didn't realise I was about to be done and congratulated him on his rise through the ranks. He thanks and me and then out of the blue bamboozles me. Just smacks me in the face. How does one bamboozle you ask? Well he did it while looking handsome and with a smile on his face. He informs me that there is a bed downstairs and he and his colleagues have decided that it should be mine and I should head down there shortly. Do not pass Go. Go directly to jail. I gape at him stupidly and see stars (you see stars when you have been bamboozled). Once I stop swaying from the force of the bamboozlement, I can only think one thought. You. Cheeky. Pong. You changed the rules. On me. 

I asked what happened to the REALLY LONG WAITING LIST! He proudly informs me they were able to discharge 12 people the day before and get 11 admitted that day, leaving one bed with my name all over it. "Isn't that lucky?",  he says. I glare at him and tell him I am not appreciating his team's extremely efficient actions or my 'luck', on this occasion.

I considered informing him of the fact that he was cheeky pong, and a really cheeky one at that, but decided he wouldn't get it and settled on the 'let me tell you why I shouldn't be put away, witty banter' route instead. Thus, I gave him several reasons why I should not be sent to jail and how house arrest would suffice. I banter mightily and with lots of wit. The nurses are laughing. The wit is flying. Dr Cheeky Pong is covered in it. He is dripping wet with the good reasons and wit I have flung at him....but he's not buying it. I'm going down. Hard. But I desperately, valiantly offer up one more thought: If I was so unwell would I be able to put up such a fight while presenting rational arguments with a smile and gigantic side of wit?!  Yes, he thinks so.  Plus, I need some tests and he argues that if I were an inpatient they can get these done and dusted more quickly, and this is the real reason to bring me in.

I called Alastair and told him he was not gonna believe what had just happened.........