A Day In The Life Of A Private Health Clinic In Paris

I returned to the clinic Mont-Louis the next morning at 10.30am when the appointment had been made for. Bupa Ireland had yet to get back to BUPA international who could not give a definite answer to the hospital (perhaps not surprising given the day that was in it BUPA to withdraw from Ireland). It was 12.30 before I decided enough was enough and I would pay for the operation and then get reimbursed.

...

I was taken to the top floor of the hospital where I wrote the cheque for €1500 for this minor operation and was directed to the waiting room. My operation was to be at around 2pm.

Shortly before that I was lead to a room to prepare for the operation. The nurse told me to strip absolutely naked. I explained this was an operation on my little finger but she reiterated and I got into the see-through gown and covered myself with the sheets.

Eventually I was brought downstairs to wait for an OR to open up. While I was there a six - eight year old Muslim child was having a circumcision. I remembered him from upstairs resplendent in the equivalent of a holy communion costume and mischievious giving cheek to his mother who couldn't help but laugh. I can't understand this practice to begin with in any religion - why would God give us a foreskin by mistake? But at least the Jewish tradition is perform the operation a set number of weeks after birth - not at an age where the child will likely remember it the rest of his life.

The screams of terror and pain from the poor child are something that I will not forget in a long time. This was the soundtrack to which I approached my own operation, which passed off without a hitch. The doctor spoke good English and was the first person to explain things properly to me in the last two days. A local anesthetic was applied and a curtain was set up in between myself and the doctor as he pottered away.

I had no idea what he was doing. I could only feel the occasional tug on a part of my hand that wasn't numb which suggested a finger was being moved. I decided it was best not to think about it and rode out the rest of the operation to tyring to manipulate my heart rate on the monitors above my head, to no avail.

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So, my hand is in a tight wrapping to keep the fingers bent while the tendon heals. The tendon and would are sutured and the stiches should be out in just over two weeks. I still can't feel my little finger or ring finger on my write hand. You wouldn't believe the struggle it has been to finish the Longest Weekend and this entry.

Ciao

My Love Affair With Sushi Knives is Over

As I cut into a bagguette to prepare a sandwich for my tea before training, I reached a point where the consistancy of the bread changed and felt painfully like my own flesh.

I had in fact sliced into the little finger of my left hand. Having never had such an injury inflicted on myself before, I quickly washed the wound, clenched my fist around some kitchen roll and elevated it before running around in pain and confusion.

My thoughts came like a kelydoscope -
"Where the hell is the nearest hospital? Do I even need to go to hospital? How the hell am I going to pay for this? Is that bone? Oh good God, that is bone, isn't it? I feel sick"

I was speaking on Skype to both Rachel and Marcos at the time. Marcos suggested sticking a plaster on it but Rachel went for the hospitalisation route. I chose the path less travelled (round the corner to a clinic) and it made all the difference.

The doctors spoke no English at all - hoorah! While I was pretty sure I understood what they were saying, I wasn't completely certain of some minor details and when they started talking about tendonne and operation I was slightly spooked. Eventually the bandaged my hand and told me I'd have to come back the following morning for a minor operation to repair the tendon.

All the while that this was happening I was trying to sort out insurance details with my parents over the phone. It was not a pleasent evening at all - even aside from the pain. To make things worse I had told my team-mates at USM that I'd be bringing the drinks that evening, so I was deathly afraid that they think I was actually some cheap Scotsman rather than a self-mutilated Irishman.