Chris Hansen’s blog

Today’s chemistry lesson … complete with misspellings showing that the author is not interested in his English classes…

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…in very good order. He brought back some old pictures, so of course I scanned one and did a bit of cleaning-up on it.

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…there is a welcoming party waiting for him on our bed.

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It was Saturday, and I awoke with some eye irritation, probably from a piece of the hard crust that forms in the corner of your eye when you’re asleep. This is always annoying, and made me feel pretty awful. Blood sugar was good this morning, though, and thus I had an interesting day.

I decided that I needed to clean some of the pots and pans that had been accumulating grease deposits for a while, so off to the DIY store at the Elephant I went. Bought two boxes of Brillo, two different types of pot cleaner, and some caustic soda for the upstairs bathroom (hair gets down in the trap and there you have it…).

I cleaned the enamel casserole pot first. It had lots of brown gunk on the bottom, burned on. The pot cleaner (kind of a paste, applied with a web cloth) seems to have softened the gunk—then the Brillo pad and a little elbow grease removed it. I was amazed. It’s still a bit the worse for wear, but it’s clean. I followed that with a shine on our Moka espresso pot, and that cleaned up too. It is amazing how accomplished doing this kind of thing makes you feel.

I kvetched to my friend Fraffie Welch in Marblehead about the awful Tesco corned-beef hash I had a few days ago after reading her column in the Marblehead Reporter. She replied saying that Prudence hash is the best canned hash around. Unfortunately, this isn’t available here in the UK and I don’t think it would be a good idea to get another appetite that can only be satisfied by hauling cans back from the US. So, I made my own.

Sliced some raw potatoes and parboiled until they were nearly done. Saut

As most of you will be aware, I’m a diabetic and constantly have to go to the quack for this checkup or that checkup. For my foot I go to Kings College Hospital Diabetic Foot Clinic. For diabetes itself, I am currently attending the Diabetic Clinic at St. Thomas’s Hospital. I go to my own GP for prescriptions and anything other than diabetes.

A couple of months ago I got a letter saying that I had an appointment with the lipid nurse at the Diabetic Clinic at St. Thomas’s. OK, no problem. That’s all the letter said. No instructions about what to bring (urine sample, perhaps) nor restrictions on whether I could eat before the appointment.

The rest of the background to this is that, while taking simvastatin my cholesterol has been normal to low (for a diabetic) and my ratio of good to bad cholesterol has also been very good. So seeing the lipid nurse or doctor isn’t top-of-mind for me.

Yesterday I turned up at St. Thomas’s at around 11:05 am, saw the receptionist, then went to wait. The nurse’s assistant came out and took my blood pressure (127 /71!) and weight (not so good). To the waiting room again, where a few minutes later the lipid nurse emerged and called my name. Into her office we went. She is from a middle European country and had the accent to match.

She started by asking a few questions which others had asked me before in the clinic, and the answers to which were on her computer. Then she said, “You’ve been fasting, haven’t you?” I said, “No, I haven’t.” “Why not?” “The letter I got didn’t request me to fast and the time of the appointment (11:30am) wasn’t conducive to fasting, anyway.”

She looked at me: “You should have known when you made the appointment that you needed to fast.” “Hold on,” I said, “First, I didn’t make the appointment—the clinic made it. Second, I’m diabetic, on insulin at night, so morning fasting could be dangerous for me.” She was wearing my last nerve very thin indeed. She then ordered me to fast whenever I come to the lipid doctor or nurse.

Then she came to my record and asked me whether I had any family. I mentioned that I was married in a civil partnership. She said, “There’s nothing here to allow for a civil partnership. I’ll put you down as ‘Cohabiting’.” I replied, “No you won’t! Civil partnership is equivalent to marriage, so you will put me down as married.” Nerve is now even thinner.

She then said, “Do you have brothers and sisters?” I replied, “Yes, one of each.” “We must make sure they know that they are at risk for diabetes and hypertension genetically.” I looked at her and, as calmly as I could, said, “My brother had a heart attack at the very same age I did, with angioplasty and a stent, just as I had. He was at the same time diagnosed with diabetes. I think he knows already. My sister is well aware of my brother’s and my situations, so I’m certain she knows of her own risk as well. In any case, they both live in America so the NHS won’t be taking care of them anytime soon.”

She then proceeded to lecture me on the evils of bariatric surgery, telling me about the grim side effects and promoting the virtues of simply eating less and exercising more. I had really had enough, and told her that I had been lectured like this for the last 50 years or so, and none of it was helpful enough to help me to lose weight. I know all this. What I need is help to lose weight, and bariatric surgery is my last hope of outside help bar wiring my teeth shut; it has also been shown that certain types of bariatric surgery assist in fighting off insulin resistance in your body, even before weight loss has begun.

She ended the appointment by giving me a ticket to have blood drawn for lipid testing, saying that the fact that I hadn’t fasted didn’t matter, really. Some other tests would be run and when she got the results she would send them along to me. I told her: “I already get enough bumpf from the NHS—please don’t send me the results unless I need to follow up on them in some way or other. She countered: “We like to keep our patients involved in their treatment.” I had to be firm: “Let’s save the NHS some money and not send results unless something or other needs to be done, please. Thank you.” Reluctantly, she agreed.

Those who are familiar with the “Carry On…” movies will remember the Matron, Hattie Jacques, who was a blunt, no-nonsense head nurse in many of the films. The Lipid Nurse reminded me of the Matron, so sure of what she knew and imposing it on everyone else in the hospital. It goes to show you that a good “bedside manner” is vital when doctors or nurses are dealing with patients; how much brighter and useful would this appointment have been if the Lipid Nurse’s manner had been helpful instead of confrontational.

I emerged, had my blood taken by a lovely nurse (all the nursing staff who do the routine vital signs in the Diabetic Clinic are a joy, especially the dishy young man who was also in the Cardiac Intensive Care unit when I was recovering from my heart attack) and then marched back to the bus for the trip home and to lunch in the church Drop-In. I was not best pleased.

…and many happy returns of the day.

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As you may be aware, years ago I earned my crust in the market research biz. It’s an interesting profession—reviled by those who are called away from their dinner tables by interviewers but much prized by politicians and product marketers (dubious recommendations, I suppose…). The statistician was a person ensconced in a hidden-away office in the corner who cooked up ways of statistically sampling populations so that the surveys that resulted from the polling were representative of the entire population.

A gentleman named Nate Silver has done a statistical analysis of the situation for gay marriage bans, with a special concentration on the state of Maine, as its vote is coming up in a month or so. His conclusions will give hope to those who are working to defeat the ban.

…and many happy returns of the day.

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