An Empty House Is Better Than A Bad Tenant.

 In A&E. I walked there in a stiff breeze and gentle smur. Invigorating. My teeth are sore and there is still the headache clinging to the parabola of my skull, like moss on a rock. I'd rung my doctor - after a confusing bit of dicking around - and she'd diagnosed, from my rather underselling the symptoms - a terrifying thing called a "Thunderclap Headache", advising me to get up to the hospital as soon as possible. 

They make you stand in a taped off square before you can see the receptionist. Somebody's mobile keeps going off, playing squeaky, upbeat dance music, wildly inappropriate for the moribund crew assembled. It's morning, so there are fewer head injuries and broken noses than I'm used to in the Accident and Emergency department. It's all children and old people today, though in Northern Ireland that is the majority of the population. 

As usual in A&E, no one who isn't actively bleeding looks that ill. But then, I suppose, I don't either, and my brain could pop at any minute. Mask wearing is high, but not 100%, and a lot of people are still not including their noses in the deal. I used to believe it was a tiny rebellion, but I think it's actually just stupidity. Susan has walked me to the hospital, but she wasn't allowed in, because couples aren't allowed in, because Covid, or something...But there WERE couples there. Maybe they plan their accidents in tandem. Maybe their relationship is the emergency.  

I don't know how bad this is. This thing that I've got, that's in my head. Because I don't know what it is. In theory, it could mean surgery. In theory, it could be an inoperable death sentence. But I don't really think that. I just think that it will go away and I'll be fine, and I shall continue to believe that until someone tells me differently. 

There are people here who know each other, chatty and fun folk in A&E. "Och, how ARE you?" "Oh, you know, not so bad, not so bad." Oh aye? Can I have your place in the queue then?

The TV plays "Homes Under the Hammer" style programs silently, with the subtitles on. It has a back in the Dole Office vibe. 

It's 12.30 now. I've been here two hours. I've registered, I've told them what's wrong with me and I've donated blood. Including the attempts to speak to the doctor, I've been at this for four hours. It's not a laugh. I am resistant to hospital visits because they are boring and ugly and involve hanging around for hours. Also, I've spent far too much time in hospitals in my time. 

The people not wearing masks are all young men in sports gear. They are each attempting to exude a sort of tough laziness, as though they're in detention but they're not bothered. They take phone calls and they're emphatically bored on the phone too. Is being testily inconvenienced the new cool?  

They've taken bloods. God knows what they'll find. Cancer, diabetes, anything could be lurking in there. I've opened up Pandora's vein. Everyone here looks much worse than me, all swollen and grey. Even the maskless young men look hungover to fuck. Whatever I have is stealthy. It's not showing its working - there's nothing cramped and cribbed in my margins. I'm right to not want to be here. It's miserable. 

I'm always surprised by how many men in Northern Ireland are called Mervyn. 

There's shit on the rim of the male/disabled toilet seat. And a spilled milkshake on the waiting room floor. Everyone is fat, also tattooed. Fully a third of the men here are called William. The most common sound is the clatter of a dropped phone. 

I've been here for over four hours now and I've still not seen a doctor. They keep calling people who aren't me.  

Nose-free mask wearing seems all the rage among gentlemen of a certain age. The sort of age that supplies you with a knot of thread veins striating your hooter. Maybe they're proud of them. 

A chap called Brian is called, but nobody makes a move. He's called again. Eventually the woman sitting in front of him turns around and nudges him. Brian, an older chap in a straw hat and jogging bottoms, gets up, displaying the entirety of his pale arse, as he shuffles towards the nurse. His puckered cheeks display the pattern of the seat he's been sitting on, in detailed pink relief. This happens three times during my stay here. 

And then suddenly I'm called. A young bearded doctor, Adam, calls me into the bowels of the hospital and I'm directed to a bed and the curtain is pulled around me. I tell my headache journey story for the third time, actively attempting to read the blank expression on his masked face. He's seen my blood. He knows the horrors lurking in my fetid ichor. He asks me pointed questions about my vision, whether I can swallow properly, whether my speech is ever slurred (c'mon), and we do a battery of physical tests: I have to grab his fingers and stop him falling over, I have to make both hands flutter like passion fish in my palms. I do them all easily. So what's wrong with me?

They don't know. All my tests are fine. I've not had a stroke, there's no evidence of a brain bleed, or a Thunderclap headache. My bloods are good. My coordination is good - which is news to me. I'm not in any danger of dying. I will get a brain selfie but not today. I'm free to go. But I still have a headache. The same headache I've had for five days. What is it? I've had a stay of execution but I've no idea why I've been pardoned. What's in my head?