Gastric reflux, indigestion, dyspepsia. It's all the same to me. The doctor says I got this sphincter or ring that is a mite too relaxed. Abnormal even and so while I've got my feet up, the stomach acids flow back up my gullet and wallah! It burns like hell and sometimes I swallow it down as fast as it comes up. Eww! but what can you do? You know, at first I thought I was having a heart attack but the missus says I'm probably wrong. Still, I don't see no posters on the surgery wall about indigestion - just heart attacks. I read the posters a little nervously. Do you experience tightness in your chest? Pain or numbness in your left arm?
Uhm, well, yeah but it's just reflux isn't it? The old ticker starts then. Boom, boomboom, boom. I check my watch. A missed beat. The poster has this fat b*****d standing there in his boxers with a tape measure round his bulging belly. Hey, I think, that geezer looks a bit like me. I shift my mass in the plastic seat. I hate these waiting room chairs. They're all joined together in one long row and there aren't any fat seats so I look like a real ponce trying to fit in one!
So anyway, I can't quite read the small print from where I sit and I know if I stand up and lean forward, the whole bloody row of chairs will probably come with me and everyone will topple out. I spot the word 'diabetes' but that's one obstacle I don't worry about. I mean, I care but I don't care. The GP said the pains are probably indigestion but he referred me to this clinic just in case. I'm not too worried. People my age get indigestion all the time. He says I should eat better, but only because I'm a real sucker for spicy dishes. I'm sure my heart is ok. I give my chest a king kong punch, knowing there's no way I'm ready to go yet.
A kindly old lady rattling a tea trolley enters the crowded waiting room. To be honest, I reckon some of these folk won't last long at all. I flick through a Nat Geo mag, trying to look inconspicuous but the old biddy totters straight toward me. 'Cup of tea and a bikkie sonny?' I shake my head and continue to flick through pics of polar bears gobbling down blubbery baby seals. I think about my pub lunch order when I catch up with Jimmy at the Sail 'n Anchor. Yeah, a medium rare t-bone with lashings of gravy and an extra side of fries.
'You sure now? You look really famished.' She's wearing that cheap scent that reminds me of toffee and talc. I relent and slip my hand into my pocket and hand over a fiver. 'Gimme a coffee, three sugars and I'll have that custard tart, no! wait, the jam and cream....no, make it the tart.'
'Heh, heh. It's hard to make your mind up isn't it. So many sweet things in life to choose from. I've got some nice granny smith apples if you're interested?' I shake my head. 'I'll have the tart, thanks.' I note she is from the Ladies Auxillary. I suppose these lonely old women like to feel needed and that's why they toddle round serving sick people for nothing. I mean, who'd do that for no pay? Not me, that's for sure.
The benevolent dear pours my coffee into a thin styrofoam cup. Her hand shakes and I think, gee the old bird is probably gonna cark it herself at any moment. I look at the posters again. She spills the brown liquid, stumbles a little and coffee dribbles onto my tart. 'Sorry about that love. I'm not as strong as I used to be.' My hand steadies her a little and I think she's just some harmless great grandma looking to keep busy.
'Don't worry about it,' I smile and take the beverage. She chuckles warmly. 'Mind you don't burn yourself sonny.' and then her trembling hand tries to use the cake slice to put the tart in the bag. She misses. Splodge! straight onto the floor, face side down, of course. She gets all flustered. 'O-er! Looks like I've 'ad another accident.'
Now my patience wears thin. I mean, I like old ladies as much as the next bloke but this is getting a bit much. In all fairness to me, I didn't even want the drink or tart but she insisted and now the silly bat screws it up anyway! Thankfully nobody is paying attention though. Like me, they're reading outdated mags or the health warning posters. She laughs apologetically and makes some banal comment about what goes up must come down.
My heart starts pounding again. Boom ba boom boom ba boom ba boom. Take it easy, I say. No reason to get mad. I smile and nod at her as if to say 'Who the hell cares? It's just a tart.' The coffee tastes like s***e and the old lady says the mess will have to stay by my feet. 'It's my back you know. Sciatica the doctor says and I'm on the waiting list for a hip replacement. Don't you worry though, ducky. Someone will be here real soon to remove it like it was never here at all.'
Well that's fine but when I look at the few sweet things left on the trolley guess what? You got it. There are no custard tarts left. That old b**** has actually got me really 'f*****g wanting one.
'Do you want the jam and cream cake instead?' Of course I bloody do. I've got no choice thanks to this bunch of ricketty bones before me! I spot the poster again. It reckons if your waist exceeds more than 88cm then you are at risk of heart disease. Well so what? Why the hell does a heart clinic have posters like this AND send in old bats with a tea trolley full of cakes? Not my fault. I take another sip of the coffee and grit my teeth as she fumbles with the cake.
Oh Christ! There goes my heart again! I try to relax. Shallow breaths, sip the coffee, stretch back and look as if everthing is just fine. I do, then the sharp pain hits me. Bam! across the chest, as if this sweet old tea lady is suddenly belting me with an iron rod. I press my lips together. She smiles serenely. Waiting. In those few brief seconds I wonder what on earth she is waiting for. 'I've got some nice home made ginger nuts if you prefer them.'
My hand clenches the steaming beverage and as the constriction intensifies, the styrofoam cup crumbles under the pressure and spills onto my crotch. 'Farrk!' I gasp. The old lady pats her peach coloured pinny and blue grey hair. 'No need to speak like that sonny. Do you want the cake or not?'
The pain releases itself and I lean forward, dropping the cup on top of the splatted custard tart. Most of it soaks into my pants. The tea lady looks at my crotch with concern. 'I've got some incontinent pads on the second shelf. Three for a dollar.'
As I suck in much needed air, I reach toward the tea lady and her trolley, grabbing at anything. 'Oh, so you do want the cake. I thought you might.' She presses it unwrapped into my hand and says 'That's five dollars exactly. You have a nice day dearie.'
I pant, 'he-he-elpah ma-me' but it comes out like wheezing air. I spot the hearing aid in her ear while she lifts the coin tray and slips my five dollar note underneath. My left arm droops lifelessly by my leg. I drag it like a dead weight across my thigh, smearing the cream and jam over my crotch, till finally it too falls to the floor next to the custard tart and spilt coffee. I'm left a total mess, five dollars short and a heart that might explode at any moment. No, I tell myself as mortality slaps me senseless. I'm sure it's a bad case of gastric reflux, just like my GP said. Those posters are there to scare middle aged blokes like me. Nothing more. The Doc will fix it. Of course he'll fix it. He's gotta fix it. I'm meeting Jimmy at the pub for lunch for God's sake!
The tea lady seems to be almost glowing. Another intense pain erupts in my chest. I clutch it, snorting desperately for air. The tea lady nods sagely watching me fight for air. In ethereal whispers, she imparts her wisdom. 'See? You really can't have your cake and eat it too' She laughs softly and rattles the trolley toward the exit.
As I slump forward, my a*s wedged firmly in the chair, I wonder why, out of all the people in the waiting room, she only served me.
