Here I am back now from another trip to the hospital. I have had worse days. The older I get the more time I spend there. That isn’t an amazing fact because I am pushing 80. I have told you before that those who say “age is only a number” don’t know what the hell they are talking about. Every year gets tougher. That is way it goes.

This thing about going to the hospital is that it is just such a foreign world. You are on different soil. All the people who work there dress differently and you get the sense you are a stranger in a very strange land. I don’t mind it really. It is a rest and an escape from my own world. This is true only if you are in there for routine stuff. This time around I was in for ‘imaging’, as they call it. It was an MRI. Not life-threatening stuff put part of the inevitable result of an eight-decade long story of wear and tear on the body. You get used to more frequent visits to hospital. It is part of the whole story. The visits do become more frequent.

Now you know one of the oddest things about “routine” visits to facilities like Health Sciences is that there is something about it that makes me feel good. I have spent a lifetime in a business that required a hundred decisions a day from me. Some were right and some were wrong but there is pressure in that whole thing. Now in semi-retirement my hours are still filled with frequent “if/then’’ situations. There are still decisions to be made, and they do keep you busy. By contrast walking into the main entrance of Health Sciences requires of me only that I do what I’m told by the medical people in charge. I am at the mercy of those that make the place go round. There is an odd peace in that.

First of all, the visit went okay for me. My wife dropped me at the front entrance to the hospital and left me on my own. Having played the movie before I wasn’t foolish enough to go looking for a parking place. I don’t know if that parking situation has improved at the hospital since my last go round but I didn’t want to find out. I was left at front entrance in sweatpants and a hoodie with a shoulder bag that had my documents, my MCP cards, my phone, and a Newfoundland Quarterly to read. The rest was pretty easy. I asked the first person I met who looked like they knew what they were doing where X-ray and imaging might be because I’m not great with signs. Easy. Straight down the hall past the doors and then the first left and after that two rights. I got close but on the last turn I blew it. I ended up at doors of place that said “Operating Room” which was surely not what I was looking for. I knew that wasn’t it, so I asked again. This time I hit the jackpot. I was in ultrasound.

I was in a reception area, and somebody looked at my MCP card and then printed some stuff into a computer and sent me down another hall to a new waiting area. There was only one other person there. She was a woman close to my age. We talked about the things old people talk about and then I was next. Pretty soon lots of few pictures were taken of me by a big machine and then it was over. I had to go back to the front entrance to get picked up by my wife, but I got lost and ended up back in ultrasound which the starting point of my exit strategy. No harm done. I eventually got to the hospital entrance and my missus and then we were off to the nearest restaurant.

There were some surprises. It wasn’t as busy as I remember. These new clinics are taking some of the pressures off. I also got fairly good service at Health Sciences. I didn’t have to wait long, and I met some pleasant people. A good time had by all. In the old days I remember it the hospital was crawling with people and full of hustle and bustle. The individual clinics on the first floor weren’t blocked to the hatches. Maybe things are getting better in that aspect of health care. I hope so.

I never ate in the cafeteria. I never do. I didn’t even have a coffee. A few years ago, I was there and while waiting spoke to a Catholic priest who actually was the son of former Conservative heavyweight W.J. (Billy) Brown. I remember that because I didn’t have money for coffee and I asked the good father if he would buy me a cup. He did. That is another story for another time.

For now, I am home safe and sound and good for another couple of thousand kilometres. At least I think so. There are no guarantees.

You can contact Jim Furlong at jfurlong@ntv.ca