<p>“Where is the balloon?” This was no anxious child questioning his parents; it was a doctor asking his colleagues. A balloon, to the uninitiated in the case I am writing about, is a small inflatable device on a catheter, used to expand a clogged artery and place a stent. Unlike the banana, which went to the cardiologist because it wasn’t ‘peeling’ well, I went with no apparent problem. Still, I had clearly missed picking up multiple tell-tale signs of a possible cardiac issue, which tests confirmed.</p>.<p>And so there I was, lying on an operating table — the artery was mine. Supine, locally anaesthetised, staring at the bland white ceiling of the operation theatre (a thought crossed my mind: would it be better if it were some vibrant colour instead?) and at the multiple screens on which my insides were visible. </p>.<p>Where is the balloon, indeed! I was alarmed enough to lift my head to see and join the search for the missing balloon. The nurse gently pushed my head back down. They did, of course, find the balloon. The procedure went well; the balloon opened the artery. As they say, cardiologists make great friends because they are always willing to listen to your heart. He is a friend now, so let me not poke fun at him. And yes, I will also need to go back to the good doctor.</p>.<p>Instead, let me tell you about the ridiculous light blue dress — dress, really — they make you wear in hospital. It is a gown with the back completely open, tied together with two strings. It is a dress that even a model walking the ramp in fashionable Paris would blush to wear. It is designed so that, when you stand, any tug to bring the two parts together exposes your derriere to the world at large.</p>.<p>Fortunately, the nurses are so busy — and having clearly seen all kinds of behinds — that they do not care much about yours. But it destroys what little shred of dignity you have, making you acutely conscious and eager to get back into everyday attire. I suppose that is one way to ensure you leave the crowded hospital quickly so that the next patient can be admitted.</p>.<p>That said, the nurses are an incredible lot — hardworking, stressed, yet always cheerful and helpful. They keep chattering away, lightening the atmosphere, relieving tension, and checking on you at very regular intervals — so what if you are sleeping! I now have a heartfelt relationship with my cardiologist, who tells me to learn to listen to my body. Doc, at my age, my body keeps telling me so many things; I only hope it does not turn me into a hypochondriac.</p>
<p>“Where is the balloon?” This was no anxious child questioning his parents; it was a doctor asking his colleagues. A balloon, to the uninitiated in the case I am writing about, is a small inflatable device on a catheter, used to expand a clogged artery and place a stent. Unlike the banana, which went to the cardiologist because it wasn’t ‘peeling’ well, I went with no apparent problem. Still, I had clearly missed picking up multiple tell-tale signs of a possible cardiac issue, which tests confirmed.</p>.<p>And so there I was, lying on an operating table — the artery was mine. Supine, locally anaesthetised, staring at the bland white ceiling of the operation theatre (a thought crossed my mind: would it be better if it were some vibrant colour instead?) and at the multiple screens on which my insides were visible. </p>.<p>Where is the balloon, indeed! I was alarmed enough to lift my head to see and join the search for the missing balloon. The nurse gently pushed my head back down. They did, of course, find the balloon. The procedure went well; the balloon opened the artery. As they say, cardiologists make great friends because they are always willing to listen to your heart. He is a friend now, so let me not poke fun at him. And yes, I will also need to go back to the good doctor.</p>.<p>Instead, let me tell you about the ridiculous light blue dress — dress, really — they make you wear in hospital. It is a gown with the back completely open, tied together with two strings. It is a dress that even a model walking the ramp in fashionable Paris would blush to wear. It is designed so that, when you stand, any tug to bring the two parts together exposes your derriere to the world at large.</p>.<p>Fortunately, the nurses are so busy — and having clearly seen all kinds of behinds — that they do not care much about yours. But it destroys what little shred of dignity you have, making you acutely conscious and eager to get back into everyday attire. I suppose that is one way to ensure you leave the crowded hospital quickly so that the next patient can be admitted.</p>.<p>That said, the nurses are an incredible lot — hardworking, stressed, yet always cheerful and helpful. They keep chattering away, lightening the atmosphere, relieving tension, and checking on you at very regular intervals — so what if you are sleeping! I now have a heartfelt relationship with my cardiologist, who tells me to learn to listen to my body. Doc, at my age, my body keeps telling me so many things; I only hope it does not turn me into a hypochondriac.</p>
