CONSENT

I have a hospital appointment to discuss things I already know. They want to take out my ovarian cyst, and everything nestling beside. I’ve been putting it off, because I’ve been extra sick. Why not do a phone consultation? All NHS appointments are on the phone these days. But no, not this one, it seems.

 I’m driven there by someone I found on a neighbourhood app. She’d posted a video of her walk in the woods. I’d commented, Wish I could be there. She replied, Lots of trees near. Not for me, I said. I don’t have a car, and I have a chronic illness. I wrote it nicely. I didn’t put a full stop after my sentences. She contacted me privately and said, I have a car. Any time. Can help you in and out of it if you need. I checked her profile, did a Google. She loves dogs. Airline, or ex-airline attendant. Lots of make-up. I judged that. Didn’t follow up on her invite for coffee. But a taxi to my appointment is expensive and I’m not spending 45 mins on a bus. I message her, awkwardly. I don’t suppose? She replies immediately. I have a meeting that clashes, sorry. No worries, I say, but ten minutes later she tells me she’s managed to postpone the meeting.

 So she picks me up. She’s from Barbados and very opinionated and I like this. She drives fast. Then she says the Barbadians should stop playing the victim card. Don’t people know blacks had slaves? She tsk-tsks. Anyway, she says, how long is the appointment? Not long I don’t think. But don’t wait. She looks at me. I’ll do a shop and text you when I’m done.

 The gynaecological waiting room is stuffy and crowded and ablaze with hospital lights. Some patients are fanning themselves with leaflets. There’s a list of doctors on the wall. The one I’m seeing has a piece of paper pinned beside his name: Running forty minutes late. I tell the receptionist (she has a little fan blowing her hair into her eyes), I have myalgic encephalomyelitis. I like saying this. If I just say, I have ME, people go, Oh I’m sorry, straightaway. But if I say myalgic encephalomyelitis, they take a moment to blink before the pity bit. I can’t wait that long, I add once the receptionist has blinked because she certainly isn’t going to say I’m sorry. What she does say is, We can’t change slots. She taps the pile of medical files and then returns to her computer screen.

 I shut my eyes and listen to guided meditations on my iPhone. The room seems to get even hotter, more crowded. It’s hard to breathe through my mask. Those lights, blaring down. They make my ears buzz. After an hour, I tell the receptionist I’m feeling faint. Oh he’s got your file now, she says. I wait another ten minutes. I move to the corridor outside the doctor’s office. I crouch down and hold my head in my hands to stop the spinning. A nurse comes along. Are you OK?She holds open the nearby escape door so I can get some air.

 Another ten minutes later I’m called into the office. The doctor is wiry and young. He’s still looking at my scans on his multiple screens. He’s still checking the size of my ovary. Can you turn the lights down? I ask. He gives me an Are you mad look but he does as I ask. And then he starts explaining to me about my cyst, and my medical history. None of which is news. I’m still dizzy. He seems to be nearing the end. He’s fidgety and intense.

 Then my ride texts, Still waiting? I text back, Done in 5. But the man isn’t done. He wants to make sure I know all the terrible things that can happen to me during and after the operation. He starts telling me again what they are going to do. I start to move around the office. I want to escape so badly I want to scream. Sweat drips between my breasts, between my thighs. My heart rate is becoming erratic. He stares at me but keeps going. Both ovaries, other tube, the cyst. I know all this, I say. You don’t need to tell me. I’ve had several consultations telling all this to me and I feel faint, I have to go.

 By the way he presses his pen into the palm of his hand it’s clear he’s full on irritated. You haven’t heard it from me, he says. I am your surgeon, he says and I think, Oh shit. I hadn’t realised this. I need to make sure you know all the risks, he says. I do know them, I say as gently as I can. I research, I add and wish I hadn’t. I can’t have you sign the consent form without you hearing the risks from me, he says, the emphasis on me.

 Consent form? No one said I’d be doing that here, now. I was told this was a routine consultation. I’m about to tell him this when he snaps, You could change your mind just before the surgery. I won’t do that, I say quietly. I’ve stopped moving around the office. Well, he says, still annoyed. You can go. We’ll do the consent before surgery. He stands up, shoots up really, towering over me. He strides towards the door. Thank you, I say, padding after him. Thank you for your time, I say. He looks at me. Let me get you a leaflet, he says. Oh, thanks so much, I say. I hold the leaflet as if it is the nicest thing someone has given me in a very long time, but he’s already back in his office, peering at someone else’s cyst.

END

Sandra Jensen has over 50 short story and flash fiction publications in literary magazines. Her work has received a number of awards including: The 2019 Bridport Prize for a first novel. Sandra has had ME/CFS for nearly 3 decades and has been commissioned to write a small book on writing with chronic, debilitating conditions. In her spare time she raises awareness and funds to stop animal suffering in Bosnia-Herzegovina. You can find her at http://www.sandrajensen.net.