Pee-boo! You might have noticed social media being a bit quiet for a few days. This is down to me taking to my bed and refusing to wake up.
Why the title? Well, back in the early 1980s I worked as a vet-nurse which has given me an incurable habit of self-diagnosis. To date I have suffered from Parvo-virus, distemper (twice) and rage-syndrome (although that is an understandable mis-diagnosis in my case where I’m actually a bad-tempered old cow).
It takes a trip up to my beloved GP to get my head sorted out. Eventually, packing my assorted symptoms into a large sack, I wandered in and emptied it on his desk. He and the medical student with him last week (charming young lady called Catherine) smiled at me and said “Coma.”
Ah! Got me there, Seb. Trouble is, in my day anyway, dogs and cats didn’t do comas. They got into nasty accidents and were classed as either “mend” or “send”. So it came as rather a surprise to me to be told that patients who have been in a coma take a long time to get over it, dependent on how many days they were in it. Three weeks in my case. Light began to dawn.
Feeling a bit of a tit, it was explained to me very kindly that I couldn’t expect to be dashing around with my memory in-tact and all systems fully functional for quite some time and that falling asleep every half hour or so was a good sign that I was doing too much. Humble apologies and warm handshakes all around.
One of these days I am going to have to admit that not only do I know nothing about the changes in vet medicine since I hung up my op-gown, I am NOT a Basset-hound or Persian Blue so my knowledge of human ailments amounts to ….