A visit to the hospital again yesterday. I went to be 'introduced' to the chemotherapy unit and the staff. First, a presentation of about half an hour: 'everything that could possibly go wrong'. This is probably necessary in today's world, but I'm not sure it was totally helpful. Even with my inside knowledge I found it a bit daunting (and I worked in paediatric oncology before moving into Public Health). How the other patients must have been feeling I dread to think. However, the nurse who made the presentation was very kind, and as reassuring as she could be.
Following that, we returned to the waiting room. We would all be seen individually. I looked around. There were at least eight of us. This could take a very long time. SIGH!!! The kind friend who had accompanied me and I settled in for the wait. Five minutes later, I was called - FIRST. Luck? Professional courtesy? Alphabet? Who knows? But I do know it was very lucky, given that I was with the two nurses for more than half an hour, so the last poor person could well be there for about four hours.
So, what did we do? Well, they took me to a room and asked if I had questions; they told me the start date (the 15th August, of which more anon); they talked about my regimen; they gave me a voucher for a wig (is this really necessary on the NHS?); they introduced me to Pamper treatments (no, not nappies, but beauticians showing you how to make up and so forth when all your hair falls out); they gave me a parking permit (initial euphoria was tempered by the realisation that it did not get me a parking space, just meant I did not have to pay); they gave me a 'THIS IS A MEDICAL EMERGENCY' card, with a 24-hour telephone number in case my temperature went up when on chemo; they took more blood; they measured my height and weight again (NOT GOOD!); they showed me the bay where the chemo takes place and the ice helmets and other aids. In short, they were wonderful, apparently had nothing else to do, made me feel comfortable and confident, and I walked out knowing that I was in good hands: an inestimable gift. The next person who disses the NHS in my hearing may just get bonked on the nose.
So, briefly, back to the date. Why, I hope those of you who do not know, are asking, is this significant? Well, because it is the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary into Heaven or, as we Maltese say, the Feast of Santa Maria. It is one of the most important feasts in Malta, celebrated all over the islands. And it was on the 15th August 1942 that Pedestal Convoy got to Malta, against all the odds. If you don't know the story: look it up. The heroism of the service personnel, the dreadful loss of life, the tanker OHIO. This is the stuff of legend. And it happened on Santa Maria. The Maltese, devout, devoted to Our Lady, praying to her daily, flocked to Grand Harbour to cheer the ships in, despite the constant bombing.
I can hear my mother's voice proclaiming "Santa Maria: you'll be fine" just as, to be honest, I heard her voice when I got the operation day: "It's a Wednesday: Our Lady's day. You'll be fine." Who knows? But I can tell you my Faith has been a huge and constant comfort. Deo Gratias.
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