Recently comedy took a backseat thanks to an infected abscess which led to an unexpected stay in hospital and an operation under general anaesthetics. This mini misadventure highlighted several things for me: the NHS is bloody fantastic; there is generally no time off in comedy: and when push comes to shove the comedy world is incredibly supportive. Oh yes and morphine is a wonder drug.
First things first: I had a sore spot just by the coccyx for quite a few days. Given its location I was unable to see what it was. Making the most of all my intense medical training, garnered from watching the odd episode of Casualty, I assumed (wrongly of course) that it was eczema. What can I say? I get eczema in odd places (primarily behind my ears). I assumed this must be yet another odd place. The fact the pain was so bad I was having problems sitting or lying down unless I was on my side didn’t seem to factor at all into my self-diagnosis.
Luckily for me a good friend was willing to look and see exactly what it was. (Given where it was situated, she really is a good friend). She went silent (never a good sign), offered to take a photo (which I’m hoping she has since deleted), and on further inspection we both agreed it didn’t look much like eczema – more like a weeping cyst. With this in mind I decided to go to the doctors and presumably avail myself of some antibiotics.
The doctor took one look at it and informed me I had to go to A&E. I was still unconcerned at this point. I assumed all I needed was some intravenous antibiotics and then I’d be sent home. I don’t know what this mania of mine is for antibiotics but it turns out they are not the panacea to every ailment known to mankind.
This was confirmed by the A&E nurse who took one look and informed me that I needed an operation under general anaesthetics. A conclusion soon confirmed by a doctor. Unperturbed even by this, I phoned my mate, fellow comic Jen Brister, to let her know what was happening and to reassure her that if the operation happened in the next few hours I should still be OK for the theatre trip we had planned for that night. I would confirm later once the operation had taken place. Needless to say, Jen didn’t share my rosy view of life after you’ve just had SURGERY UNDER GENERAL ANAESTHETICS and took it as read that we weren’t going to the theatre that evening.(It turned out she was right). I doggedly persisted in my delusion until late in the afternoon when it eventually dawned on me I was going nowhere.
I tell you what I did soon realise however. Confirmation if confirmation is needed that our NHS is fantastic. The fact that it is free at point of use is something even we British and our tendency to sheer apathy should fight tooth and nail not to lose. As a freelancer, I would never be able to afford private medical insurance. Secondly, private medical insurance just makes money for the big boys. A private service can charge what it likes, irrelevant of actual cost. In Britain you only need to go to your local train station and attempt to buy a train ticket for that day rather than weeks in advance to know how shameless private companies are when it comes to overcharging. An American acquaintance recently told me of a friend of his whose share, that’s right her share (she has very expensive private health insurance), for an 11 mile ambulance ride was $3,000. That’s some mark up. And that’s coming from someone who has to regularly work their way around the UK’s convoluted railway ticketing system.
Yes, I had to spend time on a trolley – about 4 hours but, to be honest with you, I was in a treatment room at the time so it was like being in my own private ward. My initial concern when told that I needed to undergo an operation was when they informed me I had to be ‘nil by mouth’ for the rest of the day. Given that I like my food and that I hadn’t had breakfast that morning and was consequently starving, being told that I couldn’t eat for the foreseeable future was less welcome news than that of the upcoming operation.
Secondly, I’d committed the major 21st century social faux pas of leaving my telephone charger at home and, as luck would have it, I hadn’t bothered charging my mobile phone before I’d gone out, and the phone was quickly losing battery. (Yes, you guessed it. I have an IPhone). Imagine the fear that engenders in someone. As if my day couldn’t get any worse. I quickly jotted down a few numbers before it died, phoned my dad and sent a message to Jen to let fellow comic (and it turns out super-agent ) Susan Murray know where I was, and then lay in my bed trying to figure out if I could still make it to the theatre.
About 30 minutes after I’d messaged Jen to let Susan know what’s what Susan had tracked me down, armed with a care package: phone charger, book, comb, toothbrush, toothpaste, reading glasses, wet wipes. She also took a photo of me (see above) and posted it on Facebook. Once that was up, messages come flooding in: get well messages for the most part and, most touching of all, messages from people offering to help. As a rule, comics seem self-centred. It comes with the job but what was touching to note was how many comics and former comics were willing to put themselves out for me.
Next day Jen popped in even though she could only stay a few minutes between a meeting and travelling back home for a gig but she did bring another necessary care package with her: kickers and tights. My estimation rose for Jen considerably when she somehow correctly guessed I was a ‘high leg’ woman in the knickers department. I must admit I think that’s impressive given all the possible options. I’m not convinced I would have got it right had it been the other way round. Nevertheless, despite the shortness of her stay, there was still enough time for one of the nurses to ask Jen if she was my son. A question that flatters neither of us. Firstly, it presupposes that Jen looks like a man (she’s doesn’t) and that I could have given birth to a 45 year old (and as we know I’ve been 38 for at least a decade now).
Next day Susan Murray and Jojo Sutherland turned up while my dad was there so it was a right Scottish event. After they left, my dad asked if there were a mother and daughter combo. For reasons of diplomacy, I decided not to ask who he thought was who, given that there is about a 2 year age gap between the both of them. Later that evening Shazia Mirza turned up with yet another care package – cold drinks and headphones for my IPhone so I could catch up on Netflix without annoying my roommates. Earlier I had tried to get discharged but had been persuaded to say until the next morning. I thought that was all pretty unnecessary as I was feeling no pain whatsoever. Of course what Dr Younger failed to realise was that I was on morphine and once I left the hospital confines and was stuck with paracetamol as my painkiller of choice I would soon discover it was a very different story. I was still in pain. It turns out that it’s just with morphine you don’t notice.
The next day I was off home via a lift from a mutual acquaintance of Shazia’s and mine who kindly volunteered for the post as temporary taxi driver. Thankfully my good fortune didn’t stop there. Once back home, ex-comedian Angie McEvoy volunteered to ferry me around the next day so I could get some shopping in and even made me some healthy (and tasty) homemade soup. But then I was faced with the dilemma that everyone faces who is not entitled to sick pay: to work or not to work. I had gigs booked in for that weekend which I was still determined to do. I felt I’d be able to do them (a confidence originally buoyed up by being on morphine it later transpired). This attitude was at loggerheads with what Jen, Susan and Jojo thought. They felt I should take things easy, but I was convinced that it would be fine.
Days later, I went to get my wound cleaned, unpacked and repacked and if you think that sounds painful then you’d be right. Then I was booked in to have it cleaned, unpacked and repacked again the very morning I was supposed to be travelling up north for gigs. At first I felt I could still do it. It would be tight. The clinic wasn’t near a tube line and I had booked an early train. (Of course I had. It was the only ticket I could buy without asking the bank for a small loan). It would mean dashing off after the clinic to get the train in time. It would be tight but still doable.
If this sounds stupid, you’d be right, but you have to remember most comics hate pulling a gig. There’s the financial aspect for sure but also a comic don’t want to come across as unreliable. Understandably, bookers are wary of booking people who pull gigs on them, as replacing acts at the last minute is a right royal pain.
But as luck would have it, the decision was made for me. Out of supplies, I dragged myself to the shops. I was at the till and realised I’d forgotten something and went to run to get it and I was in agony. I couldn’t run. It was an essential ingredient but I was like, hell, forget it Maureen. I physically couldn’t do it. It was as if I was stabbing at my wound. It was then that it finally hit home that trying to dash from one side of London to another after I’d just had my wound repacked was never going to happen, let alone sit on a train for over 2 hours. Reality finally set in and reluctantly I had to pull the gigs. Luckily both promoters were incredibly understanding.
Therefore for 12 days I didn’t gig. That’s a long time not to gig but it also made me realise something else: comics are loath to take time off. Your aim as a comic is to have every weekend booked up. You want a full diary and once it is booked up, it is incumbent on you to moan about how busy you are and how much travelling you do. In the 2 weeks before I fell ill, I’d been to Manchester, Brighton, France, Brighton, London, Brighton, Bromsgrove and then back to London. That’s a lot of travelling. In all that time I’d spent one day in Rochdale as time off with friends. Yes, Rochdale. I know how to have a good time, folks. Don’t judge me. They’ve got a dinosaur there you can stare at and I had one of the best Sunday lunches ever.
Talking of taking actual time off, comics are often wary to book a holiday because you’re always worried that something ‘might come in’. Sometimes something ‘does come in’. Twice I’ve shortened holidays because well-paid gigs have come in and I decided I couldn’t afford to say no.
Obviously there is a lot of downtime when you’re not performing but then there’s travelling, admin (there is an unbelievable amount of admin for some reason), then there is chasing gigs, chasing payments and not forgetting at some point you really should be sitting down and writing (ideally) some new funny jokes or maybe even going the whole hog and write a new show. But taking time off, when you’re not working, or not trying to get work, or not writing in order to be better at what you doing is a very rare thing. Obviously with the prospect of COVIDー19 looming over us, comedians might be in for an enforced and rather costly break. But if my recent stay in hospital has taught me anything is that underneath a comedian’s cynical skin is a much more compassionate side (that’s probably one reason why we get asked to do so many damn charity gigs) and that the NHS is ace. If you’ve managed to get this far; firstly, well done you; secondly, one simple thing-Follow @NHSMillion & @keepnhspublic on Twitter. Show them some love. We may all need the NHS sooner than we would like.
