Kia ora koutou, have you ever been faced with this question? Or, perhaps not always ‘faced’ with it. Maybe you’ve been lying on said face at the time. The question is usually asked when you’re experiencing a level of pain which has led you to visit the doctor, ring an ambulance, or get someone to drive you to the emergency department of your local hospital. This, for a lot of us, is an hour or more drive away from home so is generally not taken on the basis of a sore finger.
To point out that asking this fatuous question when you’re suffering severe pain and can’t even remember the answer to one and one, is possibly a question that has not occurred to those powerful persons in white, who stare at you with that look in their eyes that says, ‘I’m not going to believe a word of anything you say but I have to put something on this form so away you go. If I smile its not because I find your words laughable. Truly. ‘What did you say your birth date was?’
‘So,’ they say, patently unbelieving that there’s anything wrong with you at all, that you’re just a moaning old biddy taking up precious time which should be given to those younger people who are genuinely in pain, ‘so, on a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the worst, what would you score your pain at?’
And they sit back and smile understandingly. They’ve been taught to do this by actors at a two–day workshop entitled ‘Empathising with patients‘.
So there you are, in agony, your foot, arm, leg, back, eye, head or gut is so sore, you could cry, you’re only here because where you live has no medical service apart from Saturday morning which is for the very sick so obviously if you get sick outside these hours, good luck, mate. Its too onerous apparently for there to be one doctor on call from Saturday afternoon through Sunday to Monday morning – and besides it would interfere with their golf.
And lo – the pharmacy, seizing its power at being the only chemist in town, has cut out Saturdays completely so you can’t go there either.
So for those of us who’ve been silly enough to get sick after hours, tough shit, baby, you have to face the scale of ten exam. So here’s some suggestions for when you’re faced with that question…’On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the worst, how severe would you rate your pain?’
- A mild prickle like someone’s scratched your hand with a needle…you fix this by rubbing with some cream, you drink a cup of hot black tea or coffee, have a warm bath, or just looking at the ceiling and say, ‘For fuck’s sake.’
2. A slightly stronger piercing sensation in the area, indicating the needle has been pushed further in. You do the above and add a glass of water and 2 paracetamol.
3. Definitely impinging now and you think maybe a warmed wheatbag or an ice pack from the freezer. There are two schools of thought here. Both lots swear by their chosen method, both lots can expound for hours on the values and healing properties of their favourite. Just choose. Do one. Or do both. The sky will not fall.
4. Now its starting to become a nuisance. There’s the beginnings of an edge to the jag, its beginning to radiate out, this is not going to be fobbed off with your stupid wheatbag, ice–pack or 2 paracetamol. There’s a strong hint that you might have to do something about it like move from the bed or chair where you’ve been for the last two hours asking God why you? Just a hint here. There will be no answer. God doesn’t do air chats.
5. A more lacerating piercing enters from stage left. Its like someone has taken a knitting needle or a screwdriver and decided to wriggle it about, see how far and wide it can go. Fuck off, you say (again), but its either deaf or refusing to hear. You pour a small whisky, gin or glass of red. White wine is only good for celebration not commiseration. You say out loud, ‘For fuck’s sake, piss off.’
6. You cannot get comfortable, the pain has now spread to your shoulders, arms, legs and feet, and bugger it, your gut hurts. You take another two paracetamol, ignoring the fact that its not four hours since you took the last lot. You moan occasionally.
7. The moaning has become louder. It doesn’t matter. No–one will take any notice. You are going to die in extreme pain and, you suddenly realise, all the doors are locked so you won’t be able to be rescued even if someone does happen to notice your blinds have been drawn for three days. You writhe and swear a bit and in between times, start to imagine your funeral.
8. Well past the stage of warm wheat bags, icy ice–packs, paracetamol, strong drink. You begin to think maybe you should ring 111. You have been putting the idea off since level 1 but…
9. You ring 111, tell the voice the story. They ask your age. If you are over fifty you know they’ve immediately written you down as gaga and if you’re female, they’ve added, imagining it.
10. Agony. Think third stage labour. You’re trying to push a pumpkin out of a hole th size of a small tomato. You are only capable of screaming Jesus fuck off, and these words do not mean exactly what they might suggest. You are definitely not asking Jesus to mix sex with travel. The world has narrowed to this place, this bed, this moment, you see black with red zigzags, and then a voice says, ‘On a scale of one to ten…’ and you scream ‘Third stage labour’ and the male doctor says, ‘Would that be 5 or slightly higher?’
Renée
