2639. Bananas

Patient: Doctor I’m hungry. I’m finding it more and more difficult to find something to eat that I can keep down.

Doctor: The results of your blood tests have come in. That might tell us something. Yes, I see you are low in potassium. Do you like bananas? I have a banana left over from my lunch. Would you like it? Bananas are high in potassium.

Patient: That is very kind, thank you.

The patient takes a bite of the banana and drops dead.

Doctor: Nurse! Nurse! Come quick!

The nurse enters.

Nurse: Oh doctor, didn’t you know?

Doctor: What? What?

Nurse: These seven-armed, green-blooded aliens from outer space are allergic to bananas.

2476. Hospital emergency

Doctor: Hold still. I’ve got some of it out with the tweezers.

Cynthia: Ouch, doctor. It hurts.

Doctor: There! That’s quite a big piece. Have you just been to a fancy dress party?

Cynthia: No. I am a real princess. Be more careful. Don’t forget that I’m a princess.

Doctor: You and your parents might think so, but in truth you’re a spoiled little brat. Now hold still. This would be a lot easier if there wasn’t blood all over the place.

Cynthia: But I am a real princess.

Doctor: Yeah right. Anyway, so how did you get all these shards of glass embedded in your right foot?

1989. Daughter memories

It was a tragedy when Diana and Mansell’s seven-year-old daughter, Destiny, died. It had been a medical mistake. Destiny had gone in “for a little operation” and the surgeon had left a sponge inside her when he sewed up. Destiny died.

Diana and Mansell were, of course, heart-broken.

“We have to sue the doctor,” declared Mansell. “We have to sue the hospital. We have to sue the Health Board. We have to sue…”

“I think we should remember little Destiny and the happy times,” said Diana. “To sue would simply extend our grieving forever.”

”It’s not the money,” said Mansell. “It’s the principle. We don’t want this happening again.”

“I think we can rest assured that it won’t happen again, whether we sue or not,” said Diana. “I would prefer to remember Destiny the happy way she was.”

But Mansell went on and on. He wouldn’t let the topic drop. Whenever Destiny’s name was mentioned he went on about the irresponsibility of the doctors and the nurses and the hospitals.

It was impossible for Diana to ever share memories of their daughter with her husband without a diatribe. It lasted a lifetime.

1939. To die alphabetically

Jerome Holke Barbarich-Askelund’s doctor had given him bad news. He had not been feeling well and was not at all surprised when the doctor announced (in a kindly and tender manner) that what Jerome Holke Barbarich-Askelund had was terminal.

“Oh well,” shrugged Jerome, “we all eventually get our marching orders I suppose.”

He went home and within a week had become obsessed with the death notices in the morning paper. Here was a list of those who had died – usually the day before. Jerome began to work out each morning where his name would go alphabetically if he had indeed passed away on the preceding day.

Amor
Austin
Baird
Burgin
Cain

If he had died his name would appear between Baird and Burgin.

Ackerley
Alexander
Batwell
Blayney
Blight

If he had died his name would appear between Alexander and Batwell.

And there, on the third day, BARBARICH-ASKELUND! There it was in print! In black and white! What a mystery!

Anderson
Atherfold
Aycock
BARBARICH-ASKELUND
Butt

“As far as I know,” said Mrs. Barbarich-Askelund, “we are the only ones in the country with this family name. It’s a complete bafflement. I’m in a state of stupefaction.”

After two weeks, Mrs. Barbarich-Askelund’s friend, Gloria Wiggins said, “Look Myrtle-Bianca, you have to admit that he’s been dead for two weeks now. You can’t go on pretending it didn’t happen. “

“Oh Gloria!” sobbed Myrtle-Bianca Barbarich-Askelund, “to die is one thing. To appear in print between Aycock and Butt is shocking. Jerome will never forgive me.”

1811. The stamp of fame

Lois tried to post on her blog daily. Her postings were open to comments and likes. In fact, she felt quite thrilled when someone commented or gave her a like. It was as if putting time into creating a post was worthwhile, particularly if the comment said that her posting had been helpful.

Then one day someone posted a comment that was a bit rude: Why don’t you write about something interesting, you weasel?

Lois was a bit upset about it, but not too much. She continued to write and post. The comments got more vehement. Why don’t you write about something we can all understand? You’ve got your head in the clouds thinking that people are interested in such rubbish. I wish you’d stop annoying the hell out of people like me.

Lois could have deleted the comment but she left it on her blog, although she didn’t respond to it. She wondered why the commenter bothered to even read her blog. However, someone else came to her defence.

Professor Lois Stinghammer is the world’s leading expert in Neurocardio Conversigence. She blogs daily to help those of us who suffer from such a disease. We understand better what is happening to us and what we must do to help alleviate our condition. Thank you, Doctor Lois for your time and kindness, and a pox on Jello-in-the-kitchen for their rude and inconsiderate reaction.

Of course Neurocardio Conversigence wasn’t a disease that existed, and nor was Lois a doctor, but it wasn’t long before both got their own page on Wikipedia.

1719. Bottoms up!

Cyril had never been so pleased. His doctor had told him to limit his alcohol intake to two wines a day. Thank goodness he drank straight out of the bottle.

1545. Wheat allergy

Rosemary felt ill most of the time.

Eventually she got a doctor who knew what she was talking about. After tests, the doctor pronounced that Rosemary had a wheat allergy.

“Avoid bread and other food made from wheat,” said the doctor.

“But doctor,” said Rosemary, “my husband bakes bread every day. He always has. He’s so proud of his bread-making skills. And he does make lovely bread. That’s how we met.”

Rosemary went home. She never told her husband.

Rosemary felt ill most of the time.

1261. Terminal

Look, said the doctor, I’m afraid I have some bad news. Your cancer is terminal.

Oh but doctor, said the patient, how long have I got?

You haven’t got too long, said the doctor. Maybe a month, six weeks. During that time we’ll make you as comfortable as possible. There will be days of discomfort, but nothing that can’t in the main be relieved.

But doctor, I don’t want to die yet. Can’t they operate or something?

There’s very little can be done. It’s too advanced, said the doctor. Would you like me to tell your wife, or is that something you’d prefer to do yourself?

I don’t know. I’m just bewildered. Shocked and bewildered. I don’t feel that sick. Maybe there’s a mistake?

I’m sorry, said the doctor.

OK, said the tutor at the Med. School. Times up! Swap roles now. The one who played the patient now plays the doctor. This time, you are to role-play breaking the sad news of terminal cancer to the spouse.

1180. The case of the missing…

Charles hadn’t seen his penis for about sixteen years. Mind you, nor had anyone else. His paunch so hung that he could neither glance down nor bend over far enough. It wasn’t like that for his feet. He occasionally saw them. For example, if he put them on a chair one at a time to cut his nails or tie up his shoe laces he had a reasonable view of his phalanges. Not so the other aforementioned appendage.

It therefore came as a devastating shock to him one day when he couldn’t find it. It filled him with consternation. It had disappeared. He thought he’d better try and read about it before he saw a doctor, but there seemed no literature; neither online nor in the local library.

Full of foreboding he made an appointment with the doctor. She was of no help. She simply laughed and said it was much ado about nothing. What a bafflement! Much ado about nothing my foot.

And then it dawned on him. If he couldn’t see it, then possibly nor would he have seen a thief. It had been stolen.

(Not to be continued).

1149. Some aliens are never satisfied

“You can go home,” said the doctor to the hospital patient.

“But doctor,” said the patient, “you know very well I am an alien and I was in hospital with broken limbs because my space craft crashed. It’s pretty obvious I can’t go home.”

“I had quite forgotten that,” said the doctor. “It’s amazing how quickly one gets used to seeing you wear that mask that enables you to breathe propane. I’ll see what I can do.”

Special accommodation was arranged for the alien. He could walk around freely while breathing healthy propane gases. But the alien was most unhappy.

“I’m sick to death of the food,” said the alien. “Day after day it’s the same potassium cyanide. Why can’t they vary it a bit, like the drink of carbon tetrachloride I was given last Christmas?”

They tried to vary the food a little after that, but to be honest the nurses in the Psych Ward were getting tired of it.