I’ve been home probably six weeks, and so far, not much fun. I visited my doctor, who organised a cat scan and also put me on antibiotics. The result, according to the doctor,  bad news,lots of white spots on my lungs, good news no cancer. White spots!!I’m none the wiser.Doc says wait 6 months and have another scan. If there are less white spots,I’m getting better. If there are more, we’ll action plan B and look further. As I’m getting crooker and given up the antibiotics as cough syrup and beer are doing a better job,I decide to take matters into my own hands. Last Friday,I googled lung infection and found pulmonoligist is the technical name for lung specialist. I rang one in Brisbane and they had a cancellation on Monday. I coughed and spluttered my way through the weekend and caught the train to Brisbane on Monday for my much anticipated appointment with Sam Kim, a very smily,skinny 62 year old south Korean lung and respiratory doctor. He pulled up the scan on his computer and explained the white spots. There were basically two different shapes. The triangle shapes were cement dust, and the smoother ones were silica. After the browsing and explanation exercise, Sam had me blowing my guts out into a machine that measured my lung capacity. Sam was surprised with the amount my lungs had captured and  stored over 50 something years. Even though I haven’t had a cigarette for 40 years, except for the odd joint,I have only lost 20 percent of my lung capacity. He then told me he would write a report and email it to my doctor for more discussion and consultation, and that one day I would need a lung procedure,which the doctor would explain the benefits and risks involved. I’m thinking another few months of towing and frowing. No way Sam am I going to take any advice from a bloke who can only see white spots. So I told Sam, let’s do it. Two days later and after a light breakfast of a boiled egg and a piece of toast, my blood pressure tablet, tumeric tablet washed down with a glass of water and a cup of tea at 6 am this morning, I threw a tooth brush, toothpaste,a book, phone charger, and of course a spare pair of undies into my back pack. You know the essentials you need when you’re having a sleep over. Having a couple of hours to kill, I started watching a movie on SBS called Whisky Galore. The story is set in a beautiful village in Scotland. The story goes, the delivery boat with hundreds of crates of Whisky runs aground about half a mile from the loading and unloading facility, and the town folk, having run dry,plot to get to the stricken vessel to remove the precious cargo before she sinks. Unfortunately I had to venture to my neighbour’s house to get my lift to the local train station, so I don’t know if the town folk were successful. The fifty kilometre journey was interrupted by track maintenance, so the last half of the journey was completed by bus. Under cloud and intermittent rain, I walked the last three kilometres up a steep hill and lots of stairs. I arrived at St Andrews hospital,(I hope they didn’t name it after the scum bag who is still hiding behind his mother’s apron even though she has no use for it any more), on time for my admission  and 1000 questions plus plenty of paper work. After accepting me and paying my admittance fee, I was taken to my very small change room, stripped down to my undies and put on the very popular blue gown back to front. With my matching blue slippers, I was ready for the call, up to the surgery room. Killing time by reading a book on the coming Olympics in Paris, and some interesting Olympics history, I was finally summoned by the man who puts you to sleep 😴. He explained in detail what lay ahead.Sounds fine so far.But then when he got to the bit where I  wake up and I’m going to be coughing uncontrollable for a few hours and my throat is going to be that sore for a few days I won’t want to eat, because of shoving a camera down my lungs, including other instruments and fluids for cleaning, not forgetting shoving fingers down there, I’m thinking maybe this is not a good idea after all. However, with lots of confidence, tongue in cheek, this man who is watching over me while I sleep, and got 250 bucks from me to cover the gap, tells me not to worry. After loading me on to the wheely bed, the wardsman pushed me through narrow corridors, took a couple of different lifts, maybe he was lost, we finally arrived at the surgery room. I did point the cob webs and missing paint on the ceiling  to him whilst on our journey. I couldn’t believe the size of the team. The anathesist, four female nurses, one male nurse, Sam,the main man ,and me the other main man. Although I slept through it all after a jab in my arm. It was an awsome sleep. I was driving a zebra painted 4 wheel drive across an African wild life safari park amongst all the beautiful animals. Elephants, tigers,lions,zebras,in fact I was driving towards the river to check out the hippos when some mongeral decided my sleeping meter had expired and my slumber had come to an end. In my drowsy state, I heard Sam thank the team and asked one of the nurses to jot down in her notes, that a biopsy of the right middle lobe and right lower lobeof my right lung have been taken and that would be the explanation if I started coughing up blood. As my consious state improved, and opened my eyes, I also thanked the dozen eyes peering down on me. I then questioned if they forgot to do the task that was put in front of them, as my throat felt ok and I wasn’t coughing as much as I was before going into my sleeping beauty role. I was told that the numbness from the medication was yet to wear off. Damn,I thought I might be one of the lucky ones. After checking my vitals, blood pressure, pulse etc, I was taken by wheely bed back through the corridors and lifts to ward 4E bed 1. There are two beds, and I have a 60 something years old male neighbour. An hour later around 4.30 in the afternoon, I’m given a ham and cheese sanga,water, and a cup of tea. The nurses come in every hour to check my vitals, check my oxygen tank, and ask if I need pain relief. So far so good. Tomorrow, I look forward to talking to Sam and hopefully catch the train back to Donnybrook, my home town,later in the day. Who knows, I could back on the piss by Friday night watching a miracle unfold, when the bombers beat the magpies. Cheers Hank