How time flies. We attended my little brother’s engagement party last May, and here we are again. A year and a month later. June, the month of weddings, ha, ha. The smell of lilacs in the air, the sound of birds chirping. How romantic! Yes, here we are again, and the wedding reception is over. They’ll leave soon for their honeymoon. A trip to Venice. Ben’s pretty conventional things. Let’s do things the way Grandad had done. I hope the heat and the crowd won’t spoil their trip.
Yes, here we are again, and I’m now the bachelor in the family. Things haven’t worked out between Emily and me.
Her obsession with cleanliness and order freaked me out. We were rowing every night. That’s when my acid reflux started. Maybe it’s psychosomatic; I’m not sure.
Dad had it badly, I reckon. He used to take bicarbonate of soda time all the time, which made him burp. He also smoked like a a chimney and enjoyed his food.
Gosh, I’ve eaten too much. How many glasses of wine have I drunk? I hope I don’t get reflux tonight. I think I’ll taking a Minifamotidin tablet and a spoonful of Gaviscon to be on the safe side. Ice cubes on the bedside table? Oh yes. I realise they’ll only help a little. Maybe I should take some Omeprazole or something similar. If only Dylan, my American pal, hadn’t scared me off with all that talk of side effects like cancer and dementia.
I’m not going to bed yet. I know that helps. Avoid spicy food, sparkling mineral water and orange juice—it’s all rubbish, of course, the kind of thing you read about in Women’s Weekly! I don’t care much about side effects now. I just want to live a normal life.
I’m fed up with when I hardly hear anything but my rumbling stomach, or those when I have to jump out of bed at night with my nose full with gastric juice being scared of suffocation. I will ask my gastroenterologist for advice. If my GP doesn’t refer me, I’ll go private.
It’s been a few weeks and it’s just as I suspected. I couldn’t get hold of my GP. The nurse answered the phone every time I called the surgery. She kept telling me how stretched they were and just gave me the usual advice, which I’m fed up listening to. Carbonated drinks, spicy foods, coffee and orange juice. “Try to avoid dairy. That helped me.” ‘Silly cow… “How old are you?” I felt like asking her. “You still believe in fairy tales?” I wish I’d actually said it. I didn’t, of course. Maybe I’m being a bit paranoid, but what if she refused to write me a prescription the next time I asked for one?
So here we are. Time to be proactive. Let’s browse the internet. Here we are: doctorfinder.uk.com. Yes!
Private gastroenterologists…Harley Street…not that, for God’s sake! This might do the trick: Mr. Noah Smyth. Surgery near Russell square. Phone number…No mention about prices, of course. Hmm…Is it worth a try? My GP might decide not to listen to his advice.
“Why don’t you try changing your diet?” Another piece of useless advice. I’m already on a special diet. My new girlfriend Siobhan encouraged me to give it a go.
No dairy products, no gluten. I’m starving. It seems like the only thing I eat is Gaviscon. It helps, but not for very long. I don’t fancy taking medications, but why exactly? So much advice…. ‘Forever young!’ ‘Let your body heal itself!’ It’s probably just the latest fad. Well I don’t care if Sioban falls out with me, it’s about time I took things in my own hands. I can’t continue living with these symptoms.
(Speaking over the phone) “Oh hi is it Mr Smyth’s practice? I was wondering if you have a slot for me sometime next week…”
