AKA Big Bad Doctor Bacsi
I’m currently slumped on a sofa, feeling very sorry for myself as I’ve been fighting a nasty virus for the past four days. To add spice to the cauldron, the baby is due to arrive any moment now and I’m petrified that I’m going to honour the event by sweating and snotting over the birth. I’ve been attempting to summon my inner Wolverine and heal in record-breaking time, but so far, my tungsten clawed beast is staying away.
So with nothing better to do, I thought I’d tell you a tale. A tale of last weekend…
It’s Sunday night and I’m driving through the streets of Buda, accompanied by a ready to burst pregnant wife and a toddler covered in blood. It’s an impromptu drive, a drive that wasn’t at all on the cards until Mila decided to change the course of the evening with a spur of the moment run around the flat in the dark. A run that led to trip, a head-first dive, a cut to the temple and a lot of blood and crying (mostly from Zsuzsa).
And now here we are, in the car.
“I think I might go in to labour honey.” says Zsuzsa, just to add a little extra spice to the evening.
“Please don’t go in to labour sweetheart. Remember what you dad said?” I reply.
Zsuzsa’s dad asked for her not to go in to labour until at least Tuesday as the car was being serviced on Monday. He also asked her to try and give birth in a way that wouldn’t be too painful, so hopefully she’ll be a good girl and do just that.
“I don’t want to go see doctor bacsi (man).” pleads Mila.
“It’s okay Mila. Doctor bacsi is nice. Doctor bacsi will make you better okay?” I reply.
“I all better.”
“Let’s see if doctor bacsi agrees, yes?”
“I don’t like doctor bacsi.”
“Should’ve thought of that before cutting your head open darling.”
“Aaaaaawww.” groans Mila.
“Aaaaaaggghhh!” says Zsuzsa, contracting as she often does nowadays.
A few minutes later and we’re sitting in a reception in a creepy, seemingly empty hospital.
A door creaks open and a face peers out through a crack. It’s a woman and she beckons us in. I carry my sleepy, bloody little daughter in to the room with Zsuzsa waddling in alongside me like a miniature, red headed John Wayne with water retention issues. Inside we are greeted by a large white moustache, with a man attachment lurking in the background somewhere. It gestures for me to bring Mila to the operating table.
Over the course of the next few moments myself and Zsuzsa comfort our teary little girl as she has her wound glued shut by the large white moustache.
“Finished!” says the moustache.
Mila sits bolt upright.
“Where is my present?” demands Mila.
“Oh. Uh. All the shops are closed darling. I’ll get you something in…”
I’m stopped in my tracks as a woman appears from nowhere and hands Mila a balloon animal. Then, just as suddenly the woman wanders off. Mila grasps it triumphantly.
“My present.” she says with a grin.
I turn to Zsuzsa.
“Is that normal?”
Zsuzsa just shrugs. I guess it’s a Hungarian thing. Maybe all Hungarian hospitals, as a matter of course, employee circus folk to craft balloon animals for patients. The NHS need to up their bloody game!
We make our way back towards our chariot, and off we head, back in to the night, back towards our latest Buda nest. Battered, tired, pregnant, bruised and glued. The three and a bit amigos.
“Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggghhhh!” says Zsuzsa.
“Remember what your dad said honey. Not until the car has been serviced.”