SUNDAY night and I received a text message informing me that my good friend Mae had been admitted to Monklands Hospital.

I knew that she had been feeling unwell and had been on antibiotics the previous week, but had no idea that her symptoms had worsened.

“I’ll visit her after work on Monday,” I promised her daughter.

Ahead of my visit the patient texted me.

“Hi Janice. I’m in the Receive Me Unit just round the corner from A & E. You cannae miss it xx.”

Nevertheless, despite her misleading text directions, I manage to track down the elusive Mae in the Emergency Receiving Unit, which was indeed near A & E.

To let you understand, my pal Mae tends to get her words a little bit mixed up, so I wasn’t entirely surprised by her misguided message.

However, when I first clapped eyes on the patient I was somewhat shocked to see her lying flopped back on the pillow, bright red and wearing an oxygen mask.

“Oh my,” I exclaimed when my pal opened her eyes.

“You don’t look good at all. What’s wrong with you?”

“Hi Janice,” Mae seemed unusually serious.

“The doctors think I might have OCD.”

I was puzzled.

“Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?”

“How did that land you in hospital?” I asked.

But before she could explain, the penny dropped.

“Don’t you mean COPD?” I suggested.

“Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease.”

“Yes,” confirmed the patient.

"That’s what I said.

“It’s because of my smoking.”

Mae then pointed around the small ward at each patient, giving me the latest medical report on who was in for what.

“She’s in for ... and she’s in for … and see her over there.”

Mae then pointed to a young girl in the bed across from her.

“She was making some racket last night Janice.”

“And the only way they could calm her down was to put her on Ghetto Blasters.

“But they seem to have everything under control now though.”

I didn’t want to correct Mae, but assumed that the poor lassie was now on Beta Blockers and not Ghetto Blasters.

“That’s good,” I confirmed.

And despite the fact that Mae was wearing an oxygen mask, just like Darth Vader from Star Wars, she continued to wheeze and talk non-stop throughout my entire visit.

Day four, I returned to visit the patient and was just in time to sit with her as the consultant did his rounds.

“I’ve failed every test so far Janice,” Mae explained as though she was still as school.

“And I don’t think they’ll let me home until I pass something.”

I rolled my eyes and wondered what Mae was hoping to pass.

“The doctor gave me a lecture on smoking, and I tell you Janice, this has been a big wake up call for me.”

The posh consultant stood at the end of Mae’s bed and began his questioning.

“Hello again Mae,” he then asked.

“Do you get breathless when you run upstairs?”

Mae thought for a second.

“I don’t usually run upstairs.

“I take the lift.”

Ignoring her the posh consultant continued.

“Well Mae, I’m delighted that you have managed to stop smoking since you were admitted.”

Mae nodded, pleased that she had finally done something right.

“I take it the nicotine patches have helped you stop smoking?”

“Oh yes sir.” Mae wheezed.

“I couldn’t have stopped without them.”

Mae then proceeded to roll up her pyjama trouser leg to show the consultant the nicotine patch. (As though he was about to witness a medical phenomenon.)

However, the nurse was quick to point out that the patch was actually stuck to Mae’s pyjamas and not her leg.

“Oh my.” Mae was surprised.

“I haven’t had a cigarette in four days so the patches definitely work.”

She then concluded: “I guess it must be the gazebo effect.”

The posh consultant was dying to laugh but remained professional as he smiled and scribbled down some notes.

“You see doctor.” Mae was on a roll, “I do realise that as well as OCD, I could end up with Emphy…. Emphy….Emphy something or Oesteo-sclerosis.”

Despite Mae’s verbal blunders, the consultant remained straight faced and continued writing, while Mae continued talking.

“I’ve got my prescription and promise I’ll take my immobiliser four times a day as prescribed, and stay off the fags.

“I’m pleased with my progress doctor so is there any chance I could get released today.”

Mae dared to ask as though she was held up in a high security prison.

Peering over his spectacles the consultant concluded.

“Tell you what Mae,” he said.

“So long as you promise to use the nebuliser four times a day as prescribed.

“And wear the nicotine patches, preferably on your leg and not your pyjamas.

“I think we can release you.”

“Oh thank you soooo … much doctor.”

Mae had a tear in her eye, and I swear the consultant did too.