Sadly, or perhaps fortunately, this posting is likely to be far less dramatic than I first expected it to be. I was, you see, going to head it up with just the word "BLOOD" written in large, unfriendly letters and let you imagine the dramatic sting, but that seemed overly melodramatic and, sagely, in the end I thought better of it.
After all, it wasn't all that interesting a tale that I had to tell… although that, of course, won't prevent me from telling it anyway…
So, back in October, when enough was already going on, and everyone seemed at that point to want a piece of me as we wallowed in the aftermath of our own little family tragedy, I made my regular overdue appointment to have some blood taken so that the quacks could check up on whether the endless morning routine of pill-popping was having a detrimental effect upon what I still laughingly regard as my "system…"
Shortly afterwards, a letter arrived from the Health Centre asking me to make an appointment in three months time for another blood test, which seemed unusual, given that they'd just had one, but, seeing as I was already being overwhelmed with paperwork at the time, I made a note in my diary and filed it away.
January having arrived three months later as it generally does, I rang the Health Centre and we enjoyed a bit of banter as I explained the lack of urgency and found myself with an appointment during the commuter surgery session not that week, because it was all booked up, but the following week when a nice early appointment was available at 7.10 in the morning.
So, with our railway station schedule duly rearranged, I pulled up in a dark car park and went inside and waited and, a few minutes ahead of schedule (and despite the computer thinking that they were already running two minutes behind), my name was called and off I went to get poked with a needle and have a sample of my blood extracted once again.
You'll no doubt be familiar with the routine; shirt off, a strap around the upper arm, a needle in the vein, a few CCs of the red stuff into a plastic tube, a piece of cotton wool to stem the flow, a plaster to cover the "wound", shirt back on, and off you jolly well go.
I still feel slightly unsure about our practice nurse because she doesn't do the quick wipe of the skin with an anti-bacterial gloop beforehand like they do in hospitals, but I'm sure that she has her reasons...
There was a certain amount of discussion with the practice nurse about why this follow-up poking was felt to be necessary, especially as she asked me why I was there when I arrived and she first kicked up her rinky-dinky little computer and found that it had only been three months since she'd last poked me with a needle.
"I got a letter…" I replied… and took the opportunity to ask why she thought that I might have got it, to which she had no real answer.
None the wiser, she told me that she supposed that she'd better do it because I'd got a letter and, when she looked at the report from last time, she did say that the numbers had been a little off.
"Good off, or bad off…?" I asked nervously.
"Oh, good off" she muttered, (at least I think that was what she said…) and so we went through the procedure which I described earlier and afterwards we both seemed happy enough with how it all went.
And so, five minutes later and a few CCs of blood lighter, I departed and went about my day as usual, happy, at least, that the needle hadn't snapped as it attempted to pierce the stone that is my flesh, but still none the wiser…
Told you it was a dull story.
So, back in October, when enough was already going on, and everyone seemed at that point to want a piece of me as we wallowed in the aftermath of our own little family tragedy, I made my regular overdue appointment to have some blood taken so that the quacks could check up on whether the endless morning routine of pill-popping was having a detrimental effect upon what I still laughingly regard as my "system…"
Shortly afterwards, a letter arrived from the Health Centre asking me to make an appointment in three months time for another blood test, which seemed unusual, given that they'd just had one, but, seeing as I was already being overwhelmed with paperwork at the time, I made a note in my diary and filed it away.
January having arrived three months later as it generally does, I rang the Health Centre and we enjoyed a bit of banter as I explained the lack of urgency and found myself with an appointment during the commuter surgery session not that week, because it was all booked up, but the following week when a nice early appointment was available at 7.10 in the morning.
So, with our railway station schedule duly rearranged, I pulled up in a dark car park and went inside and waited and, a few minutes ahead of schedule (and despite the computer thinking that they were already running two minutes behind), my name was called and off I went to get poked with a needle and have a sample of my blood extracted once again.
You'll no doubt be familiar with the routine; shirt off, a strap around the upper arm, a needle in the vein, a few CCs of the red stuff into a plastic tube, a piece of cotton wool to stem the flow, a plaster to cover the "wound", shirt back on, and off you jolly well go.
I still feel slightly unsure about our practice nurse because she doesn't do the quick wipe of the skin with an anti-bacterial gloop beforehand like they do in hospitals, but I'm sure that she has her reasons...
There was a certain amount of discussion with the practice nurse about why this follow-up poking was felt to be necessary, especially as she asked me why I was there when I arrived and she first kicked up her rinky-dinky little computer and found that it had only been three months since she'd last poked me with a needle.
"I got a letter…" I replied… and took the opportunity to ask why she thought that I might have got it, to which she had no real answer.
None the wiser, she told me that she supposed that she'd better do it because I'd got a letter and, when she looked at the report from last time, she did say that the numbers had been a little off.
"Good off, or bad off…?" I asked nervously.
"Oh, good off" she muttered, (at least I think that was what she said…) and so we went through the procedure which I described earlier and afterwards we both seemed happy enough with how it all went.
And so, five minutes later and a few CCs of blood lighter, I departed and went about my day as usual, happy, at least, that the needle hadn't snapped as it attempted to pierce the stone that is my flesh, but still none the wiser…
Told you it was a dull story.
It's the life Martin.
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