I’m up kind of late, 7.30am, well, late for me. And then Sam is up kind of late, we’ll, for him, just after 8am. Then I’m going to make toast and coffee at 8.15am and I remember that pesky blood test I should have had in April, you know, to find out if my blood is still green and actively producing lizard platelets. And by this stage I am getting quite hungry and I draw in a big breath and think seriously if I am going to squib it and just make toast and coffee and sit back down on the couch and continue to ignore the whole blood test situation? Big breath in. Oh yes, that would be much, much easier, I should just do that. It is murder going out on an empty stomach after all. Who wants to do that?
But then, you know, that part of sensible Christian chimes in and says something like, it is so close to 8.30am when your clinic opens, and you haven't eaten anything, and you are so close to getting in your car and just slipping along there and getting it over and done with, you should just get it done. Oh yes, I know you are tired and hungry and your burden weighs heavily on you, (chuckle) but you should take this opportunity to lighten it, just a little, don’t you think. Come on you can do it.
So, you know, I wearily take stock of myself and I look away from the kitchen and focus further afield, through my glass atrium to the hallway and the front of the house, and slowly my brain catches up and my feet start walking one foot in front of the other, like there is some force, not of my own making, taking me there.
And, of course, Charlie is in the bathroom when I get there which almost derails the whole carryon. Charlie is always in the bathroom. I can never make up my mind if he is staring in the mirror, or pulling his sausage unmercifully? And I momentarily think, I should just barge in and get in the shower with him. And if he is whacking off, I should just grab his pud and whack him off real fast, saying, "There, that's how you do it, now get out." Or if he is washing, just grab the soap from him and scrub him good and hard, telling him, "It doesn't have to be an hour long fucking production, there now, get out." Tossing him out of the shower naked moments later, the thought of which makes me smile. Oh, could you imagine the look on his face?
I take a quick look in the hallway mirror to check if I could go without a wash and I think I could as I attempt to push the cocky curl back into place, but I go to a gay clinic and I can’t really go there with messy hair, the thought makes me laugh, as I try to remember if I had a shower yesterday? And it really is just about keeping up hygiene standards and it has nothing to do with what some fag in the waiting room might think.
Anyway, Charlie is out of the bathroom when I next look, so I shower and am dressed and in the car 5 minutes, or so. I'm a quick showerer, I always have been.
But, no coffee and no food, I'm in a take no prisoners kind of mood, which I try to keep under control.
The traffic is peak hour and nobody was letting me in, poor sods there is a part of me that feels sorry for them. But that’s okay because I wasn’t letting anyone in either. But, I can push in with the best of them, which I did. I find people, generally, back down, if you don't back down.
Some guy cuts in in front of me and then proceeds to travel at 5 k’s an hour, so I honk him, the length of which I think is a direct result of the lack of coffee in my system. As I pass him, I see he is looking about with his mouth open.
The traffic is busy in St Georges Road, road works doesn’t help either. I park in a side street, squeeze in a spot in front of a Subaru, which is backed up against a roadworks sign, and I back right up to it so as not to hang too much of my car into the No Standing space in front of me. Ah, what the hell, I'm not going to be long, and if the Subaru wants to go before me it can always move the road works sign first.
There is a bit of a queue. I’m number 6. And some guy in a wheelchair is at the head of the queue. There seems to be some sort of delay getting him into the room, which holds us all up, of course, but, eventually, he goes in... and... then time just seems to stop. I sit out in the big waiting room, and not in the corridor right by the blood taking room doors. I don't really mind the wait as I write my blog on my phone, which keeps my mind occupied. Lots of middle aged chicks in puffer jackets arrive on by one. Not a gay boy in sight.
Half an hour later, or so, I start to get toey and go to have a look.
Number 4 has been yapping into her phone for some time, I could hear it out in the big waiting room, but she hangs up when I approach. “They are still in there,” she says.
“What are they doing taking all his blood,” I say?
She moves her chair away from me. That may have been because she was a snowflake and snowflakes don't generally understand humour, much less black humour such as mine, or maybe it was just proximity, who knows, Covid and all.
The phlebotomist comes out of room one and says, "Sorry for the wait." And she takes number 4 into room number 2. Why did it take so long getting room 2 going? I think.
I can hear that Jabba the Hut in the wheelchair is having problems producing a vein and it is decided that they should wait, and he should drink water, or eat fire, or jerk off, or some such thing to warm up, and they would try again in a short time, but the long and short of it is, room 1 would becoming available very soon.
Number 4 is really chatty, I can hear her in the room yapping on. She speaks like a rat-faced receptionist, you know, kind of shrill bogan. She is yapping on about fasting tests. She seems to have more than one test she needs done.
She is out reasonably quickly. The phlebotomist walks past me and says, "Number 5." Who is some chick with lots of blond hair and cream coloured corduroy pants clinging to substantial thighs in a puffer jacket with its collar pulled right up over her mouth.
Number 5 has multiple tests to be done and she isn’t sure which ones she should have done, and I can hear her yabbering on about which ones she should have. They are spending an inordinate amount of time discussing what tests she could have today and what tests she couldn't. And I think, oh come on girls get your acts together, couldn't you have worked out which tests were to be done before you got into the room?
9.14am. The guy in the wheelchair chair is finally pulled out by, who I can only assume, is his middle-aged Indian daughter.
"Excuse me, excuse me," she says as she pulls his wheelchair out of room 1. I move my legs around to the side of the chair to help clear the way.
She struggles with the wheelchair as she pulls it past me, making the reversing sounds seemed to be the hardest part of it all. "Beep, beep, beep, beep," she says. She hits the wall several times, but manages to pull the old guy into the space between the corridor and the big waiting room. And we both smile after she has managed to complete the operation. She looks exhausted, I assume whatever is going on with him is an ordeal. But, I can tell she is stoic just looking at her. Small and wiry, she'd get things done.
Door number 1 remains open, with no action coming from within. Oh, come on people, let’s get on with it, I am thinking, as my attention returns to myself.
The phlebotomist walks past me again and says," Number 6?" Not sure what she thinks I am doing, directing fucking traffic, maybe, but I call after her, "Yes, that's me."
I'm in and out in 5 minutes. I don't engage in any superfluous chit chat with the phlebotomist I just answer her questions yes, or no, as it turned out all my answers were yes.
"Have you fasted today?"
"Yes."
"Your left arm?"
"Yes."
"You'll feel a small prick."
Well, you just got to turn him around in that case, I think. I stifle a giggle.
I close my eyes, I don't look. I have prided myself on getting over my needle phobia and I have made myself look on my more recent previous blood tests, but today I just close my eyes.
"Put your finger here, for me," says the pathologist.
It has been a long time since someone has said that to me, I think.
"Don't do any heavy lifting with this arm for the rest of the day."
"Yes." I hear you sister.
The road traffic has cleared out the front as I hit the footpath again. The Subaru is still wedged in behind my car.
And I am home again in 10 minutes. Bruno bounces around as though I have been gone all day. I eat Vegemite toast and drink coffee. And finish writing this.
No comments:
Post a Comment