It’s rare I admit defeat and go to the doctors. It’s probably a bloke thing. Anything short of a missing limb or a rash in the nether regions and we’ll probably man it out. But some things shouldn’t really be ignored like chest pain. However minute. You’re just going to have to bite the bullet.
I think the last time I properly went to the doctors my mum made the appointment and, essentially, I was only really there because you couldn’t detach my body and leave me behind. So undersandably I was rather nervous about going. There was me imagining the high tech doctors of the future, complete with those Japanese robo-docs to treat the hypochondriacs. Okay, maybe not that high tech, but perhaps some form of electronic checking in system or something.
Nope. The only thing that changed is that there isn’t a child’s play area any more, which is a great shame. I was kind of looking forward to getting measles off of the toy phone I last used in 1996. The magazines I’m pretty sure were the same, but they had given the wall a fresh coat of paint. Every little helps, I guess.
Luckily they could fit me in that morning, so I go in a bit later for a ‘heart trace’ which is, in fact, the less daunting name for an ECG. Flash forward to me, lying shirtless on this bed which is actually a table with a nurse lovingly telling me, in amongst being jealous that I go to uni in Bournemouth, that she would need to shave my chest and legs to get these pads to stick. Cheers, love. You and your budget razor has not only left me with catchy stubble but bald patches on my man-mane. I know you only had my interests at heart (no pun intended).
After all that, though, she couldn’t get the machine to work right. Calling the doctor in she still had no joy, so in the end they had to use a handheld one anyway. Which all turned out normal, I’m sure you’re relieved to hear. What would you do without my sarcasm? Be happy, I guess.
I’m back there tomorrow for my first blood test, which will be eventful. Taking bets on whether I faint or not.
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