I hate annual check-up time. I hate hearing the doctor say, we need to run some blood tests. Those words conjure up dread in me. The thought of going through not one visit, not two even, but usually three, in order for a nurse to extract the requisite number of vials of blood, is a nightmare made in hell.
Blood tests are a trial by combat. No, seriously, the Bloodletters can never find a vein, and when they do, it’s as elusive as Big Foot or the Himalayan Yeti! It’s there, they know it’s there, but they just can’t quite find it.
A five-minute job takes on epic proportions with elaborate arm resting at an angle. The swathing of hot towels. The drinking of 1-2 litres of water because, I’m told, I’m dehydrated. All of which leads to … Veins moving, or collapsing, or being so deep they might as well be in another dimension. And an apology from an embarrassed nurse asking if we can reschedule, as she has other clients to see.
The truth is, anyone requiring blood from me better whistle Dickie, or come up with a better way to draw blood from a vein. Because I’m beginning to believe, even a jar of leeches would be hard pressed to get blood out of me.
I guess I must be a stone!