Today is the day of my Rheumatology appointment. I don’t quite understand why, but since the accident I have a fear of medical appointments. I know it’s completely irrational, as they’re unlikely to start operating on me then and there, turning the examining bed into a surgical table, neither are they liable to pounce on me and chase me round the table like a bad Carry On film but it’s fear nevertheless.
I think it’s related to me second guessing their opinions and convincing myself that one day, someone’s going to tell me that the pain is all in my head, despite me being fine before the accident.
Add this to my phobia of needles, I mean why do they need to take blood tests? Can’t they just scan me or something? They can do that in Star Trek, why not at the hospital? Why do they feel the need to stick an extra long needle in my arm and take away blood? And why is it that when they do, they don’t pay attention and catch the nerve, not believing me when I start politely protesting? I can be very British like this, last time the nurse was wittering away to her friend about who should win on X Factor, and what should she choose from the Chinese takeaway, when she hit the nerve while taking blood. It hurt like buggery and when I politely mentioned this, she ignored me. It took me repeating myself a number of times before she was willing to listen, by which point my stiff upper lip was trembling, tears were flowing and yet, when she apologised, my instinctive reaction was “Oh it’s OK.” It clearly wasn’t OK but my first instinct was not to make a fuss, social conditioning at its best. (I never claimed to be brave by the way, I’m as wimpy as they come)
So, if you happen to be passing a hospital at 12.30 ish today and hear the screaming of a banshee, rest assured it’s not the sound that heralds the final marking of your card, the end of your days. No, it’s me, being a wimp.