I was third in at the phlebotomist, which was about the last thing that went right with the blood testing.
“Hello,” said the smiling young lady, “my name is Lucretia, and I’m a trainee phlebotomist. Is it alright if I take your blood?”
She wasn’t actually called Lucretia, but I’ve changed names to protect identities.
The whole idea of going to the hospital to be stabbed in the arm is that they are experts and only need to stab once. However, everyone has to learn so I smiled and submitted.
After being stabbed in both arms, I was passed over to a more experienced taker of blood, who nailed it in one.
And that, it would be nice to think, was where it ended.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
After a day of sticking stamps and scanning medallions I got a telephone call from the surgery, telling me, in a slightly panicky way, that the anticoagulant clinic required me to take a test urgently on Friday morning. I’m now booked in for a test at 8.40 tomorrow morning to see what all the fuss is about.
When I find out I’ll let you know.
I’m off to pick Julia up from work now and see how she’s survived her first full day back at work (a day in the gardens followed by an evening as a receptionist). Then I have to break the news that I won’t be able to take her to work tomorrow because I’m in for more blood tests…