3 days straight. I’ve done nothing but sleep. Thus, I heeded Rosie’s (my housemates) instruction and went to the clinic. The ‘medical advisor’ (what exactly does qualify one to be a medical advisor??) put down his newspaper as he invited me to sit… he was obviously oblivious to the long line of patients seeking his advice as he skims through The Post.
How are you feeling today? He asked with a smile. Well, sir that’s why I have come to see you…
He read down a list of symptoms. No. No. No. No. No. Just tired. He looks at the palms of my hands and proclaims that I have ‘enough blood’. Ok, at this point I’m fairly confident that a medical advisor and doctor are not one in the same.
He appeases me by issuing several blood tests and sends me down the hall to sit on the wooden bench outside of the ‘lab’. The lab technician has dreadlocks swept under a Rastafarian-style hat. He pricks my finger and squeezes the tip with one hand as he rummages around the cluttered countertop for a clean slide. Yes, it does seem like a blood lab should have those in readily available supply. One hand is not enough for the search so he collects the deep red drop of blood on a piece of scrap paper and continues with a two-handed search. Success. He scraps the blood drop from the paper onto the slide. Totally contaminate free no-doubt.
Blood test results in hand, I’m sent back to the medical advisor to decipher the scribbles. Negative.
Mr. Medical Advisor asks “when was the last time you were de-wormed?” Hmmmm… never.
As I walk home, I vividly recall the results of de-worming a puppy we once had when I was a kid. It wasn’t pretty. And we didn’t eat spaghetti for quite some time after that. I really hope that my de-worming process won’t be quite as memorable…
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