Apologies to the squeamish...(and to those who like a good pic, but it is hard under the circumstances, as I am sure you will appreciate).


Continuing the health service saga of Yours Truly, today was blood test day.
The Child got the day off school for the occasion.

So, this is how it works. In my case, nil by mouth from midnight. A very unhappy me was heard whingeing (quietly) at around 2 am, when I would willingly have sold a cat or even all 3 of them for a cup of tea!

Arrival at the hospital around 8.30, which is fine because the blood people are open for business until 9.30. Already feeling grumped and slightly ill, because the lack of caffeine in my system is starting to kick in and I want to bite people. The Child tells me off for huffing and puffing and sticking my bottom lip out. I am supposed to be brave, she says. I fail to see how anyone can be brave without having had the Coffee of Courage, followed by the Second Coffee of Courage and maybe some cake...

Pathology, or the equivalent. Not too much of a queue, thank goodness. Same as yesterday: take a number and don't bother with the empty waiting room; you can stand in the corridor next to one of the nice notices telling you explicitly not to stand in the corridor. "PLEASE DO NOT WAIT..." they say. You can't read the rest without effort, as groups of waiting people are usually blocking the view.

They call the number here - funds don't stretch to screens, I don't think. First stop, get the referrals stamped. Mine has a list of stuff on and it also says I am fat. Not kidding. Well, it is phrased in a slightly more diplomatic manner but the upshot is the same. It says I am fat. Think to myself that my GP is a git and resolve to lay off chocolate. The nice lady puts sticky labels all over the certificate and hands me a plastic cup with two test tubes in. Those are for me. She gives me another one for The Child, who also has to go and wee in a cup.

New queue. Two desks down, to part with cash. The Child is over 6, I am under 65 and although my GP says I am fat (see above), it's not enough to fake pregnancy for a handy discount. Small faint here. Ok, big faint. 107 euros. *Gulp*. That is for the two of us.

Recompose self in time to take The Child into the bathroom for complex operation of peeing into plastic cup and pouring contents of said cup into a small test tube with a tiny opening that would challenge even the most efficient mother - one with the requisite caffeine levels in her system, not this one... Wash hands. A Lot.

Last queue. Hurrah! Not. I am actually rather scared of having needles stuck in me and blood removed. Always have been. We are lucky; it's Claudio, who is ace and expert in pain-free blood extraction. Really. I've been through them all at some stage and he is the best.

Now it's The Child's turn. Cue a rather large attack of the "I'm not getting on there!" and "No! No! I'd rather die than let you stick that thing in me!" (wonder to self if this bodes well for her teenage years and my future peace of mind?). Tears, am-drams, cajoling and then resorting to bribery all follow, and in the end, the lovely Claudio has his way, with me holding The Child from behind, a nurse holding her arm and her fist, and a third nurse laughing in the background. Oh happy days.
The non-laughing but grinny nurse then tells me that The Child is brilliant fun, before giving me a huge hug and and a kiss (yes really). No, nurses do not make a habit of hugging and kissing me, but I used to go out with her cousin and she hasn't seen me in years. No, I am not making this up. She is the younger sister of yesterday's.

We go back to the car, past a couple of nuns (you really can't make this stuff up, can you?) and off to breakfast.
"I was brave though, wasn't I?" smiles my snotty, tear-stained kid, proudly showing off her plaster.

Tune.
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