So I’ve literally just got back from the doctors, and calm has descended on my tiny little brain. And of course, now I’m going to completely disrupt it to post about the previous state of un-calm. Naturally.
My dad kept me waiting, as he always does, leaving it just long enough to set off a minor panic attack before we finally went. For reference, my dad’s one of those people who can’t be comfortable without being late to everything… while my mum’s exactly the same, except replace “late” with “painfully early”, so you can probably imagine how any family “adventures” would turn out.
There was a pointless discussion about whether or not to drive (the surgery is a 10/15-minute walk away), during which he described, in torturous detail, his plans for the day. We ended up driving, so that he could go straight to the supermarket after I’ve gone in, while I walked home afterwards for some much-needed fooood.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that there were even less people in the waiting room than in my best-case-scenario swirlythoughts. The machine behaved itself, surprisingly, and my gender had been changed to the Close Enough option.
My dad was predictably useless with the tactical nightmarey stuff, and made it worse (without meaning to) at points. Nevertheless, I didn’t complain, and he went on to talk very loudly about everyone else in the room. And the weather. And the things on special offer being shouted rather disturbingly over the radio.
He was still talking when I was called in, so I didn’t hear the first time. The second time, when I stood up, there was a mini-scene, as I had been expecting in my worst-case-scenario swirlythoughts; not sure yet whether it was to do with my indeterminate-slash-confusing gender or simply due to my not hearing the first time, and the nurse just wanting to make sure that she’s draining the right person of various fluidy things.
Talking/typing of various fluidy things, here’s what they will be testing:
- Full blood count
- Serum lipids
- Liver function
So, anyway, she checked that Mr Prime was, in fact, me, before leading me off to a room I’d not been in before. She asked if I had a form, and I said that I’d not received it but had been told that it’s all signed and things. Then she went off to chase it, and was gone for a fair while before returning with a large release of frustrated air. A sigh, that is. Just in case it wasn’t clear.
I apologised. Because apparently, that’s just what I do.
Then I sat on the funny cushiony bed thing and revealed my arms for her to prod, as instructed. Professionalism prioritised, she ignored the scars and prodded away, before tourniqueting and “Sharp scratch…”.
It wasn’t very sharp. Or scratchy. Or noticeable at all, really. Which was good.
She had four tubey things (vials?) to fill: two golds, one silver and one purple, in case anyone’s interested. I commented on the entertainment value of watching the blood bouncing off the sides (which was how it appeared – I’m not crazy); she laughed, and I wondered what was funny. Then I held some cotton wool on The Dot while she filled in paperwork, removed the cotton wool for one of those really cool circley plasters to replace it, and (possible TW: visible scars) I was done.
The results are in on Friday.
And I’ve already emailed Gender Care for my next appointment. Hormones, here I come!