My Incredible Journey Part Seven: I’d Rather Walk on Hot Coals

Today (Friday) I am having a scan that involves being injected with radioactive dye.  Sounds grims, I guess, but I’m a bit of a masochist with such things – I make myself watch needles being inserted.  On Thursday evening, I welled up with pride as the sister said I was a ‘good girl’ as I never flinched while the anti-clot injection was inserted.  I am experiencing far more trauma from the apparent insult from a clinician.

I’ve just had the canula put into the inside of my right elbow.  The woman doing it looked at the bruise where my bloods had been taken from the same spot.  People often have trouble getting blood, I tell her.  Her response?  ‘You look like you’ve got rubbish veins’.  What?!  What does that mean? Rubbish veins I don’t dispute (although I was somewhat offended by the ‘crap’ & ‘pants’ labels that she also then used – she was only in here a few minutes!). 

‘You look like…’ is the bit I have a beef with.  Does she mean I’m not as thin as I could be?  Does she mean ‘I can see your hospital-issue nightgown, your slightly chipped nail varnish & lack of blowdry. [Reader: please note that my hospital admittance was unexpected – usual grooming standards do not apply]  You are clearly a slattenly mare whose circulatory system is probably as wayward as your outward appearance’. 

I don’t know what she meant; she was actually quite friendly.  I’ll never find out what she meant; it may have just been a passing comment.  Nor will I probably unearth why her comment ranckles so much, although I guess it suggests that I would rather have needles stabbed in my arm than be accused of being poorly groomed.

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