When a ‘Doctor’ tells you to get some blood work done, (‘We need to do it to check for atherosclerosis,’ oh, of course, why didn’t you say so?) you should immediately start formulating a plan to not get blood work done. (More on the whys later). Admit it, you suspect your ‘Doctor’ hasn’t a clue what’s wrong with you, if anything. It’s your annual checkup and he’s fishing; probably suspects you’re a hypochondriac. At least you don’t display any obvious near death symptoms. You got to his office on your own steam. You read and signed his liability agreement absolving him of all blame should you contract some virulent virus during your examination. So you push back. And herewith all you need to know to build up an effective defense. You may wish to take notes.
First thing, confirm that he/she’s a physician and not a Doctor of Religious Studies or a doctoral student in metallurgy.
Take note, too, of the only expensively framed piece of yellowing paper on his/her wall; make sure the largest letters, the ones in bold and in Old English Text don’t start with the English words: ‘School of …’ You’re looking for: ‘University of …’ or ‘Yale’ or ‘Harvard’. ‘School of Yale’ fixes locks.
Be suspicious also if the city in question is misspelled, diploma mills always get ‘Albuquerque’ wrong.
Always look for a diploma that’s in Latin; this doesn’t ensure your physician of choice is any good but a good litigation lawyer can sue for more.
And start to wonder when waiting room reading material is current.
If the above doesn’t get you out of this blood sport, try to talk your physician out of getting the work done. Suggested questions:
- I feel fine, I always look like this. Why are you putting on a hazmat suit?
- Which classes did you skip that require you to get a second opinion?
- Can you trust the lab doing the analysis? Ask for the name of the lab. The lab’s name shouldn’t be in Latin. When you get home, Google, ‘Joe’s lab and gravel pit.’
- Humour him, (‘I need to do this to test for hyperhidrosis,’ two can play this game.) ‘What do you call the individual who came last in their graduation class in medical school?’ Answer:Doctor.
- Needles and me? Faintsville.
Once he dances around these questions and points out that specialists like himself charge by the minute, grudgingly accept the requisition form and get ready for the next stage.
You’ve had blood work done before, what’s the big deal? Half an hour out of your retired life; some small pain going in and a bit more when you remember to rip off the bandage later and lots of nervous small talk, ‘Nice day, eh? I didn’t realize that there’s a school for puncturologists.’, and then along came COVID-19.
And this is the real reason you want to avoid blood work today. As promised, here’s the (more later).
The cozy waiting room that seated a dozen or so in the past and provided a semblance of comfort for your half hour wait is now a maze for a few people standing that measure 6 feet when they fall down. So you wait outside the lab, even on the street, until the shuffling gets you here.
Since you didn’t book a time, you get to wait an indeterminate time outside the lab or on the street because the slight young female in charge, the one with the clipboard, has trouble accurately determining the wait time.
You arrive at 9:30 a.m., the lab opened at 7:00 a.m. “You’ll be about an hour,” she soothes. You count bodies lingering about and your eyebrow arches, “An hour my eye.”
But I sense a wondering pause from you dear reader, yes, I did go on line to make an appointment and the earliest available day, not necessarily convenient time, was a week away.
‘I want you to get this blood work done immediately, we don’t have a lot of time.’
‘What, you’re going on holidays? It can’t be anything serious, I drove here and backed in.’
So you wait impatiently and take the time to look around. We’re in a medical building so the required pharmacy occupies most of the street floor. A poster for compression socks greets your wandering eye. Why not? Everybody waiting around is north of 70. Can’t see trampoline manufacturers fighting for shelf space.
But the poster appeals to your looks, or lack of them, because it tells you that these compression socks are sexy and to prove it the model who is sporting them all the way up to her exposed thigh must be all of sixteen years old (Why do they choose models that have no relation to reality? Why would she need anything? – ed) and drop dead gorgeous. And she’s smiling. (Note to self: order a dozen.) How can someone smile when half their body is in compression? I look around the waiting area; the lot of us has seen better times. Are they at the tipping point in their beauty cycle where compression socks are going to get them back with George Clooney?
“Notice anything different, cutie pie?”
Male person of the relationship in a lose-lose situation, “Hmm, well, you look … er … comfortable.”
“I’m wearing compression socks.”
“Ah that’s it, you handle pain well.” (Dictionary flies across the room.)
Then another poster, sans model this time, reminds you that ‘Diabetic socks here.’ I didn’t know. My limited knowledge of the condition always had sugar in the conversation. Hard for me to equate the two, “Those are one set of sweet socks you’re wearing.” Tough sell, I figure, limited George Clooney appeal.
This pharmacy knows its audience: no Viagra ads, no special on 50 kilogram weights to get your abs in shape; no stats on the wall showing you how fast you should run 10 kilometers. Even the pharmacist is no threat, leaning on his walker dispensing wisdom.
Back to reality. Well, the fun had to begin and begin it did with an individual who had had enough of waiting since he had waited long enough; over three hours. He followed the script and started yelling at the slight young thing. Unfortunately she hadn’t had advanced training in how to calm down an incensed individual (I always wanted to say, were I in a similar situation, “I have a gun.” But I digress.)
So I stepped in, I thought I could take him in 2 out of 3 falls if things got out of hand. Fortunately he didn’t turn from the slight young thing and kick me in the shins but hostilities did calm down. There was no applause.
I, too, cooled my jets for 3 hours and was finally ushered into the inner sanctum, the former waiting room described above. Alas, nothing changed from the outside, you wait here, too. It looks promising, however, you can see the end of the line.
You can also see that the staff are not the reason for any holdup. They’re bustling but there’s paper work. Most patients are handy handling a smart phone so a lot of the data is already digitized. But then it hits you, the form you’re gripping was digitally produced, e-mailed to me which I then printed because that’s what it said to do but why isn’t that data already in the lab’s computer? Why don’t the technicians have an ipad with all that information? Like the guys at my car dealership?
“Your oil change is done, Mr. Legon, but we see from your chart that you could use some blood work. Won’t take a minute, hop up on the hoist.”
You daren’t ask for fear of being sent to the end of the line. Ah, memories of misbehaving in public school.
“You have a question? You want to know why the Encyclopedia Britannica doesn’t agree with me? Why don’t you think about it in the cloak room? Way you go. And come back when you’ve settled yourself.”
I know, the technically advanced among you have the answer; the computers don’t talk to one another. The doctor is government; the lab is private enterprise. But still.
Now comes the blood letting. There’s nothing to it, as you’ve doubtless experienced. Your blood cells are as impatient as you are, they want to get out of there. Three tubes later, properly bar coded, and part of your life starts its new journey.
And that’s why you should try to avoid doing blood work. You’ve painfully endured roughly 4 hours of your day standing, sitting, listening to sane people argue – all to do what should be a simple procedure that you didn’t ask for in the first place and, let’s face it, you really don’t want to know the results.
And that could be the longest wait of all.