So here I am stuck inside one of the Mayo Clinic’s many blood-sucking rooms. Sunday morning again: once again.
Just asked my son why these appointments are always made on Sunday — one of the reasons I dropped out of choir. Got a crabby answer…but apparently he’s the one who’s been doing this. Like…he didn’t KNOW I had a standing activity on Sundays?
Innaresting.
***
Now they’ve got me trapped in a treatment room with a needle stuck in an arm, pumping some sort of gunk into me. The kid and I have been fighting — jolly fun — and so (reasonably enough) he has taken his computer and stalked off to the lobby, leaving me to sit here all alone with a needle stuck in my arm.
Dare not readdress the question of who repeatedly schedules these accursed appointments on Sunday mornings, guaranteeing that I can’t go to choir. That’s OK, I guess, because I dropped out of choir awhile back — for other reasons. But if that were not the case, by now I’d be outta there once and for all.
At any rate, I’ve come to hate this place with a passion — altruistic and marvelously scientific as it is. Actually, it’s a sentiment that has a long backstory:
While I was growing up in Saudi Arabia, Aramco employees families and their families had to take rafts of shots every six months. None of those were pleasant, but some were notably painful — particularly typhus, typhoid, and cholera. The latter two REALLY hurt! So I learned to fear and hate clinics, hospitals, and medical staff.
That kind of prejudices me against this place, and against this seemingly ENDLESS stint of sitting here with a needle stuck in my arm, even though the treatment is pretty much painless.
Seriously: the infusion takes an hour…and that only covers pumping the gunk into your arm. Doesn’t count the hour’s driving time or any time spent sitting around in waiting rooms. Theee pitz!
We squabbled on the way out here, so my invitation to take him to a late lunch/early dinner was rejected. Ohhh well: a lovely steak is sitting in the fridge, waiting to be barbecued.
But it’s only 1:30 in the afternoon, leaving a good hour (or more) to go. And GAWD, do I hate this place!
The whole shindig sounds distinctly unplesant. I hope it’s doing some good, and that you and your son were able to smooth things out on the way home.
I never used to have problem with minor medical processes. Injections, blood draws, donating blood, whatever. Sure, bring it on.
Until a few years ago, when I had some kidney problems. Two hospitalizations, three surgeries, a handful of minor procedures, and all the attendant bloodwork later, I found myself viscerally repelled by the idea of anything breaching my skin. Even a small cut in the kitchen a while back left me slightly queasy.
I can still tolerate the medical stuff, and I tell myself it’s getting better. (In point of fact, I tell myself that deliberately, hoping to convince my brain that it’s true.) But I can totally relate to developing an aversion to sharp pointy things in the hands of medical personnel.
I hope you enjoyed the steak, at least!