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Test Results
Mar. 13th, 2006 07:39 pmI hang up the phone slowly. The doctor’s office finally rang with my results.
The doc put me through blood tests, MRI’s, x-rays, stress tests and all kinds of other medical bullshit. The nurse blathered on and on . . . negative . . . negative . . . negative. Including a drug screen that I didn’t remember giving permission for and I bristled at that, until she told me it had been in one of the heaps of forms that I signed without bloody well looking at them. Need a fucking solicitor just to go the doctor’s.
No brain tumours then, good to know. But the rest gets me shaky.
She seemed like a nice bird, but she hesitated over the doc’s suggestions. Doctor thinks you could benefit from getting a full night’s sleep, always difficult when one is experiencing such a traumatic transition in life, so she’s called in some prescriptions for a sleep-aid and an anti-depressant. She also would like you to make an appointment with a psychologist.
I lean against the wall, an odd grief clenching me . . . so now I’m a nutter. I’ve heard loss can do that, but I thought I was immune to it. Thought my anger was enough to keep me safe.
I need . . . to work, to give my weasel a run, to get pissed to the gills. Something . . . anything. Anything but living this fucking nightmare.
The doc put me through blood tests, MRI’s, x-rays, stress tests and all kinds of other medical bullshit. The nurse blathered on and on . . . negative . . . negative . . . negative. Including a drug screen that I didn’t remember giving permission for and I bristled at that, until she told me it had been in one of the heaps of forms that I signed without bloody well looking at them. Need a fucking solicitor just to go the doctor’s.
No brain tumours then, good to know. But the rest gets me shaky.
She seemed like a nice bird, but she hesitated over the doc’s suggestions. Doctor thinks you could benefit from getting a full night’s sleep, always difficult when one is experiencing such a traumatic transition in life, so she’s called in some prescriptions for a sleep-aid and an anti-depressant. She also would like you to make an appointment with a psychologist.
I lean against the wall, an odd grief clenching me . . . so now I’m a nutter. I’ve heard loss can do that, but I thought I was immune to it. Thought my anger was enough to keep me safe.
I need . . . to work, to give my weasel a run, to get pissed to the gills. Something . . . anything. Anything but living this fucking nightmare.
