for someone who spends their days embroidering and applique-ing bloodspatter, i’m awfully squeamish. but then, red french knots are very different to the real thing.
i had to go for a blood test yesterday (i actually had to go a while back, but have been successfully putting it off for
years days). for Normal People, it’s probably just a routine thing that they can just do, but for me it became A Thing.
a thing that involved Husband taking time off work, so that he could wake me up early (obviously i barely slept the night before), make sure i got washed & dressed (clean asylum hair, proper day clothes, underwear, shoes), and take me there in the car.
and come in with me. and show me how to take a ticket. and where i should stand. and where i would go when my number was called. and confirm that 60 still came after 59.
the waiting room was packed, mostly with over-70s, so i whispered to Husband that we should stand near the back so that they could take the chairs – even though I COULD BARELY STAND on my trembling jelly legs.
“oh fuck, Husband. *dramatic sigh* this is like my WORST THING”
“being Outside, do you mean?”
“well i actually meant Waiting, hospital, blood & needles.. but yeah”
they finally started calling people in.
Husband: “are you okay?” *sympathetic*
me: “gawwwd, imagine if the apocalypse happened right now… this would be the group of survivors we’d be lumbered with. we’re the youngest ones here! we’d have to be the ones who do all the stuff. that’s so too much pressure and responsibility for me to deal with right now”
by now i was shaking (hands and legs) and sweating and my mouth was all dry and my heart was pounding, and even though my feet were carrying me down the corridor to the room marked BLOOD, the voices in my head were screeching “it’s not too late! you could still make a run for it!”
here is a photo (*artists impression) of me sitting in a comfortable chair, looking out of a large picture window at the hedgerows, trees and rolling green hills of the beautiful derbyshire countryside.
also pictured, my right arm and what may or may not have been occurring BECAUSE I DID NOT LOOK.
my traumatical surgical procedure, Husband took me home – via the chocolate eclairs aisle at morrisons – and settled me on the couch with a big mug of sweet tea.
even though i DID NOT LOOK, all afternoon, i kept reliving the moment and shuddering and whimpering and being pathetic.
at bedtime, Husband had to remove the wrapper for me because i glimpsed a smear of dried blood on my arm and the cotton wool was STUCK.
Husband: “let’s be honest, ‘zombie apocalypse survivor’ seems unlikely at times like these”
i still haven’t looked.
on the bright side,
1. i know i’ll never take up heroin as a hobby
2. i didn’t have a panic attack so my medication must be working