A. Negative

19 Mar

I dislike hospitals and I dislike doctors surgeries. And when I say dislike, I mean, near on panic attacks every time I have to go near one. It’s not the places, nor the people in them, it’s my own unhealthy obsession with death. My own death to be precise.  I don’t know when it started, I’ve been like for as long as I can remember, but I do not, I repeat, do not cope well with illness and its associations. I can go from having a headache and feeling slightly dizzy to 15 mins later and a quick search on Google a full blown brain tumour. My husband has begun to stage interventions like they do with alcoholics or drug addicts. If I start claiming I have certain diseases whilst looking at the laptop is it immediately removed from my person and confiscated. I know what you’re thinking, ‘How dare he treat an ill woman in such a way?’  Its ok, I don’t think he’s clocked the fact I have an iphone and a lock on the bathroom door.

So, you can imagine my worry when I take my first trip to the docs all excited about being pregnant only to be told I need to have a million blood and urine tests to determine a whole number of diseases I potentially do and don’t have. The doctor is sitting there with a smile on her face saying “oh it’s fine, don’t worry, it’s just routine” as I’m having palpitations suddenly convinced I’m HIV positive and riddled with Hepatitis B. By the way this is the same doctor who took my blood pressure twice because she had “forgotten” she has done it 3 minutes previously. I was not feeling confident.

From the docs to the hospital I go, all my potential disease forms in one hand, husband in the other. No way am I doing this on my own. I get there early so it it’s less busy. It doesn’t help. I actually prefer more people around me. Statistically it means I have less chance of it being me with a fatal disease. Surely?

I do it. I don’t pass out and you’ll be pleased to know I am disease free. I also found out my blood type. I’m A Negative. And yes, the irony isn’t lost on me.


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