I’ve had to have a number of medical tests over the last month.
Just in case you didn’t see the billboards I plastered all over town, I have psoriasis. It first showed up when I was in my 30s, but we weren’t initially sure what the little patch of red skin was about. Back then, there was no full-time dermatologist on the island, so I went to see a doctor who ‘dabbled’. She said it might be psoriasis. To be sure, she could simply punch a small hole in my scalp and take a sample to be tested.
Exsqueeze me? Oh, HELL no!
Needless to say, I waited until a less medieval method of checking became available and that’s when the definitive conclusion was reached.
It really wasn’t terribly bothersome when I was younger – fairly easy to keep under control with creams – but as I retreated further and further indoors, eschewing the sun’s rays, it got worse. I had to start taking oral medication, and then when that didn’t counter things sufficiently, I was onto the injectables.
Two years ago, you’d never imagine I suffered from the same autoimmune disease that Kim Kardashian has (we’re basically twins). Skin was clear and I could have worn a bikini to restaurants to prove it; a visual feast for all concerned.
Problem is, psoriasis has no cure, so it may go dormant for a while, but stress and/or bad diet (“You talkin’ t’me?!”) can trigger a flare-up. That’s what started in December – first with a small patch, which then got larger, then its family joined the party … Before I knew it, my legs looked like they’d been peppered with buckshot, my scalp kept producing snowstorms, and my nails began to lift (another delightful side effect). If this were a Disney movie, you’d think that prince was taking his own sweet time to find and kiss me to break the curse. Hey, buddy, get a move on! And bring me a pot of CeraVe soothing cream while you’re at it! (It’s that kind of delicate approach that has never failed to put men firmly under my spell.)
There was nothing else for it, I had to get back on the meds, tout de suite. That meant a series of tests to first make sure my liver and kidneys weren’t shrivelling up etc. Dynamite.
Now, I cannot be the only one not doing cartwheels about the method of extracting blood. I’m better now than I was, but as I sat down in the lab at the hospital, I made the request I always do: “Please don’t hurt me. Not a fan.” I mean, how ridiculous is that? Do I think that because I’ve asked them to be gentle that they’ll go, “Ah … okay, as you’re a bit nervous, we’ll go easy, rather than pile-drive the needle into the bone like we do for everyone else.”
These trained professionals are also excellent at taking blood. I’ve had worse mosquito bites – the tie around my upper arm to get the veins bulging is more uncomfortable. They look at my plump antecubital fossa (yes, I Googled it), tap around a bit, say, “There it is” (What the heck are they talking about? I don’t see anything), tell me to take a deep breath, put the needle in, and hey-ho, the Vicki elixir starts flowing into the vials.
The fact is, I’m a baby. The majority of the time, it’s a simple procedure. Only once recently was the nurse finding it difficult to locate the right spot – I hadn’t drunk enough water before going there. “We may have to use the back of your hand,” she said, like it was no biggie.
Whoooooaaaaa Nelly! That’s a vein too far. Keep poking my arm, we’ll find it, I have faith in you.
Hate the hand thing.
Some medical tests are easier than others. Peeing in a cup, reading letters on an eye chart, the whole tongue-depressor procedure (although trying to keep the gag reflex at bay can be tough at times) … all pretty standard. Fasting the night before you go to the doctor can be a psychological battle. The moment that deadline passes, suddenly you could murder a cheeseburger.
An MRI, although not painful, can be a real challenge for claustrophobics. A friend of mine had to get one last week, and the idea of going into that tube filled her with dread. Thank God technology and comfort have improved so significantly over the years. This very shiny machine, in a local hospital, seemed to have a wider tube than what we’d seen before. Plus the very kind staff gave her a wedge pillow to go under her knees, a weighted blanket, earphones and an eye mask. For someone who was absolutely dreading the experience, she came through it with flying colours.
MRIs may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but imagine the equivalent in ye olden days. Bite down on this, we’ll have to open you up here to see what’s going on, then my wife – who’s a bit of a wizard with a thin stick and a ball of twine – will close it as best she can.
Ummm … I’d like my weighted blanket in pink, if possible.
No matter what tests I get, if they can’t get me the results immediately, I’ve made it clear to my GP that I don’t ever want her leaving me a phone message on a Friday, telling me she wants to see me “first thing Monday morning”. How can anyone think that’s just fine? You’ve got two days to worry yourself sick about why I want you to come in so soon. Sleep hearty!
That aside, I have to say that we are so lucky to have the medical professionals we do on the island. Everyone was so kind and patient with me through tests that a toddler probably would have borne with more resilience.
Happy to report that I passed with flying colours, and I’m going back on my meds this week. Goes to prove that if you have a problem, get to solving it yourself. You just can’t count on princes these days.
