I am convinced there is a conspiracy out there to draw out all the blood from the members of the Manral family, and have vile blood drinking rituals. Yes, its them simple, sober looking women in lab overcoats, supervised by stern and forbidding looking doctors who supervise the proceedings who are indulging in these heinous acts or perhaps drawing enough supplies to power a jet plane given the way fuel prices are going in this century. In the past two weeks, the child and the spouse have given in toto, enough blood ostensibly for testing, but in reality, and I know it, for a blood bank being created so that aliens from Mars can come down to earth and replicate our DNA and take over our bodies and such like.
Yes. I have also been watching a lot of thrillers over the weekend. Rainy days do this to me. The husband was dragged for his tests on Saturday. He insisted he would go alone and tried to shake me off his foot as I hung on, determined to accompany him. I achieved my goal by some nifty biting of trouser leg and clawing in of nails into denim, ensuring that if he threw me off he would be stripped of trouser in public situation. ECG, the good doc had said. And sonography of abdomen. (Anyone else married to man like mine, who forgets to mention chest pains and sweats, and fainting spells and abdomen aches for months, and only decides to go public when he almost passes out in the loo? Yup. Shall we hire goons for collective bopping on the head for sheer insane negligence. Yup, I thought so. We might get cut price on hire charges too!). There was I sitting in the waiting room while the good man I married and promised to be by the side of in sickness and in health, clutched his tummy, and was ushered in to be gelled up and electrode strapped and heart beat monitored. I chewed off my nails and spat them discretely into my handkerchief. He emerged by the time I’d reached my knuckles. He barely sat down when they ushered him inside for the ultrasound of the abdomen. He had been asked to overdose on the water to get the bladder full. It was a cold rainy day. The airconditioning in the laboratory was on at full blast. It was not an enviable situation to be in. Much crossing and uncrossing of legs was happening. I mentioned about how the last months of pregnancy were exactly the way he was feeling. I dont think it was an opportune moment to try to lighten the situation. I also mentioned that he would have to get a grip on his inherrent distate of gels and creams being applied to skin. He mentioned it might aggravate the need to hit the washroom or the nearest available deserted wall.
I am a veteran of all sorts of medical tests. I have been scanned, xrayed, probed, poked and such like so often that I am immune to it all now. The husband is still a novice. He needed me around for support I told myself. It didnt help that I jumped on the ECG technician’s back as soon as she emerged out of the room with a strip of readings in her hand yelling loudly, “Show it to me, show it to me.” Yup. I’m also an expert at reading tests and reports. Thankfully, the ECG was normal. Blood tests are normal. (Some alien on Mars is probably injecting himself with the supply as we speak, preparing for a hostile landing on earth and take me to your leader situation). The right kidney is swollen and blocked. Which means we go in for more tests today. And I will accompany the man, no matter how keenly he assures me that he is perfectly able to go get tested on his own. And how he insists I sit at home and supervise the child rather than let the child go haywire on two hours of extra unsupervised television time. Me thinks going for tests with paranoid wife doing prayer beads in the corner of the waiting room is not exactly consonant with macho man image. Okay, I think I will slink in and pretend not to be accompanying him. And not accost the technician for the results immediately, or else, with a concealed under the handkerchief penknife.
Edited to add: Hey Ron, good meeting you. Sorry about my distractedness, I was all caught up with kidney reports and such worst case scenarios.