Spent the day at home today, working on a vision for IRIS. Had a flu jab this morning, and was ambushed by the nurse. She was about 55, grey hair tied back in a bun, glasses, blotchy skin, Irish accent. She looked tired.
"Why are you at risk?" she asked.
"Uh, I had cancer a few years ago."
"Oh dear, is everything all right now?", filling a needle from a shallow cardboard box. I sat down and pushed up my sleeve.
"Yes, thanks."
"Where was it?" She pushed her wheeled chair over to me.
"Uh, it was leukemia - well, lymphoblastic lymphoma." I turned my head away. I never feel the jab, but I have this superstition that watching it will make me flinch and then it _will_ hurt.
She stabbed me and turned away to dispose of the syringe, all in one continuous motion. "Have you ever heard of cancer of the central nervous system?"
I was puzzled. "No."
"My husband had it. He died a year ago." She looked at me briefly, with no discernible expression, then turned away and started updating my medical record on her computer.
My first reaction was to ask whether she was serious. We were in a health professional - patient relationship. The flip from a treatment-centric transaction to an interpersonal exchange with this woman who I had seen only once before, 12 months earlier, left me mentally spinning for a moment.
"Oh, no. I'm so sorry." At least I thought I was.
"It took six weeks." She turned away from the computer and looked directly at me. There was still no discernible expression on her face, but she did look more tired than she had before.
I wondered if she had another patient scheduled, but she seemed in no hurry to let me go. She was sitting between me and the door. Surely it would be rude to just get up and leave? I felt a kind of meta-physical pressure to stand and go.
"One day he had a headache. The next day he felt dizzy. He went to the GP and they scheduled a test for a few weeks time. Then it got worse and they took an MRI. He had two lumps -" she gestured vaguely near the base of her skull - "about this size." She curled her finger and thumb into a circle about the diameter of a marble.
"Oh, no."
"Why are you at risk?" she asked.
"Uh, I had cancer a few years ago."
"Oh dear, is everything all right now?", filling a needle from a shallow cardboard box. I sat down and pushed up my sleeve.
"Yes, thanks."
"Where was it?" She pushed her wheeled chair over to me.
"Uh, it was leukemia - well, lymphoblastic lymphoma." I turned my head away. I never feel the jab, but I have this superstition that watching it will make me flinch and then it _will_ hurt.
She stabbed me and turned away to dispose of the syringe, all in one continuous motion. "Have you ever heard of cancer of the central nervous system?"
I was puzzled. "No."
"My husband had it. He died a year ago." She looked at me briefly, with no discernible expression, then turned away and started updating my medical record on her computer.
My first reaction was to ask whether she was serious. We were in a health professional - patient relationship. The flip from a treatment-centric transaction to an interpersonal exchange with this woman who I had seen only once before, 12 months earlier, left me mentally spinning for a moment.
"Oh, no. I'm so sorry." At least I thought I was.
"It took six weeks." She turned away from the computer and looked directly at me. There was still no discernible expression on her face, but she did look more tired than she had before.
I wondered if she had another patient scheduled, but she seemed in no hurry to let me go. She was sitting between me and the door. Surely it would be rude to just get up and leave? I felt a kind of meta-physical pressure to stand and go.
"One day he had a headache. The next day he felt dizzy. He went to the GP and they scheduled a test for a few weeks time. Then it got worse and they took an MRI. He had two lumps -" she gestured vaguely near the base of her skull - "about this size." She curled her finger and thumb into a circle about the diameter of a marble.
"Oh, no."
