Probing the age of mounting medical procedures: Wyn Drabble

Three penetrations of the flesh on the one day is surely a tad over the top, writes Wyn Drabble. Photo / NZME

Wyn Drabble is a teacher of English, writer, public speaker and musician. He is based in Hawke’s Bay.

OPINION

I guess it’s normal for ageing people to have more and more of what the medical profession call procedures.

But three penetrations of the flesh on the one day is surely a tad over the top.

But we’ll get to that shortly. Let’s first go back in time a little and show how one’s history of age-related decay might begin.

The first event might be when you – and here, of course, I’m hypothesizing about an imaginary person – are told that all the teeth you have left are going to be replaced with what can only be described as a mouthful of crockery. (Okay, I admit I lied about the hypothetical person.)

Then came another major shock just after hip replacement surgery. In the post-op interview the surgeon said some words which would shock any hypothetical person. They certainly shocked this one.

Despite the procedure going to plan he looked at me across the desk and, leaning forward and lowering his voice, delivered the doom-laden words: “I find it very hard to have to tell you this but it’s all part of the job. I’m afraid I don’t recommend jogging.”

Well. I’ve been delivered some bad news in my time but this one took the prize. Me! What would I do without jogging? And what about all my hi-vis lycra jogging outfits?

“Ever?” I probed further.

“Ever!” he affirmed.

That’s another one filed away in the filing cabinet labelled ageing.

But then last week came two more developments. The first involved getting three different jabs into the one arm on the same day. For the first they tried to kill two birds with one stone and I commend them for that; from the one penetration they took some blood to send away for testing and then fitted some sort of catheter arrangement for a 30-minute iron infusion.

The other two intrusions were further up the arm. One was for something else and the other was for something else again. I had a triplet of little plasters – all matching – up my arm.

I am not at all ashamed to admit that I’m a needle wuss; I certainly cannot watch it entering and I definitely cannot watch my fluids being withdrawn. Even hearing an oral description of the process is out of the question: “It’s a dark red fluid at the moment.” (Hypothetical patient faints.)

As the intrusion approaches I tense and jiggle. I repeat the word phlebotomist endlessly in my head as a distraction. (You just try saying phlebotomist 10 times quickly.)

“Are you okay?” the concerned phlebotomist might ask.

“I just don’t like needles,” I might admit.

“But it’s already done,” she might say, packing things away and sticking labels on little blood-filled vials.

You’d be right for thinking that’s enough flesh penetrations for one day. And it was, but one of the upper arm ones – from memory, the one for something else again – was going to require another five doses over the following two weeks. (“Phlebotomist, phlebotomist, phlebotomist … ”)

And then came the news to provide a climax. The GP said she was sending a request to the hospital for me to have two -oscopies.

“They’re attacking from both ends?” I posed.

“Correct!” she confirmed.

So it’s clear that age brings with it a rather tight medical schedule and way too many probing penetrations.

But, as I hope you’d expect of me, I’ll make the most of it all. If you’re near the hospital at the time of my admission for my duo of -oscopies, you’ll certainly see me coming.

I’ll be redeploying my brightly-coloured but now-defunct lycra jogging outfits. You won’t be able to miss me.