My annual health MOT has been done. The last one was eighteen months ago. Here, in the North West of the UK, our doctors seem to be shunnelling patients through as pretty much usual now, despite the inconvenience of masks and single patients per buulding as we move along in the new Covid19 age.
Lots of face to face talking is done on the phone, or skype or zoom. Everyone I know waiting for cancer ops has been done. And should you suspect something nasty is taking hold, you can have real blood tests and a real live doctor look at you. And go to a real, live hospital.
Recently Mr Furlong had a heart scare. Mr Furlong has a ‘heart’ condition. He got to see a doctor chop chop. No complaints about the National Health Service here.
So, despite being late on my health MOT, I’ve had it. For that, I had to actually be seen by the Nurse Practitioner. My admiration for her is immense. She wears that mask all day and used her eyes to communicate. Big eyes for listening, squeezy eyes smiling, frowny eyes in agreement. Rolly eyes for sympathy.
I’m glad I saw her. She takes blood with the least pain. I got measured, weighed, and tested.
A week later she phoned to discuss my results. I saw my results beforehand on Patient Access. Patient Access is a neat app that allows you to research your own medical history.
During lockdown I ate. And ate. I convinced myself that if I had only been prediabetic beforehand, I was now actually diabetic. I convinced the Nurse Practitioner too.
Well, I think the Nurse Practitioner was just as surprised as me to find that EVERYTHING about me is EXACTLY the same as my last MOT, eighteen months ago.
No! Thats not true. My cholesterol has gone down.
The birthday approaches. I dislike birthdays. No wonder everyone wishes you a ‘happy’ one. Why else would they unless there was something nasty about birthdays?
But being the same in every way as I was one and a half years ago, seems a good result to me. It’s the sort of birthday present I like.