This morning I found myself sat in the local Doctor’s waiting room for the third time since moving here 11 years ago. It was interesting to see how things have moved on; there appears to be a concerted effort to avoid the reception staff having to talk to anybody any more.
Upon walking in, I wandered up to a touchpad, and told it I was male, and what day and month I had been born. It then reminded me who I was seeing, and to go and sit in the waiting area. For ages.
The lovely doctor lady enacted a comedy scene of sorts; after I told here where it hurt (my ribs, duh), she poked me there, and asked if it hurt. Ummm… yes.
I know she was just going through the routine checks, but it still made me smile. I made some wise crack, and she didn’t smile. I’m guessing Doctors suffer from the same situations I do at work; where somebody starts telling you what’s wrong, and you lose them mid conversation because you’re already working things out in your head.
After prodding me a bit more, pulling my shirt up, listening, prodding even more, making me flinch repeatedly, and frowning quite a lot, she couldn’t make her mind up.
She also took my blood pressure, and blood oxygen level (perhaps the second time in the last 10 years that anybody has done that), and seemed pleased with the numbers.
“Well it seems like it’s soft tissue damage - but you can never be sure with ribs. Go and buy some ibuprofen, or paracetamol, and don’t be too brave about taking them.”
It’s worth noting that I don’t like taking tablets. I have no problem swallowing them - and I will occasionally take them for headaches, but I just don’t like monkeying with my body. I had only taken two ibuprofen during the entire time since I fell off the bike - I guess the worry is if I can’t feel it hurting, I’ll over-do things, and injure it even more.
Let’s hope that’s my last visit for another few years! Half an hour later I was back in the office at work, telling tales of daring do about Dr Kildare installing my bionics.