Medical Carnival

I had a morning to kill yesterday, so I decided to take advantage of the medical benefits provided by work and created for myself a Medical Carnival of sorts.

I have, apparently, forgotten how traumatising medical check-ups are.

So I found myself in a posh medical centre that does its business by catering to various companies, to undergo a whole body check.

I was handed a little plastic jar and asked to pee in it.

There is something not right about handing over your still-warm pee over to a stranger. It’s an extension of my body, it still radiates my warmth, it’s the outcome of a private action – so private that people normally do them behind closed doors. Yet, you are expected to trod round the clinic nonchalantly with that little golden yellow liquid, half-hiding it, looking for the appropriate place to put it, as if it’s the most normal thing to do in the world.

Little did I know what was to come.

The ECG: electrocardiogram.

Unhook your bra. Lie down. Flash the nurse.

Really. That’s what it essentially is.

It doesn’t help that the nurse stick stickers on your boobs, then stick wires on the stickers, then stand around while you feel the draft of cold air on your nipples, while, of course, you try to act like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Oh yeah. Lie naked on a gurney and have you prod my boobs…why…I do that ALL the time!

To comfort myself, because I didn’t bring a Hello Kitty with me, I thought of how all this is going to prevent me from lying inmobile on a cold hospital bed one day with some fat nurse with sagging boobs wiping my arse. Now, that is definitely more humiliating right? So, it’s ok. At least she’s not wiping my arse.

Just as I have sort of come to terms with my look-at-my-boobs! predicament, she suddenly decided to stick a needle in my arm to draw some blood. Not good. I continued staring at the ceiling and as I tried to ignore the pain, I thought about Rambo.

You know that scene where Rambo has this humongous wound to the left of his stomach, just above the hips and he decided to disinfect/close it by biting open a bullet, dumping the gun powder inside, and throwing a match in the hole? Well, he basically grit his teeth, lit his wound up, and charged outside again. That kinda put things in perspective and I decided that, at that moment, Rambo is my hero and pfffff….needle prick? Bah!

Having gone through the whole flashing and Rambo thing (flash Rambo? Rambo flashing?!  *shudder*), I bravely decided to walk next doors to have my teeth checked and scaled. Hey, I have hours to kill and this is all free, so might as well right? Besides, I’ve been putting this off for ages.

Which means that I haven’t been to the dentist in ages. Which also means I’ve forgotten how much dentists traumatise me too.

The putting-things-in-perspective trick I’d just used in the body check didn’t work. Because, instead of simple exposure and humiliation, you have metal picks and prongs and things that go WEEEZZZZZZZZZZZZ probing inside your mouth, scraping around your teeth, poking at your gums and making you bleed.

I tried to practice those breathing techniques and that counting one-to-ten thing, but it ended up like this: Breathe in…one…breathe out…breath in…two…brea-AWWWW!!! And then I ended up holding my breath instead.

Leaving the dental clinic, I made my way to another posh medical centre, where I have been instructed to leave another urine sample, for a different insurance company. Might as well get it over with all in one go right?

I took another little plastic jar, and on my way to the toilets, I decided to have a few cups of water to -uh- ensure maximum output. Perhaps because of accumulated trauma, I somehow managed to dribble water down the front of my grey shirt.

When I’ve collected my pee (yet again) and am about to walk out into the clinic again, I stared down at my shirt, and wondered what people would think about me walking around holding my golden liquid with wet stains down my shirt front.

Perhaps they will realize that it’s impossible to pee up? Or might they wonder if I’d pee upside down?


To complete my Medical Carnival, my next planned stop was actually yet another clinic, to do a Pap smear.

But by that point, I thought I’ve had enough of self-exposure and medical trauma for one day, and I don’t think I can endure spreading my legs, having a stranger peer at my cooch and stick cold metal prongs in me. It also doesn’t help that it’ll be my first time.

Unless I’m sexually attracted to you, I doubt spreading my legs will be in any way enjoyable.

So, taking inspiration from Doreen, I decided skip the cooch-prods and headed over to H&M for some retail therapy. My rationale? Everything will be more expensive in London.


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