Blood Tests

I have a good doctor. He recently sent me for routine blood tests. Everything came back in perfect order. Well, almost. Just one area of exception. “There are some full blood count issues,” he said. That would prove to be just my first new vocabulary item. “Problems with your platelet count and white cell count,” he continued. “Your neutrophils and lymphocytes are low.” I’m always keen to learn about new words , so I asked: “What causes them to be low?”

“Probably leukaemia.” No elaboration, and a dead pan face. Leukaemia. Not a new word. Don’t need to ask what that means. Immediate thoughts. People die from leukaemia. After going through painful chemo, and having all their hair fall out. Well, at least that will put paid to my “male pattern hair loss” appearance. Must search for where I put that will I wrote a few years ago. My wife’s got another week before she comes home from visiting family overseas. Might let her enjoy the week without burdening her with this news. Besides, he just said “probably,” so no need to worry her unnecessarily. I know she’d like to know, and she’ll kill me when she gets home and I tell her I didn’t tell her. But, hey, at least it will be quick and won’t involve chemo! Pity about the down side of dying at the hands of a loved one instead of in the arms of a loved one.

“Probably leukaemia,” isn’t the sort of thing you’re supposed to say with a dead pan face and no elaboration. “Bananas have gone up to $3.99 a kilo,” you say with a dead pan face. Or “The game’s cancelled because of the rain.” Or maybe “Here’s that document you were looking for.”

Back to the pathology clinic within the week for more blood tests, and then back to my doctor for some more new vocabulary. Fractionations. Immunoglobulins, IGM, and IGG. EPG. IEPG. Paraprotein. IEF immune marker. Too many to ask about. The name of a haematologist. She works at a “haematology and oncology” practice. Great, she’s an oncologist – they’re the people who pronounce death sentences. Lock in an appointment for a few weeks away. In the meantime, consult Doctor Google. That’ll guarantee a dead pan delivery of all the information I want! My regular desire to know stuff rises to new heights. If I know all about it, I’ll be able to fix it, right? Yes, I’m male.

My wife insists on accompanying me to the appointment with the death doctor. More vocabulary that doesn’t regularly feature in fun conversations with friends: “peripheral markers”; “bone marrow biopsy”; “upper abdomen ultrasound”; “remove your spleen”.

Dr Death wants to do her own blood tests. “About ten vials.” I cross the corridor to the conveniently located pathology clinic. “You’ve come from across the corridor?” “Yes.” “Yeah, she likes her blood tests – she’s a haematologist.” Thanks for the reminder. Then an appointment for an upper abdomen ultrasound. Plus a take home fun activity involving blowing up a balloon, packing it in a box, taking it to the nearest pathology clinic and convincing them I really, really did follow all the explicit instructions including fasting, then taking the yellow pill (a choice of the red pill or the blue pill would have been more fun), drinking the right amount of water out of the little paper cups that came as part of the fun package, waiting for the right amount of time before filling the balloon, then recording the exact time the fun was over (10.38am). The wary staff are finally convinced, and agree to forward the balloon-in-a-box, presumably for Dr Death or one of her minions to prick the balloon and let all the air out. Somehow seems like a metaphor for what’s going on. Life’s generally a fun activity, but it can all end in a hurry.

Second appointment with the balloon burster. At least she’s friendly. I’d buy bananas from her even if she said they were $3.99 a kilo. My exhaled air (Did I remember to brush my teeth before filling the balloon? – I guess if she’s seen inside my upper abdomen my bad breath wouldn’t worry her.) has given her the information she needs. Not leukaemia for now. Nothing sinister in the ten vials or the ultrasound, but I do have record breaking numbers of “helicobacter pylori” in my stomach. Now, there’s a fun fact to spice up the conversation while you wait for the desserts to come next time you’re out for dinner! And keep the term in mind for your next trivia night. Leave the little critters to their own devices in your stomach and they’ll eat their way through the stomach wall, as well as whittle away at your platelet count.

So now I’m taking a yellow pill every day, that tastes like one of those banana lollies I used to eat as a kid. Twice a day. As well as a pink tablet, and a double dose of red and yellow capsules. I get to play balloon-in-a-box again in a couple of months, then visit the blood test lover again to see if we’ve successfully killed off the stomach bug.

Don’t know who came up with the balloon-in-a-box thing, or who thought of the trivia-winning name for the stomach bug. But grateful that the world is the sort of place where medical research works. An ordered and reliably predictable world, able to be investigated by the best human minds to come up with ways of keeping people alive. Thank God for the world he made, and for the people he made who know about vocabulary I don’t. And that he is a good God, even if I do have cancer. And for my wife.