At this stage, I had no idea of the seriousness of the disorder.
My parents had shielded me from the premature concern which would have developed into absolute terror. I was sixteen and would have been floored by the absolute in-my-face truth. I will forever be thankful that their decision was to ease me into the situation, and then allow the specialist to deliver an accurate but positive diagnosis.
He did so late on that Saturday afternoon.
After admission to a standard six -bed ward, the procession
of pokers and prodders had begun.
"Hello, Wayne."
"Hi," I timidly replied, to the uniformed brunette in her twenties. "I just have to take a few readings. Temperature, pulse and blood pressure. Won't take long. You coping all right?"
The question was asked while she slipped a thermometer under my tongue, so I responded with a nod. With a few lightning scrawls on my newly hung chart, she was off. I was alone with my outdated magazines.
But not for long.

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