Muted voices drew nearer along the corridor, and I had to wonder who the subject of their intense discussion was. Suddenly, with a flick of the doctor's wrist, the flimsy curtain flew back, and I knew it was me. Was I a case worth looking at, or a novelty?
There were five men and one woman, all clad in the uniform of a doctor, although only one had the look of experience.
"Wayne is it? Do you mind if we have a look at you?"
I did not even consider the option of refusal. I was still in that dream-like state waited for this to end..
"Of course not,"
The wrap-around hospital gown was raised with little concern for modesty. My lymph glands were felt by all, and then my inflated spleen was examined with a wave-like thrust of finger tips. It was obviously swollen, I hadn’t known. A short discussion in highly technical language followed, and then the inquisition began.
"When did you first get these symptoms?" "How old are you?"
"How long have the spots been there?" They were flying at me from all sides. "Tell us about your family."
I answered as best I could, and was interrupted at regular intervals by an assortment of other questions. Satisfied with the interview, the group swept back into overlapping conversation and retreated down the aseptic hall.
The outwardly detectable signs at that time were those which had brought glandular fever to mind - suspiciously like those which my good friend Murray Whitelaw had complained of during
his recent bout of that disease. But these people had known that it was more serious than that.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10