TIME AFTER TIME

Short and unsmiling. I hadn't seen this doctor before and yet he was preparing to insert a monstrous needle into my arm.
I needed a blood transfusion.
I was anaemic.
It must have been his last task before clocking off, because at nine o'clock in the evening he was not interested in small talk, whereas I was ready to tell him all about my first stint in hospital.

I looked in bewilderment at this stocky man, still bearing the scars of adolescent acne. He was going to use a steel needle that seemed to be about five centimetres in length. I had never seen anything like it, and I told him so.
Its diameter was frightening.

Unperturbed, he searched my forearm for a suitable vein, and applied an antiseptic wash. He had chosen a vein in the side of my wrist, that I did not know even existed. Perhaps it was of suitable size.
In silence he forced the instrument through the skin, into the vein which had stood to attention, and right through the other side. It was not my night.
"Ah. I'm having a little trouble with this one."

I couldn't bring myself to answer. I knew that the pain now would be replaced by a nasty bruise by the morning. What can you say anyway?
I tried to relax my arm and keep it perfectly still.
The feeling of cold metal easing deep into the vessel was weird.
He ended by strapping my wrist with endless tape, and releasing the blood to drip slowly down the tube throughout the night. I was to try to sleep.
Not that I'm untrusting, but as soon as he left I sat upright in bed, and checked the label on the packet of blood, to ensure that it read A+. Then I fiddled with the drip regulator.
How could I sleep with that constant dripping, and the fear that it may stop? Later the nurse reassured me.

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DANGEROUS MICROBES

I remember one morning when my squinting eyes fought hard against the arrival of a new day. They focused on a cleaner, silently stalking around my room.
I dreaded these times.
"How are you?” I inquired, without caring about the response. I slipped deeper below the sheets as I had caught the attention of the unshaven man, whose colourless, disinterested eyes reflected a poor level of job satisfaction. I was in no position to feel sorry for him, nor to ponder his seeming lack of zest for life. I thought him to be a grubby ¬looking man, and that worried me.
Of course, it was my paranoia that led me to this conclusion. I have no doubt that he was as clean as any other Alfred Hospital employee who regularly entered my room. But my imagination was fertile.
Time stood still as I waited for the man to answer. He seemed spellbound by the lethargic stroke of his mop, and I tried to erase unkind thoughts of countless bacteria finding refuge in his thick coverage of body hair. I knew that infection could seriously threaten my recovery.
"O.K.," he replied, then left. I heaved a sigh of relief, but I still breathed from below my sheets for several more minutes. I had hoped that he wouldn't notice how I was trying to filter my air through the bedcovers.

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RAW TREATMENT

Things were happening very quickly to me, leaving no real time for evaluation. I trusted the medical team wholeheartedly, absorbing those colourful fluids into my veins with just the customary wince.
What were they?
Severe nausea was part of the deal, I was told, so my stomach was in for a difficult period.
Subconsciously, my memory of this time has been hacked. There are some quite distressing recollections in that which remains, so I have felt quite comfortable with the less-than-perfect memory. Realistically, the intake of the toxic drugs and bouts of violent illness probably played a minor role in the loss, but passing time and the need to remain positive are basically the factors responsible.

Deep within the chasms of my mind has been trapped the thought that the battle could begin again. Even during the earliest times, that darkest of possibilities rarely surfaced. My forward planning never included ill health or a reversion to intensive treatment. To do so would have been opening wide the floodgates of negativity and despair.
Viewing proceedings from a different aspect left indelible scars within my parents, and their memories are far more vivid than my own. Much of the material to follow has been recorded thanks to their help in discussing incidents from throughout this period.
They are definitely not common topics of conversation in our family.

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Good health can so easily be taken for granted, especially through childhood and adolescence, because you're active and enjoying life. It seemed odd when the oldies referred to the importance of health. Recognising that it cannot be guaranteed is clearly a huge part of growing up.
When someone or something threatens your very survival, you form a clear picture of what is truly valuable in life. It forces this reappraisal of thoughts and objectives upon you - the people, the needs, the ambitions, and the beliefs. The thought has crossed my mind that several people I have encountered should volunteer for a major trauma of some type, to give them perspective, to reorganise their priorities, to help them distinguish between the important and the petty. It amuses me watching people become frenzied over trivial things, but also I feel sadness for them.
Good health is a gift to be treasured. Now I know what my grandparents were on about.
The events of 1976 forced this realisation upon me. I now feel far more capable of distinguishing between that which is worthy of energy and commitment, and that which is not. Although sometimes after more than 30 years, I forget.

The telephone call broke the silence of the family room, dimly lit by the twilight hours. I was lost in the imagery of an outback novel, and made no attempt to respond. It was our local G.P., Dr Wrennall, with the results of the F.B.E., and because I had no reason to suspect anything too threatening, the voices did not capture my attention.
He knew that it was leukaemia, and was engaged in one of those horrific conversations that all doctors must dread. The need for more detailed testing was explained, but it was vital at this time, that my mother be prepared for the most likely, and worst, possibility.
A slamming car door signalled my father's return. It was the cue for my mother to move quickly from the house to deliver the medical bombshell. I sat in ignorance then, as I did throughout the evening, as my parents tried to decide whether others should know of the early diagnosis; especially me. Until the specialist had been consulted, they kept the knowledge to themselves, pinning their hopes on the slim chance that the results were wrong.

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