but when it came to know me well, it fell upon its buttered side
You'd think that when a concerted effort of medical professionals1 (physician, other physician, gynaecologist, psychologist) tells you that the recent Medical Upset is a fairly serious thing and takes a while to get over, I'd be able to internalise the fact that it'll take a while to get over. Unfortunately I seem to imitate the action of the gazelle, i.e. it all goes in one ear and out the other while I quiver obliviously. So when, somewhat annoyed to discover that the post-Medical-Event exhaustion seems to be getting worse rather than better, I trek in to my nice doctor and complain, there's a sort of dawning, soul's-awakening quality to the way in which I respond when she takes samples for three separate blood tests, mutters things about viral load and anaemia from possible minor internal bleeding, books me off work until the end of next week, and tells me to start strategising seriously with my boss to, if humanly possible, take time off until the end of the term.
I am a little startled to realise that (a) she means the end of the semester, i.e. until November, not until the end of the 10-day vac next week, and (b) that apparently the recent Medical Upset is a fairly serious thing and takes a while to get over.
Who knew?
I note, for posterity, that upon emerging from my car in the hospital car park for my weekly blood test this morning, I was startled to note a small pile of picked-clean chicken bones lurking ominously by my left foot. I am inclined to think that, rather than any sort of arcane Blair Witch activity, this is yet another testament to the truly horrible food at the hospital, which clearly requires rearguard action by visitors with Kentucky Fried. (I file it in the evidence locker alongside the three completely unconnected people who have, in the last week, cheerfully congratulated me on the weight I've lost).
In other news only related to my state of health by horrific implication, Twining is considering changing the taste of Earl Grey. I am oscillating wildly between responses on a scale from Ritual Suicide to Ninja Assassins by way of Stockpiling in a Nuclear Bunker.
1 That started out as a misshapen sentence structure, but on mature reflection I rather like it as a collective noun.
I am a little startled to realise that (a) she means the end of the semester, i.e. until November, not until the end of the 10-day vac next week, and (b) that apparently the recent Medical Upset is a fairly serious thing and takes a while to get over.
Who knew?
I note, for posterity, that upon emerging from my car in the hospital car park for my weekly blood test this morning, I was startled to note a small pile of picked-clean chicken bones lurking ominously by my left foot. I am inclined to think that, rather than any sort of arcane Blair Witch activity, this is yet another testament to the truly horrible food at the hospital, which clearly requires rearguard action by visitors with Kentucky Fried. (I file it in the evidence locker alongside the three completely unconnected people who have, in the last week, cheerfully congratulated me on the weight I've lost).
In other news only related to my state of health by horrific implication, Twining is considering changing the taste of Earl Grey. I am oscillating wildly between responses on a scale from Ritual Suicide to Ninja Assassins by way of Stockpiling in a Nuclear Bunker.
1 That started out as a misshapen sentence structure, but on mature reflection I rather like it as a collective noun.