Blood Test. "A small prick, Sir." Small? With such a big needle and bigger syringes? 1, 2, 3, 4 and counting. So many syringe-fulls of my blood. The fleeting powerful thought does cross my worried mind—Is this blood donation? In my younger days, I have never given or seen anybody give so much blood for testing. Or were there not so many zillion parameters to inquire about…?

I am a nervous person. And this is an understatement. The very thought that I have to head to a hospital to submit my body and mind for examination by unknown people makes my frayed nerves turn into shreds. Whether the auto I take as conveyance shakes or not, I do. Without fail.

 The one area where I never fail. What additional surprises will the tests throw up on my face? I seem to be suddenly panting and short of breath. Apart from the shortage of cash, is my heart up to tricks? All such thoughts maraud through the grey cells, stamping and stampeding every other occasional positive thought. And the doctor most probably would say, "You are fine, Sir. Continue the medicines." If I am fine, why continue with medicines? Anyway, doctors are like Gods for us. If God has ordained, who am I to question?

And the ECG and Echo? A thick paste stickiest I always feel is liberally spread around your chest and limbs. Feels like you have been dipped into some squishy thing. Thick cables with some rubber-like thing on the ends that will be affixed to the most sensitive parts of your chest, tickling you, but remember you cannot shake, and claws holding onto your ankles. "Don’t move, Sir. Breathe normally." The moment you are told this, the heart starts racing, you hear thumps and ineffectively breathe, worrying whether this panic will affect the results. Then a printed paper written in something like shorthand will be given. The Echo. The sounds of the blood rushing in and out in the highest decibels possible send chills. Small paper tissues will be offered to wipe the huge amount of gum-cum-gel-like substance. The feeling of having had a triple oil bath with improper toweling will haunt until you reach home and have a nice shower.

The radiologist will keep dictating as the probe keeps tickling you something like "Blood flow this, LDA dilated, some valve slightly thickened." Thickened? Another worry starts. Why should they allow me to hear this? Great relief when the doctor ultimately says, "Thickening of the valve is normal at your age, Sir." Another deep breath. This time in relaxation.

So, it goes.

Continued in 241. Care And Scare - A Tale of Two City Hs - Part 3