A disembodied voice echoed from the lift: <br />‘The Alfred Center – Ground Floor’ <br />It was 8.45am. <br />We’d made it. <br /> <br />The Alfred Center - <br />a Government funded, <br />recently completed <br />‘Care Facility’ <br />providing a ‘one stop’ service <br />for those like us <br />tiptoeing into the terrors of surgery. <br /> <br />At least it was heated. <br />heated and uncluttered, <br />uncluttered and impersonal <br />with cold hearted LED lights <br />and unimaginative modernist prints. <br /> <br />After half an hour and a coffee <br />(percolated, surprisingly good) , <br />Mat beckoned. <br />He was blond and easygoing, <br />a male nurse with dreadlocks that didn’t offend. <br />His sphygmomanometer <br />was digital and deficient. <br />After he’d fiddled with it, <br />he recorded 140 on 110 <br />‘Blood pressure’s a bit high.' <br /> <br />Chris was next cab off the rank. <br />'I'm the anaesthetist.' <br />A solid, forty something <br />he wore a charcoal grey pin striped shirt. <br />(I meant to ask him where he bought it) <br />He was friendly but non-committal <br />‘All I’ve got here is ‘repair aortic aneurysm’’ <br />(I felt like we’d turned up on the wrong night) . <br /> <br />Pharmacist Rhonda was pregnant with her first. <br />A recent arrival from New Zealand, <br />she chatted brightly about your medications <br />and her new baby. <br /> <br />Elle took blood. <br />The needle was fine and sharp, <br />the blood deep purple. <br /> <br />Joanne was Chinese <br />and earnest. <br />She spent much of our consultation time <br />on the phone. <br />I enjoyed watching her <br />examining the pulses in your groin. <br /> <br />Finally it was over. <br />We went for a limp lunch and an X-ray. <br />We were home by 4.30 <br /> <br /> <br />To be continued...<br /><br />Alison Cassidy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jerry-s-journey-aboard-the-diagnostic-train/
