“Ouch,” I howl, bursting into tears. My underarm burns with pain.
“Oh I’m so sorry,” the doctor says. “I didn’t realise that you’d just shaved your underarm till I’d already wiped the alcohol all over it.”
“Here,” the nurse says, handing me a wet tissue.
Wiping it off, I try to stop crying. It stings so much though.
“Date of birth?” The nurse says, afterwards. We’re in the X-Ray department at the hospital and my underarm is throbbing from the several biopsy sites.
Telling her my date of birth, I say, “I’m really me, not just pretending to be me to get free biopsies.” Imagine that, I think. There probably are people who pretend to be someone else to get treatment for an illness they don’t have. Or even just sympathy. Remember reading about someone who pretended to her work colleagues that she was dying of breast cancer. Think they paid for her to have a holiday.
Anyway: have a chest and underarm full of new biopsy holes. On the plus side: have a new computer at last.
Seb messages to say “I’m at my Mum’s looking after the pets. What a beautiful day. How are you lovely?”
Love that boy. Am so lucky.
At the parentals where these pretty blue polyanthus are on show. Happy Friday everyone!
*2013. Christopher Brookmyre. Scottish Crime novel.