The Blood Test That Felt Like a Marathon

Why Even the Smallest Tasks Can Feel Like an Expedition

Photo by AbsolutVision on Unsplash

It was meant to be a routine visit to the hospital for some blood tests—nothing major. Lots of people go to the hospital for these tests. I am not particularly nervous about needles, but nobody likes them, do they?

I had been anxious about getting these blood tests done for three weeks. I rearranged them twice because I could not face them. It wasn’t the actual test itself, but rather the whole palaver of getting into the hospital and back out again. Let me explain.

These days, my mobility is terrible. I can walk short distances, but anything substantial requires a considerable rest afterwards, and I’ll pay for it later in the form of Post-Exertional Malaise (PEM). Because of this, I need to use a wheelchair or a scooter. My anxiety begins the evening before my appointment: which mobility aid should I use? The super-light scooter that’s fun to drive but uncomfortable, or the Whill C2 wheelchair, which is much more comfortable but heavier and takes longer to set up? I opt for the latter.

My first challenge is parking. I have a Blue Badge, so you’d think it would be easy to find a space, but my local hospital is always full. I almost give up, but eventually, a spot becomes available. My next challenge is registering for free parking at a portacabin 200 yards away. I assess the situation and decide to use my walking stick to get there. First mistake. The attendant takes ages, and I start feeling wobbly. I return to the car, rest for a moment, and then begin assembling my wheelchair.

The Whill C2 splits into four parts, one of which is heavy. I can manage it, but it takes time. I’m conscious, though, that people might wonder how I can assemble my wheelchair and then ride off in it. They probably don’t understand the world of ambulant wheelchair users. I’d like to say I don’t care what they think, but I do. I feel self-conscious setting up and sigh with relief when I finally get into the chair. This is the easy part.

The WhillC2 Wheelchair, my trendy ride.

I put the chair into maximum power mode and drive up the hill into the hospital. The Whill is super comfy, but the hospital pavements are in a poor state, so I’m jolted around. Lots of sympathetic smiles come my way, and a few people compliment my chair. This makes me feel even more self-conscious, so I press on and enter the hospital towards my destination. But then, abruptly, the wheelchair stops with a loud clicking noise. I’m in the middle of a corridor, surrounded by people. After what feels like an eternity, I realise the battery has clicked out of its socket. I must not have inserted it correctly.

I jump out of the chair just as my phone crashes to the ground. I mutter a rude word as I grab the chair and pick it up. My aching legs protest as I reinsert the battery properly and switch the chair back on with an obliging bleep. I get a few funny looks before it dawns on me that they probably think I’ve had a miraculous cure! I jump back in and speed off, keen to put some distance between me and the scene.

I enter the blood testing area. The staff are lovely, and of course, they’re used to wheelchair users. I don’t feel like a wheelchair user, though, not a proper one. After all, I can get out and fix it. A very nice lady takes my blood without me needing to leave the chair. I feel triumphant as I turn my chair on a dime to wheel out of the bay—only to misjudge the wall and take some of the paint with me. I smile apologetically and joke about needing a licence. Inside, I’m dying of embarrassment.

The journey back to the car was thankfully uneventful, although I did need to swerve over an unsteady lady pulling her drip along outside whilst smoking. Packing the wheelchair back into the car, however, is another challenge. I also curse the battery as I place it in the car. Fitting everything into my small hatchback feels like a game of Jenga, without the fun. It takes me ages to get it all back in, during which time I am feeling very wobbly, and my hands are shaking.

Eventually, I sit in the car and take deep breaths. I made it. As I drive away from the hospital, I reflect on the experience. I need to slow down and plan things better. I need to double-check that I’ve inserted the battery correctly. Most importantly, I need to stop worrying about what other people think. All these things pass my mind as I go and look for my wife, Rachel.

As I round the corner, I spot a friendly face, Rachel, emerging from her own appointment. It feels good to be back with her. I also feel a quiet sense of pride that I managed to go through with it all, even if it was stressful. I’ve had my tests done, even if my wheelchair now bears a small white mark of NHS paint—no real harm done.

Living with a chronic illness is never easy, is it? I hope that by sharing my story, you feel reassured that you’re not alone. Every day is a challenge, but together, we will get through it.

Paul