Dervish

I’ve been putting off ringing up about the glucose tolerance test I did to ascertain whether I have the “d” word (diabetes). Apparently half the people in Oz who have it, don’t realise it. There’s a big push for awareness of diabetes at the moment, so everywhere I go I seem to see signs saying how serious diabetes is, and how you’ll have to have feet amputated and stuff.

It took me a month and a half just to get the actual test done, and I asked for them to send me a copy of the results. I’d rather find out by a friendly letter in my mailbox than a voice at the other end of the telephone. I know I still have to talk to the doctor afterwards, but a letter I can digest in the privacy of a darkened room with squinted eyes.

But the results are late so I resorted to ringing the endocrinologist’s office today. Luckily she didn’t have my file to hand. That means, please Mr. Postman, bring me a letter.

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