Blood Work

I was at the hospital immunodeficiency clinic this morning for my two-week visit in the context of a study in which I am participating. The study is to measure the impact of a program of vaccinations on the CD4+ count and is not – for a refreshing change of pace – linked with proving that any particular pharmaceutical product is not worse than another.

Considering that I had twelve tubes to fill with my blood, I thought I would take advantage of this opportunity to share this part of my medical follow-up. Yes, this one is in the context of a study and involves a few more tubes of blood than usual – usual being more like seven or eight – but the process is the same.

Have a look, as long as you aren't squeamish about needles or blood:



Some notes about this process and its place in my life, perhaps?

I have blood draw for my usual follow-up every three months, but this will be a little more frequent while I am participating in this study. I have to be fasting for the blood work…no eating for 12-14 hours before going in.

I have 'travelling veins' (veines fuyantes), meaning that the process of finding one that will stay in place for the needle to pierce it and to get blood from it can be much more difficult than this was today. It is not unusual for it to take two or three tries to get the right thing happening. Good thing I'm not afraid of needles! In fact, I prefer to watch it go in, rather than looking away as some people do. Also on this veins issue: the phlebotomist (yes, that's the title, not vampire) does start with gloves on, but sometimes has to remove a glove in order to really locate the vein. She doesn't take other chances, though, so no possible needle stick contamination.

The contraption used is designed to make the process easier on me: a butterfly thingy around the needle with a flexible tube leading to the interface with the blood tubes. That way, when the vacuum tube is full and changed out for another, there is no jarring of the needle in my arm.

Thanks to my very able, kind and pleasant phlebotomist for allowing me to film about half of today's experience (I ran out of space on my camera's memory card).

Best. Dog toy. Evah!

It never ceases to amaze me what variety we can find in our local mega-pharmacy, if only we take the time to look.

You know the kind of place: actual pharmacy counter in the back, after you have entered through the new, classed-up cosmetics section, walked past rows of skin and hair care products, candies and, increasingly, groceries… Funny, but I wandered into mine this evening in order to buy milk for breakfast tomorrow.

Then my friend and I stumbled upon the best find:



Despite our advanced ages, we were like children, making it grunt and laughing, bringing smiles to other shoppers – well, all but the most humourless – and it just didn't get old.

I had to buy it and plan to use it in an elaborate plot to get some laughs at my next board meeting. My president, you see, brings her three dogs sometimes, one of whom has a particular farting problem. I figure on using this genius product to humiliate the dogs for a while and then hand it over so that they can have their way with it.

Oh, I kill me!

Harpergan's Isle

(To the tune of the theme from Gilligan's Island)

He goes each year, way up north you see
He hopes to make a name
He says it's about arctic sovereignty
But in truth it's just a game, in truth it's just a game

The resignations he wants to avoid
The tightening of his grip
The ministers don't dare speak out
And if they do they're flip, their shoulders all have chips

They seem to think they're in control
The Liberals are weak
(There's no disputing this last point)
Our prospects are just bleak, not hopeless, but they're bleak

He doesn't believe in climate change
The theory's just a trick
So ask why there is no ice
And the polar bears are sick, and mosquitoes are so thick

We reserve the right to spew forth smoke
And foul the northern lands
'Cause nothing should slow down our growth
We need the old tar sands, it's all over our hands

He'll spend a bunch on bomber planes
And building prisons strong
But don't speak up for women's rights
Because you'll get the gong, 'cause women's rights are wrong

However will this sad tale end?
Is there a quick way out?
When will we all stand up to him
And kick the bastard out, he needs to cry and pout

Before he guts equality
And wrecks the evidence
Before he lets his pals buy guns
And shoot things off a fence, without any licence

Before he cancels everything
That doesn't make some cash
Before he smites his enemies
Or those whose words are brash, he'll get you in a flash

Before he rolls back time to when
We didn't care a pile
Before he comes for you, my friend
And puts you in a file, let's not see that forced smile

So go up north and just pretend
That all that water's ours
Play darned expensive army games
And accumulate powers, they feel better than flowers

But one day we will all wake up
And get a chance to vote
Here's hoping that some thought goes in
To getting Harper's goat, 'tis he who will be smote

Until that day, we watch and note
And ready for the trial
Where reckoning will come to pass
Here on Harpergan's Isle….

T. Immaculatum Update

My doctor just phoned me with the news that my most recent blood tests have shown no sign of the immaulate infection.

I suspect that there is a lab tech somewhere who will not be having as good a day as I, and I am at home nearly immobilized by a back problem!

Annoyance

All right, here's how a good day goes bad, then recovers again.

I had a lovely day at work, a little late, and then planned to leave a little early to pick up some new batteries for my two cordless phone handsets (bad feeling starting to set in: I just replaced these batteries about a year ago, so why can't they stand to be talked on for more than a half hour without beeping rudely in my ear?).

Check the bus schedule online before stepping into the heat and bright sunshine. Bus is scheduled to arrive at 16:52, the next at 17:02, and it's only 16:50, so I ought to make the first one. The first one doesn't come. The second doesn't come. The third doesn't come, or is it the third that is arriving in a convoy with the fourth, itself late? If I had known this would happen, I wouldn't have spent 30 minutes in the hot direct sun that I really don't need, especially with my complexion. Now very angry.

Go to Bureau en gros to inquire about the battery, with the previous batteries on hand so there's no way I can describe them wrong. Heck, I can even get them to dispose of the old batteries in an environmentally responsible way. That assessment, of course, before running into the ill-motivated and passive clerk behind the counter. She glanced helplessly toward the battery carrousel that is notably behind the counter, well out of the reach of customers, and told me she thought they didn't have them. With my margin of time narrowing, I really didn't have time to insist, so I completed her half-formed thought for her: "Donc, c'est non." And just walked out.

Walked quickly to my only other choice in the neighbourhood, The Source, which sold me the original phones and the substandard replacement batteries. No one in the store, except the two clerks. One heads into the back, the other is talking on his cell phone. When he finally finishes his call and meanders over, asking if I need some help (why else am I standing at the cash?). He needn't have offered, as he had none to give.

I go home with only my worn-out batteries, hot from the temperature and humidity and frustrated all around.

In the meantime, I ordered something online a few days ago and had had a "You weren't home" notice from UPS the day before. When I called their number, it took me ten minutes to work my way through their phone system, hoping in vain to be able to speak to an operator to arrange redirection of my package. No such luck. When for the third time I heard the automated voice encourage me to go to the website, I hung up and went there. Smoothly entered all the information to redirect the delivery to the office. But that was yesterday.

Today, coming home angry, tired and frustrated, I climbed the stairs to my front door and found my package just sitting there on the doorstep. Is that redirecting the delivery to my office? Is that doing everything you can to ensure that I actually get my package? No and no. And not the day for this to happen either.

I seriously considered blowing off my dinner plans, but was talked out of it. I'm glad I went to spend some time with friends and had a lovely dinner with them.

Treponema Immaculatum

A terrible injustice just took far too long to unfold in my life. Shall we start at the beginning?

A couple of weeks ago, I was feeling quite sick. A little fever and diarrhoea on the Saturday (I never manage to break out the thermometer when I feel feverish, but let's just say that it was hot and yet I felt the need to pull up my down comforter as I napped in midday). Plenty more diarrhoea and gas over the next few days and the rather disturbing change in colour of my – er – stools. By the time I got to the following Friday, I made myself go see my doctor, who ordered some blood tests and asked me to call in for results the next Tuesday.

Over the weekend, things cleared up and went back to normal. On Tuesday I called and got a bit of a surprise: awaiting confirmation on a test for syphilis.

This might not be a big surprise for a sexually active gay man these days as public health panics us with the pronouncements of a large increase in syphilis cases among gay men (shot all the way up to 300 or so, which seems a little small compared to the many thousands of Chlamydia cases among youth these days). It is, however, a rather big surprise for me, as I have not had sex in approximately 5 years. Except with myself, and I had tests every three months during all that time that showed nothing of the sort.

There is something very annoying about being diagnosed with a sexually transmitted infection without having had sex. All of the notoriety, none of the fun. It all just seems unfair somehow.

Add to my frustration the amount of time that it took for the confirming test to come back: three and a half weeks after the drawing of the blood. Good thing it isn't typhoid, or my neighbourhood would have been wiped out!

Now I think that we all believe that medical science is a lot more precise than it actually is. Like they pour the blood on a little test strip which then turns a particular colour or flashes a "+" to indicate a positive test. It just isn't that simple. There is interpretation involved and I suspect that someone has misinterpreted this result. Either that or the 20 previous results. Which of those scenarios sounds more likely? I think we'll find out more certainly when I have my next round of regular blood tests next week.

In the meantime, public health gets notified and will likely contact me (can't wait to see how long that takes) to ascertain my behaviour. I honestly don't know how they will react to my account, but I don't have another one: just the truth of my lack-of-self-esteem-bad-body-image-inspired chastity. The interesting twist is that I go to meetings with these people in the context of my work.

So where did it come from? A mystery, one might even say a Holy Mystery (hence my clever renaming of the responsible bacteria in the title). Call the Vatican! This is surely a miracle, albeit a negative one. I credit (or blame) Brother André. I think he got it from one of those young boys with whom he is rumoured to have chastely shared his bed. With saints like that….

Now lest anyone think that I don't have all the theology straight in my head, let me remind you that my short-lasting conversion to Catholicism occurred when I was a young adult, so I am down with the dogma. The Immaculate Conception refers not to Mary and Jesus, but Anne and Mary, so that Mary could be born without original sin and be in a position to say "Let it be done to me" when accosted by an angel or archangel.

And while I may have uttered those words, or at least thought them, countless times in the past, I have not done so in about five years. And therein lies the injustice.

Paris

We arrived in Paris this morning to a little bit of drama.

Having opted to be a little frugal and take the RER rather than a taxi, at least to the Gare du Nord, we purchased our tickets without incident and then had to ask the information person where exactly to go.

That's when the drama arrived: a suspicious package that kept us out of the train area for a while and treated us to the sight of soldiers with machine guns and police bomb specialists who were much less well armed, but much more snappily dressed. Not to say I didn't find the camouflage (or what was under it) interesting…. No bomb went off and we took the train.

On the train, a little entertainment from a guy who sang his own karaoke – portable sound system, the first part of a number of songs of different styles – and then asked for contributions. A few of us gave a few coins.

Taxi, then, to the Hotel IBIS La Villette. The hotel is nice, of a different style than the North American hotels I usually stay in for meetings. Here, for Bob, a hotel bed shot…

…and a shot of the view from the window of my room.

Not a typical Paris scene, but we are practically at the wall in the 19e arrondissement. The thing with the bubbly top is actually a covered play area and there are a bunch of kids playing soccer in it, which is a lovely and lively sound.

Another all-important view for me, given my varied experiences of showers in different hotels in France, is the bathroom. First the toilet and sink area:

…and then two views of the shower itself, base and a vertical shot:

It is not much bigger than a phone booth (certainly not bigger than a phone booth here – they are larger here), so I will probably have to get out to pick up the soap if I drop it, but at least the two doors open, so that action will not be a struggle.

I still need a bit of sleep, so will get to that now.