My failure as an embryonic incubator has Dr. Sickboy scratching his head. With above average quality embryos for my age and a uterus now happily devoid of bloody tyrants he says that medically there is no reason why my little blast’s aren’t sticking. So, to make himself seem appropriately doctorly and useful and important, he decided it was time for more tests.
“More?” I questioned. “What more could there possibly be left to test? Had someone come up with a test that could tell if my uterus had a teflon coating?
“Oh yes” said the bloodthirsty Dr Sickboy gleefully, knowing he had found yet more reasons to poke holes in my sad and sorry veins. “There are many more confusingly vague tests that we can do, all unpronounceable, all very important and all costing lots of money. In fact there are dozens of the fuckers.”
These may not have been his exact words but you get the drift.
This morning we headed off to the local bloodletting centre where Devilboy, or Batman as he insisted on being addressed today, cleverly learned to count to sixteen as that was the number of tubes that were duly filled with my blood for the laboratory’s “very important” tests. Sixteen! The sight of that many empty test tubes was enough to make my head spin before the first drop was taken. I mean, how the hell were they going to take that much blood in one go I wondered? Were they going straight for an artery?
What seemed like several years later, I was sent home drained, quite literally, with approximately 3 millilitres of red fluid left in my body and where the rest of my day was spent weakly gawping at my bruised and needle marked arms and pondering how long it would be until some well meaning Samaritan staged an intervention… or some desperate smackhead hit me up for a fix.