A disembodied voice echoed from the lift:
‘The Alfred Center – Ground Floor’
It was 8.45am.
We’d made it.

The Alfred Center -
a Government funded,
recently completed
‘Care Facility’
providing a ‘one stop’ service
for those like us
tiptoeing into the terrors of surgery.

At least it was heated.
heated and uncluttered,
uncluttered and impersonal
with cold hearted LED lights
and unimaginative modernist prints.

After half an hour and a coffee
(percolated, surprisingly good) ,
Mat beckoned.
He was blond and easygoing,
a male nurse with dreadlocks that didn’t offend.
His sphygmomanometer
was digital and deficient.
After he’d fiddled with it,
he recorded 140 on 110
‘Blood pressure’s a bit high.'

Chris was next cab off the rank.
'I'm the anaesthetist.'
A solid, forty something
he wore a charcoal grey pin striped shirt.
(I meant to ask him where he bought it)
He was friendly but non-committal
‘All I’ve got here is ‘repair aortic aneurysm’’
(I felt like we’d turned up on the wrong night) .

Pharmacist Rhonda was pregnant with her first.
A recent arrival from New Zealand,
she chatted brightly about your medications
and her new baby.

Elle took blood.
The needle was fine and sharp,
the blood deep purple.

Joanne was Chinese
and earnest.
She spent much of our consultation time
on the phone.
I enjoyed watching her
examining the pulses in your groin.

Finally it was over.
We went for a limp lunch and an X-ray.
We were home by 4.30


To be continued...

Alison Cassidy

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jerry-s-journey-aboard-the-diagnostic-train/