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GPs have a way of making you feel guilty and sick, all at the same time.Also a little patronised – no, not patronised - indulged.Next morning, the doctors came and did their rounds and the nice tall Dutch chap with his team of two others came for a chat.Yes, they'd found something, and they wanted more tests. Bit forward, I thought, but that's the Dutch for you.Symptoms emerge while you are talking to doctors – I remembered having cramps in my legs.I remembered being short of breath climbing stairs.There was no mistaking it was a boy - it was like a tiny porn show.
It comes, around 9pm, and the good news is I haven't had a heart attack, nor do I have a blood clot in my lungs.
Tired, little cough, hot and sweaty at night (and not in the right way). Nothing major, certainly not worth troubling the doctor about.
It started in early January we went to Fiji for a short holiday (it wasn't the best idea – it rained most days, I got bad sunburn and both my wife and son got sick there.
Whip down the shorts, try my hardest not to meet the eye of the rather beautiful female doctor who must be in her late 20s and let him go for it. The only times I've seen ultrasound before is with my pregnant wife, as we strained our eyes trying to interpret the grainy images in front of us as parts of one of our kids.
"We'll need to check those more" is the prognosis, and my cornies arrive for breakfast. "Look, there is the spine, there's the heart beating, and there's the… " Too late, it was the only bit on the ultrasound that was clearly visible.