Thrombosis Summer, Part One . . .
It started with a cramp. No, no, no. That’s not true. It actually started much earlier. It started with a kidnapping. Every year, my parents avail themselves of the Multiphasic Blood Screening sponsored by the local Rotary Club. What this entails is twelve hours of Friday night fasting, followed by an early Saturday morning wake-up call. Then, a pilgrimage to the Methodist Church basement, where a flock of phlebotomists wait to drain the masses, followed by coffee and doughnuts. This year, I was told I’d be participating as well. This wasn’t a request, although I thought I’d moved beyond the age where my parents could dictate my behavior. When I mentioned this belief, my father laughed (in the same manner he had when I was a teenager), and told me where to be and when. And dammit, I listened. After a fair amount of pouting over my apparent lack of self-determination, I realized the screening probably wasn’t a bad idea. I don’t take proper care of myself; the inner tube that pass...