Low life | 3 May 2018

‘Slight prick,’ she said. The nurses all say that before they slide the needle in the upstanding vein in the crook of my outstretched arm. The phrase must be in the training manual. The best nurses are professional and business-like as they prod the vein with a forefinger, then push the needle in. It’s nothing personal. However, this one was amateurish, lacking in confidence, and all too human. Puncturing a vein in my arm appeared to be a bigger deal for her than it was for me. A peculiar intimacy fell between us as the needle went in and travelled a little way up the vein. ‘How did you guess?’ I said.

I give a blood sample quarterly. The hospital then tests the sample for prostate-specific antigens. The resulting score is sent to the oncologist. She and I both hope for a consistently low score. If the score shoots up suddenly, it could mean the cancer is awake again and another bout of treatment is on the cards. Five years of regular blood tests have made me a connoisseur of the hollow-needle ritual. But I always forget to bring with me the blood-test request form that tells the nurse how she should label the sample.

‘I’ve forgotten my form again,’ I said as we watched the blood colour the tube and collect in the sample jar. ‘Typical man,’ she said. ‘Totally useless.’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘We’re all like the men in the telly adverts — incompetent and child-like. As a species it’s over for us. It’s the women who are in charge now. We’re redundant.’ ‘And so is your race,’ she said in all seriousness.

I was pleased for her. As a nurse she might have lacked certainty in placing the needle, but as a woman of colour she was triumphant.