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The Bad Blood: My Life With Sickle Cell Anaemia


I wake up with an active volcano for a chest. When I breathe in, even lightly, I hear wheezing for miles. I don’t want to call the doctor but I call the doctor. Fifteen minutes later a receptionist leaves me a voicemail: If I can get to the surgery within the hour, I’ll be seen. I’m not sure how I make it down the stairs – and into the car and through the 20-minute journey and out of the car and across the courtyard and into the reception and down the corridor to knock on the doctor’s door – now that my limbs are made of lead. I collapse into a chair, sit feebly and at a nonsensical angle. This chair is too hard for patients, I think. Are the chairs always this hard?

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