So I trudged my way to the phlebotomist’s clinic to get blood drawn on orders from my OB. I had to be wheedled and teased into it, because I dread needles. I had a BAAAAAD needle experience when I was a kid, and to this day, I cannot picture metal piercing my skin without getting queasy.
It’s so bad that I can’t even wear earrings anymore. The idea of tattoos makes me get shifty-eyed looking for emergency exits. The thought of a needle poking my skin over and over makes me want to....(flop, thud)
So I forced myself to go to the phlebotomist’s. As I get into the elevator to go to the second floor, I notice that someone has fastened large, padded blankets to three of the walls. I think to myself padded walls...how did they know that I was coming? I go to the office and sign in.
There was only one other (exceptionally walleyed) woman in the waiting room. It was a pretty standard medical waiting room, with the addition of a friendly sign. It said (I cannot make this stuff up)
FOR THE SAFETY AND CONVENIENCE OF YOUR FELLOW PATIENCE (sigh)
NO CELL PHONES
NO TALKING
NO USE OF BATHROOM
NO FOOD OR DRINK
THANK YOU
It occurs to me that my planned mental breakdown and the resulting shrieking, racing about with arms a-flailin’, calling for help, and wetting myself will be less than appreciated here. Time for plan B, I guess.
The lady behind the counter asked me a few questions, including my race. I raised an eyebrow, cocked my head to the side, and said “as white as they come. Practically albino, even. I don’t ever need X-rays: they just look through my skin” Anyone who has met me would never confuse me for a Roshanda or a Guadalupe or a Jiang Li. I will only ever be mistaken for a Mary Catherine O’Malley or an Ingrid Clausdotter.
The woman (If I’m as white as they come, she was as black as they come. The two of us looked like a chess set) looked up at me, saw my pasty Anglicanness, and snickered. I told her that I would sit in the corner and have a panic attack that would remain consistent with their rules for...ahem...patience.
As I sat down, the other woman in the waiting room started talking to me. At least, I think that she was talking to me. Both eyes were focused on opposite ends of the wall I was cowering against. She was telling me not to be scared, and that the nurses at the clinic were very nice. I swallowed the urge to ask if her eyes were like that before they sucked vital juices from her.
The nurse behind the counter agreed with the human flounder and told me that there was nothing scary about what they were doing (Ha, I say, Ha!) and I said that as far as I was concerned, the faster I was unconscious, the better, since they could stab me with anything they like at that point and I’d never be able to pick them out of a police lineup. The nurse chuckled in a tone that was decidedly spooky and told me to follow her to a room.
(insert butterflies here)
She sat me in a padded chair (They did not, unfortunately, pad these walls, an oversight which I am sure that they will remedy for my next trip) and proceeded to put a locking bar from one arm rest to the other, effectively limiting my chair escape attempts to either slithering to the ground or floating to the ceiling. I joked that she was seriously impinging on my ability to run screaming from the room. All she said was “Exactly.”
(more butterflies would be good here)
I told her that I was petrified of needles. I admitted my weird little thing about earrings, too. She clicked her tongue and told me “If you’re going to pass out, I need to know, okay?” I said (like a damned FOOL) “I think I’ll be alright as long as I don’t see the needle at all.” I squinched up my eyes, turned my head away and said “See? I’ll be (famous last words) FINE. Look at how well I can not look at what you’re doing (What am I looking for from her? A cookie?)”
She ties off my arm, pokes me with a needle, and I start breathing verrrrrry carefulllllllly. I think that I would have (no way, Jose) been alright if I hadn’t heard the whooshing. My blood was whooshing into the vial(s). I started to feel the same way that I felt when I hacked my thumb a few weeks ago. My heart wanted to beat out of my chest, my eyes started showing me fireworks and I felt that losing consciousness was a very valid, nay, perfect solution to the situation at hand. A small voice inside me said “Poppies: poppies will put her to sleep. Sleeeeeeeep.” It sounded like such good advice. Lucidity is for total losers, I decided.
I told the lady that I was feeling like I had been on the teacups ride ten too many times. She said “Can you give me twenty seconds? I need twenty seconds.” Three hours later, she pulled the needle out and a cold cup of water appeared. She and a big Samoan dude (also a nurse, or maybe I imagined him) led me to a room with a cot (Cots? Why didn’t they tell me I had a cot option? Bastards!) and told me that I should lay on my side so that I don’t choke on my own vomit.
In my own defense, I did not vomit.
I asked to see the vials that she filled, and there were like six or seven of them. MAN! Can I bleed!
Enough to whoosh, anyway.
I went out to the car and checked myself out in the rear view mirror.
No walleye yet.
Posted by Jen at October 10, 2005 4:57 PM