Everybody is afraid of something. My Mom is terrified of insects. My father is afraid of dentists. The Carpenter is afraid of conversations that begin with, “Do you think this looks good?” Me? I am afraid of blood work.
There. I admitted it. Phew. I feel better just for saying it.
That’s a lie. I don’t feel better. I feel squeamish just talking about it. I don’t like to get poked. Stop it. I mean needles. Actually, it’s not the needles I fear so much, as the act of removing my precious body fluid and transporting it to a test-tube for the purposes of some CSI investigation of my personal life. It’s not that I have anything to hide. Sometimes I wish I did. When I sit in that clinically depressing medical laboratory awaiting the poke from the white-coated woman with the latex gloves, I assure you, I’d tell her anything she wants to know about my life without her even needing to apply pressure.
In fact, that is exactly what I did last week when my dear doctor sent me for blood work.
Truth be told, it took me four days to summon the courage to go to the medical lab. Those places freak me out almost as bad as their specimen collections. Honestly, who does the interior decor at these labs? Would it kill them to paint with a colour? As it is, the beige walls look about as pasty as my drained complexion when I hear the words, “Next,” and I’m the only person left.
I have no poker face. The fear is clear, despite my attempts to make clever small talk as the nice lab coat lady leads me into the next ugly room. Panic begins as I am seated in a chair that includes a pedestal for my arm to sit perfectly still while they jab me with a needle. Ick. Think happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts.
“Miss, are you okay?” she asks. The needle is not out of the plastic wrap yet. But as she slips the latex over her fingers and grabs that plastic noodle thingy out to tie around my arm, I start to feel the giggles come on. Yep. Nerve giggles. It’s a curse. To mask the giggles, I talk fast, really fast, about pretty much anything. I become a rambling mad woman in a blood-sucking lounge chair.
The woman, now unsettled by my giddiness scans the length of my arms for a vein to pluck. My veins know she’s coming. My veins are tiny, really tiny. This may be why I fear blood work. I’ve heard cleverly unhelpful statements like, “Your veins are so small, I can’t get this in.”
Today was no different. The right arm got wise, the veins disappeared altogether. Poof. Gone. The left arm was too slow to follow suit, and before lefty could get wise, poke.
“You aren’t going to faint are you?” the lady asks. Talk about a leading question.
“Nope. I’m good,” I lie. Then I proceed to tell her deeply personal facts about my life. You’d think she had truth serum in that needle.
Then it was over. Bend the arm. Hold the cotton ball. Act cool.
I guess I’m telling you this because, at one point in my life, I needed the blood of other people to keep me alive. Those folks had courage, but even more so, compassion. I’ve never had the chance to thank them. I don’t know who they are. But I am grateful, even when I have to give a little back to a lab.
