I’m not a fan of needles, or blood work. Granted, I don’t know anyone who loves those things either. But I’m one of those people who gets woozy when I see blood. Or needles. Or even think about blood and needles. I honestly can’t even stand to look at the underside of my wrist where you can see them there all blue and close to the surface.
I think you get the point.
And this, for once, is not an irrational fear! I’ve been tortured by lab techs and nurses for as long as I can remember. Apparently my veins (also, the word vein makes me a little nauseous) are petite — unlike the rest of me. They’re notoriously hard to track down and stick. It’s like they know when it’s coming — and I swear they can sense incompetence.
All this fertility mumbo jumbo means a lot of testing — mostly for me, but some for Mike as well. And some of it (for me anyway) has been a breeze. The blood work the doctor’s office did in house? Perfect. Girlfriend found a vein (ew, I don’t even like to write it) got what she needed, and I was out the door in five minutes, flat.
Today though, we had to go to LabCorp — where it was decidedly less successful.
Mike and I went in together for a generic blood test — they rule out HIV, Hepatitis — all that stuff before we officially start fertility treatments. Mike’s tech was cute in an emo-ish way, with her not really a mullet, but just a hint of a rat-tail hair. He was in the room next to mine. I could hear them talking — she kept him distracted from all the needling. She was also finished in five minutes.
My tech? I think she was stoned. It took her five minutes to button her labcoat. I’m not kidding. And it wasn’t like actual buttons. They were snaps. Who takes that long to snap six snaps? And I couldn’t understand anything she was saying because she was mumbling the entire time. I could feel my veins shrinking.
So, she started on the left side, and couldn’t find anything. They she went diving into the right side, and couldn’t hit anything there either. So, she stopped — after telling me repeatedly that she was about to “blow out my vein.” Seriously, she said (no, mumbled) that to me at least ten times. And each time, I almost threw up on her shoes.
So, she tried again and got one! And then she starts berating my blood for not bleeding fast enough? She started filling vials, getting frustrated, and then throwing them away when they were half-full! Ugh, and she kept telling me how my veins were rolling. Cue more almost fainting/vomit.
Eventually, she asks Mike’s tech to come in to see if she can do it. Also she brings me some water, because I’m sure sure my face indicated if she didn’t do something soon they’d be picking my big ass up off the floor while someone ran for the smelling salts.
So, 25 minutes later, I was finally finished. And then I promptly burst into tears in the parking lot.
Mike, who is wonderful, and knows how to handle this type of situation — immediately bought me a milkshake.
“What size do you want?”
“Just a small…”
“A small? What’s wrong?”
I think it’s a sad commentary on my eating habits when ordering a small milkshake indicates there could be a problem.
Mike is officially finished with all his pre-treatment tests (yay, Mike!) and I only have two more to go — I’m pretty sure only one involves needles, and thankfully it will be back at the doctors office with the wonderful nurse who doesn’t make me want to punch her in the face.