I Vant Yore Blood...

This morning I kissed the phlebotomist 'goodbye' for another year. Well, I didn't literally kiss her, in fact, she probably didn't even see me as I raced out of the lab. If she had, I'm sure she was muttering, "Good riddance," under her breath. Anyhoo. To say that I HATE getting my blood drawn, is an understatement. I realize that no one really looks forward to it, but I am among a group who could benefit from sedatives prior to entering the clinic's laboratory.
I begin feeling woozy about a week before my appointment and the nausea fades only at the point where the entire glass of orange juice is consumed. Either my husband or my dear friend Mel, accompanies me to the lab. I tried to be brave and go by myself once. Bad decision. I do remember the phlebotomist shouting, "Oh God! Her eyes are rolling back in her head! AMMONIA!"
When Mel accompanies me, she becomes a Spider Monkey (a favor I return when she has her blood drawn...). I always go to what the technicians refer to as "the bed," which is essentially a gurney in a side room, reserved for those of us with a record of screaming, fainting, sobbing, or vomiting. I lay on one end of the gurney and Mel crawls on the other end so that she can hold my hand tightly. Neither one of us can actually watch the process, so we both turn our heads toward the wall and talk non-stop so as to distract ourselves from the process we cannot possibly distract ourselves from. (I imagine we make good fodder for stories told later in the clinic's break room). One time we waited patiently for my name to be called and we noticed that one nurse had chosen to wear red scrubs. I couldn't bear to look at her. When I did, her human features faded and all I saw were two long vials of blood walking to and fro. I stumbled to the restroom to splash cold water on my face, in an attempt to make those circling stars go away.
This morning, my husband accompanied me to the clinic. We drove separately as he dropped the kids off at school. I arrived first to sign in...we figured the wait would be at least 30 minutes. To my terror, the lot was empty and the lab was empty and I was the ONLY patient who had signed in. As I was walking back up to the clipboard to unsign my name and run for my life, the husband strolled in. Foiled! I smiled at him and pretended I had been walking to the restroom, and kept on walking. I splashed cold water on my face, washed my hands (already drenched with sweat) and headed back out as my name was called.
We were guided toward "the bed"...is it a bad sign when phlebotomists recognize you and you are only there once a year? I climbed on the gurney and began to curl up in the fetal position, my husband grabbed my hand and I squeezed for dear life. The technician probably frowned...I wasn't sure as I already had my head turned squarely toward the wall. I asked for orange juice at the ready, and felt it my duty to warn her of my past history of sobbing/vomiting/fainting combos. She calmed me by telling me a story of a physician who had a particularly hard time having his own blood drawn, and would curl up in a ball on "the bed" once a year, as well. This piece of information comforted me greatly. Before I knew it, the blood was drawn and the icy bottle of orange juice was in my hand.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I could have sworn I saw Nurse Vial Legs slipping into the building, and I didn't even feel woozy! Well...maybe just for a second...