When it comes to blood draws, I am a wimp. A baby. A big fat scaredy cat. For someone who’s birthed four children, undergone extensive hernia repair surgery, and more recently, had cortisone aggressively jabbed into her shoulder socket, you’d think I’d be able to handle a tiny needle prick. But no. If I could, I’d run for the hills every single time, like the chicken I am.
Unfortunately, my one and only primary care physician of 20-plus years retired (Oh. Dr. M, why have you forsaken me?), forcing me to find a replacement. And my new person insisted on a full lab panel since my last workup was literally ancient history: “We can do them right here. You can come in the morning. Remember to fast!”
Ugh. Fine. I returned the next day, overdramatically weak from hunger and nauseous from anxiety, hoping for a stay of execution. Not to be fooled or deterred, the nurse whisked me into a private room where I could lie down and keep an ice pack under my neck. Clearly, there’d be no fainting (or avoiding the scheduled and consensual medical stabbing) on her watch. Curse you, wise woman!
To her credit, it was over quickly, though she missed on her first try and then proceeded to inform me that my veins “really roll.” (Cue gag). And later, the crook of my arm looked like a disturbed copperhead, or “Twilight’s” Edward Cullen had landed a bite. Nonetheless, I survived, without barfing or visibly crying, so I guess that’s a win.
Hi. My name is Danielle. And I’m a coward when it comes to blood draws. Bawk, bawk.