Bloody Friday

I went in for a blood draw the other day, a relatively painless task the doctor asks me to do a couple times a year to make sure I’m eating right and taking good care of myself.  Heart disease and diabetes have a foothold on the family DNA, so monitoring what’s flowing through my veins is one more preventative step I can take to make sure one or the other don’t start creeping up on me.

It's always a pretty routine procedure, too; something I seldom worry about.

It was Friday, though, and I was taking a chance; taking a chance- like the last time I tried doing this on a Friday- that I wouldn't be walking into a sea of senior citizens, only about half ambulatory and all with at least one caretaker in tow.

That day it was like I’d gone to sleep and awakened on Planet Jurrasic.

The geriatric swarm that morning took up nearly all the space and a lot of my time. Every chair and almost every empty nook and cranny was occupied, and very quickly I felt like I’d been squeezed into a stuck elevator, filled to the brim with a horde of ailing old folks.

Instantly claustrophobic, I wanted to flee in terror. Luckily there was a small patch of open territory next to a fern. There wasn’t a chair, but nobody was there except the plant so I sat down next to it on the floor Indian-style, half way behind it and against the wall, until some of the seniors had funneled out and more elbow room opened up.

Heck, I didn't know Friday was their day; that particular Friday just happened to be the only morning I could go.

But answer me this: why do all the old people have to do their blood work, doctor visits, etc, first thing in the day? What else are they doing that they can't wait till a little later? Emergencies I get, but blood draws don't generally fall into that category. So here's what I propose: they can have from 10.....no…..they can have all the doctor’s offices from 9 a.m. on.

Just leave the first hour of the day to the rest of us who still have TO GET TO WORK !!! 

Pardon the rant, but the clinic I frequent operates on a first come, first served basis. And though it felt real good that Friday being the youngest person in the room by decades, by the time I was seen I'd aged almost two hours. If that was going to be the case again this Friday, I'd come back a different day. But I arrived right at 8:00, the waiting room was empty and was certain the over-under for being in and out of out of there and on my way was no more than 5 minutes.  Turns out it was 6, but only because after the lady took my right arm, found a vein and struck the needle in, she got... nothing.

Not without trying, though.

She withdrew the long sharp pointy needle from the first attempt and began moving it around, probing, seeking, probing until… take two- the friendly clinician pricked me again. She found a different spot and went in even deeper. However the second time it felt like the needle had severed tendons on the way to scraping bone. It hurt. But all that pain provided no gain. When the 'small dagger of death' was once more removed, it came back bloodless.

"Hmmmm", the lady seemed perplexed. "I'm not getting anything. Let’s try the other arm."

Um, let’s not.

I've done this enough times to know I barely notice when the pin prick happens. This was unusual, to say the least. But being a big boy now, I allowed her to take the left arm, tie it off, and try again. As she did, I looked away, towards the wall, as if not seeing what was going on would make it hurt less than it already had. But, like trying not to watch the remains of a bad accident, once she re-commenced digging around for a productive blood I couldn’t stop staring at what she was doing.

And then…. she stuck me again.

This time, though, the search was not in vain and the vein she stuck was like siphoning a gorged mosquito. The little vial filled quickly and was pumping out so much 'Type O' I could've filled another five or ten more. Easily. The vein was giving up so much of my hemoglobin I wasn't altogether sure the bandage would stem the flow. It did, though, and I was free to go.

The time was 8:06. For all the unsuccessful poking and sticking, when we were done I thought it’d be a lot later. I guess it only seemed like an eternity.

"You must've still been too cold to give" was the only explanation the lady had for the futile first few tries. She could be right. It was only 25 degrees outside when I walked into the warm clinic. Maybe they stuck me before my internal thermostat had registered the difference. Or, since the last time I went through this little exercise, maybe I’ve just turned into a cold-blooded mutant.

I certainly don't question the lady's expertise, though. She's done me before and without a scratch or owie. So I'll go with the January chill as the cause for Friday’s complications. But perhaps next time, like a St. Bernard, I'll carry a flask around my neck and take a little nip before going in. It'll at least make having my blood levels checked something to look forward to.

However, as I left the clinic and walked out into the frosty morning- surprise!- a van full of oldsters from one of the retirement homes pulled in. But that was okay. I made it in and out in the nick of time and on time. The very slow moving parade of geriatrics could amble in on their own schedule, and not get in the way of mine. I love it when a plan comes together.

And I got out of there with an added bonus, too: a tiny puncture hole in both arms. With matching bandages, too! Score!