Blood
Giving blood is one of those things good people do. I've never done it. I've always known I should—it saves lives, and everyone says it doesn't hurt much. But even in high school, when everyone used the blood drives as a way to get out of class, I couldn't bring myself to do it.
Am I scared of needles? Not particularly, though I don't love them (who does?) But I'm not terrified like my grandma always was, crying and pulling her arms away as the nurse tried to do an IV. I let them do it—I just choose not to look. And years ago I learned the trick of digging your nails into the palm of your other hand as the needle was going in—if you're hurting yourself more than the pin prick, you won't even notice it. This seems like some kind of dark, unhealthy metaphor for life.
So I'm capable of giving blood. I could handle it. Why haven't I? I suppose it's a combination of fear of the unknown and a resistance to giving up my time—both silly and selfish reasons, but there you have it. Somehow I've gotten to the ripe old age of 34 without even having to have blood drawn—every time I've had anything tested, it's just been with a finger prick.
This year at my annual visit to the gynecologist I asked her whether or not I should have a regular doctor. I did want to know, but really I was trying to find a general practitioner for Michael, who has not been to a doctor since he was 18, seems to have no interest in doing so, and keeps me in a constant state of paranoia over mysterious potential lurking health problems that will destroy our lives but could have been found and fixed if only he had visited a doctor's office once a year. (Have I made an appointment for him yet? No. I enjoy living in anxiety, I guess.)
"Well, he definitely needs to go," she told me as she prodded my boobs for lumps. "But there's no real reason for you to also have a general practitioner at this age—the only thing they would do for you that I don't already is blood tests, and we can go ahead and order some."
I agreed, she ordered them and told me I'd have to fast and to go get them done whenever I felt like it, and then I promptly forgot about it. Until a couple weeks ago, when I got a letter saying the order was going to expire in 30 days if I didn't go get them done.
It shouldn't be a big deal, having blood drawn. People do it every day. But the more I thought about it, the more anxious I got. "I"ll go late this week," I thought. Then it became early the week after. The night before I couldn't relax, wondering even as my stomach cramped why I was being so silly.
I don't know why some companies seem to refuse proper signage. It shouldn't be a big deal to have a sign somewhere that says, "Mid America Clinical Labs Inside --->" Enough people have to go to this lab, you'd think. But no, there's no sign for the lab anywhere in the maze of office buildings on the Community North campus. Nothing like not being sure where you're going to enhance your anxiety.
I parked near what seemed like the right building and wandered around, eventually finding a glass door with "Mid America Clinical Labs" on it. Inside were several people waiting, the atmosphere of desperate, bored annoyance augmented by CNN on the television. No one was at the receptionist's desk behind the glass window, so I put my name on the sign in sheet and sat down to play Plants vs. Zombies on my phone, determined to pretend like this was no big deal, to distract myself from the churning in my stomach with butter-throwing animated corn plants.
Slowly, one-by-one, the people in the waiting room disappeared, either called through the door into the interior of the lab or escaping out the exit, paperwork in hand and cotton taped to their inner elbows. Soon it was just me.
"Kuehl? You can come on back."
The nurse, a woman probably in her twenties, took me to a room right inside the door and had me sit down.
"Which arm do you want to do?" She looked at me as she prepped her vials, as I awkwardly settled my forearms on the red vinyl padded arm rest, veins facing up and bright blue against my pale skin.
"...I don't know. Is one better?" I stared at my own arms.
"Whichever one you want."
"I don't know, I've never done this before."
She swabbed my inner arm with alcohol and gaped at me.
"You've never had blood drawn before? Really? Girl, how have you never done this before?"
"I don't know. I've never had to." In my head I felt immediately guilty that I'd never given blood, sure that's what she was thinking—that I was selfish. I wanted to make excuses. Maybe I'm anemic and can't give blood. Who knows? I could be. I am super pale.
"Wow. Okay. I guess that's good, that you've never had to."
I stared at the ceiling at she poked me, forgetting to dig my fingernails into my palm and instead fixating on the burning pain of the needle, the annoying and uncomfortable pricking that stuck. I wanted to bat it away. The longer I thought about it, the more I could feel myself starting to panic. I could hear the blood trickling into the vials. I didn't think I'd hear it, but it sounded like a faucet. A faucet of my blood, pouring out through my open vein.
"Stop it," I thought. "Ignore it."
"Are you breathing?" The nurse asked, laughing. "Unclench your fist now."
And then it was over. It was maybe 2 minutes total, from when I sat down to when she stuck a bandaid on my arm. Walking out to my car I felt an immense sense of relief—nothing more to dread for today! I was done. I pressed down on the cotton on my inner arm, feeling somehow like it was an open and gaping wound. How long do I keep the cotton on? When I took it off an hour later there was just a little pin point there. Isn't it strange that she could just poke me there and access a whole flood of my blood, to pull it from my body—enough to fill three vials full? Enough that I could hear it trickling into the tubes like water from a faucet?
Later that evening I did yoga in the park, imagining my blood puddling in my inner elbow, being pushed towards that needle prick as I did down dog, bursting out through my thin, fragile skin.
Am I scared of needles? Not particularly, though I don't love them (who does?) But I'm not terrified like my grandma always was, crying and pulling her arms away as the nurse tried to do an IV. I let them do it—I just choose not to look. And years ago I learned the trick of digging your nails into the palm of your other hand as the needle was going in—if you're hurting yourself more than the pin prick, you won't even notice it. This seems like some kind of dark, unhealthy metaphor for life.
So I'm capable of giving blood. I could handle it. Why haven't I? I suppose it's a combination of fear of the unknown and a resistance to giving up my time—both silly and selfish reasons, but there you have it. Somehow I've gotten to the ripe old age of 34 without even having to have blood drawn—every time I've had anything tested, it's just been with a finger prick.
This year at my annual visit to the gynecologist I asked her whether or not I should have a regular doctor. I did want to know, but really I was trying to find a general practitioner for Michael, who has not been to a doctor since he was 18, seems to have no interest in doing so, and keeps me in a constant state of paranoia over mysterious potential lurking health problems that will destroy our lives but could have been found and fixed if only he had visited a doctor's office once a year. (Have I made an appointment for him yet? No. I enjoy living in anxiety, I guess.)
"Well, he definitely needs to go," she told me as she prodded my boobs for lumps. "But there's no real reason for you to also have a general practitioner at this age—the only thing they would do for you that I don't already is blood tests, and we can go ahead and order some."
I agreed, she ordered them and told me I'd have to fast and to go get them done whenever I felt like it, and then I promptly forgot about it. Until a couple weeks ago, when I got a letter saying the order was going to expire in 30 days if I didn't go get them done.
It shouldn't be a big deal, having blood drawn. People do it every day. But the more I thought about it, the more anxious I got. "I"ll go late this week," I thought. Then it became early the week after. The night before I couldn't relax, wondering even as my stomach cramped why I was being so silly.
I don't know why some companies seem to refuse proper signage. It shouldn't be a big deal to have a sign somewhere that says, "Mid America Clinical Labs Inside --->" Enough people have to go to this lab, you'd think. But no, there's no sign for the lab anywhere in the maze of office buildings on the Community North campus. Nothing like not being sure where you're going to enhance your anxiety.
I parked near what seemed like the right building and wandered around, eventually finding a glass door with "Mid America Clinical Labs" on it. Inside were several people waiting, the atmosphere of desperate, bored annoyance augmented by CNN on the television. No one was at the receptionist's desk behind the glass window, so I put my name on the sign in sheet and sat down to play Plants vs. Zombies on my phone, determined to pretend like this was no big deal, to distract myself from the churning in my stomach with butter-throwing animated corn plants.
Slowly, one-by-one, the people in the waiting room disappeared, either called through the door into the interior of the lab or escaping out the exit, paperwork in hand and cotton taped to their inner elbows. Soon it was just me.
"Kuehl? You can come on back."
The nurse, a woman probably in her twenties, took me to a room right inside the door and had me sit down.
"Which arm do you want to do?" She looked at me as she prepped her vials, as I awkwardly settled my forearms on the red vinyl padded arm rest, veins facing up and bright blue against my pale skin.
"...I don't know. Is one better?" I stared at my own arms.
"Whichever one you want."
"I don't know, I've never done this before."
She swabbed my inner arm with alcohol and gaped at me.
"You've never had blood drawn before? Really? Girl, how have you never done this before?"
"I don't know. I've never had to." In my head I felt immediately guilty that I'd never given blood, sure that's what she was thinking—that I was selfish. I wanted to make excuses. Maybe I'm anemic and can't give blood. Who knows? I could be. I am super pale.
"Wow. Okay. I guess that's good, that you've never had to."
I stared at the ceiling at she poked me, forgetting to dig my fingernails into my palm and instead fixating on the burning pain of the needle, the annoying and uncomfortable pricking that stuck. I wanted to bat it away. The longer I thought about it, the more I could feel myself starting to panic. I could hear the blood trickling into the vials. I didn't think I'd hear it, but it sounded like a faucet. A faucet of my blood, pouring out through my open vein.
"Stop it," I thought. "Ignore it."
"Are you breathing?" The nurse asked, laughing. "Unclench your fist now."
And then it was over. It was maybe 2 minutes total, from when I sat down to when she stuck a bandaid on my arm. Walking out to my car I felt an immense sense of relief—nothing more to dread for today! I was done. I pressed down on the cotton on my inner arm, feeling somehow like it was an open and gaping wound. How long do I keep the cotton on? When I took it off an hour later there was just a little pin point there. Isn't it strange that she could just poke me there and access a whole flood of my blood, to pull it from my body—enough to fill three vials full? Enough that I could hear it trickling into the tubes like water from a faucet?
Later that evening I did yoga in the park, imagining my blood puddling in my inner elbow, being pushed towards that needle prick as I did down dog, bursting out through my thin, fragile skin.