I had seven vials of blood drawn about an hour ago.
I thought she was joking. I thought there had to be some mistake. Four of those suckers were pint-sized. I’m serious. Three of them were the normal smallish size. But four of them were the size of a milk jug pint glass shot glass!
I laughed nervously after she had pulled three of those big ones down and started to say something cunning like, “Wow, how much blood do you think I have, anyway?”
But then she, without looking up from the THREE PAGE list of orders, whisked another four vials out of her rack, dropped them into her holding bin and said, “Hoooookay, make a fist please…”
Which, as those of you who know me in person can attest, is sayin’ something.
I just sat there staring at all those vials while she found the smallest, most nerve-encrusted vein to jam the rather large torpedo needle into.
And I was so floored by the whole concept of how many vials she intended to fill I forgot to yelp.
I was actually lightheaded by the time she was done. And a little queasy. And also, pretty sure that the bruise I’m watching develop was on its way. About the size of a dime now, but I’m betting it’ll make at least nickel, possibly quarter before it’s done.
We’re checking for autoimmune issues – my sore joint issues are out of control right now, and starting to impact my life in meaningful ways. Which is a roundabout way of saying that I can’t button a shirt, braid little girl hair, or pick up a jug of milk by the handle. We’ve got a lot of potential diseases to get through, hence the large number of vials.
They’d better not lose or mangle or otherwise do anything to those vials that requires me to come back in and do that again.
Because I’m not gonna.
I will change my name, dye my hair black and move to the wilderness of Montana first. I swear, I really will…
Bill Barnes and Gene Ambaum
1 day ago