A change of pace for this blog post. I have written plenty lately from a woe-is-me perspective over having been dumped after a two-year relationship. Still going to focus on woe, only this time the setting is a health clinic and the circumstances humorous, at least to me. I'm not going to seek quotes from the professionals who had to experience my quirky trauma. It should be a relief that patients going to clinics don’t get reviewed on Yelp.
I had to get a blood test as part of a standard procedure. But before getting that done, I started experiencing a spike in my eating disorder behaviors and decided I needed to access services and supports. I had been out of programming since 2019, so I needed a new referral from my doctor. This included another blood test along with an ECG.
Not gonna lie...even Googling
photos for this post proved
challenging. So sad, I know!
One blood test, maybe two. The woe begins…
I have a fear of needles. It doesn't make sense, even to me, but isn't that the nature of phobias? We can't explain them. We struggle to overcome them. Usually, we don't. We cope through avoidance and crossing our fingers the phobia doesn't come up much.
If I had arachibutyrophobia (fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of my mouth), I would pass on any immersion therapy and forgo PBJ sandwiches. Not much of a sacrifice. Any inclination to enjoy the taste wouldn’t match the fear and the public spectacle of squirming and screaming with a mouthful of Jif while seated in a cafeteria. Taphophobia is the fear of being buried alive. It might mean doing away with that shovel in the garage (bury it?). Hire a gardener and plan to be off site when they show up. Mageirocophobia is the fear of cooking. So eat sandwiches…but maybe avoid that PBJ if it’s an issue.
If I could avoid needles, I would be ecstatic. Is there a medical researcher working on how to X-ray blood? I’ll opt for the oral version of every vaccine.
I live in a sketchy area and I’ve seen many people sprawled on the sidewalk, shooting up. I do my best to look away, but I’ve witnessed plenty. This is as close as I’ll ever get to exposure therapy. It hasn’t made blood tests and dental freezings any easier for me…or for the poor soul tasked with stabbing me.
I put off the first blood test for eleven days after contacting my doctor’s office and explaining that I needed the requisitions for both procedures to be done at once, with only one stabbing.
I showed up at the clinic when it opened. Already, ten people were in line in front of me. Great, I thought. This would mean I would have to take a seat and wait, the whole time obsessing over what was to come. I suspect the others who showed up early had to get to work or wanted to get the blood work over with since many of them had fasted and probably wanted a Boston cream and an apple fritter from Tim Hortons afterwards. No food reward dangled as a carrot for me. With my anorexia in high gear, food restriction would not be compromised. In fact, I worried more than usual, knowing there was a greater possibility of fainting since my fasting had far exceeded what was required.
The requisition forms for my blood work were supposed to have been emailed to the clinic, but only the more recent one showed up in their system. Thus, I had to search through my emails and access a medical portal to find the other requisition. It took six attempts for me to send the document before they had something that could be opened. In the meantime, I fell further behind in the queue. It's true that the e-mail conundrum served as a distraction, but it also triggered a desire to flee the building and try again some other day far, far down the line.
Maybe I could do without the referral I thought I needed so much. A fear of needles—trypanophobia—has real consequences. Why couldn't I just be afraid of using my oven? I could munch on salads whenever I finally nurtured an urge to eat. A quick Google offered nothing for “fear of E. coli.” I think I could take my chances.
I used to have to lie down for
blood tests. I tell myself this
is progress.
The real fun began when my name was called and I was instructed to go to Room 3. It was an actual room as opposed to Rooms 1 and 2, each of which was nothing more than a cubicle. Room 3 even had a door. As the clinic was very small, I could hear everything said within Rooms 1 and 2 during the wait. Presumably other people waiting would be able to hear me in Room 3 if the door wasn't shut. If I persuaded the practitioner to shut it, I could wail and whimper away. If it stayed open, maybe I’d behave, fearing the snickers among people in the waiting area.
I recognized the male nurse from the last time I had to get blood drawn back in August or September of last year. I realize these nurses stab dozens, perhaps hundreds, of patients every day, but it still stunned me that he didn't seem to remember me. I am exceptionally memorable in medical spaces.
The door stayed open. Okay, self. Behave.
I did my normal thing where I stare at the linoleum floor, always a dull white in these settings. I know that, if I glance to my left or to my right, I will see needles, vials and other medical equipment that could put me in a panic. I explained to the nurse that I am afraid of needles and blurted my usual refrain, “I'm sorry that you have to deal with me. Thank you, in advance.”
The global crisis may have
passed. Now, it's just me!
He laughed which is a typical reaction from whoever is tasked to stab me. He probably nodded as well, not that I made eye contact. Yeah, yeah... No big deal. Many people are afraid of needles. Poor guy didn’t know what he was in for. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.
“I may yammer on about nothing in particular,” I said. “You don’t have to listen.” (How many people in the waiting room were listening?) He laughed again. This is good. Usually, nurses are amused by me. I’m terrified but manage to convey I know how ridiculous I am.
My right arm assumed the position on the armrest, as ready as it could be. I made a fist; he told me not to. He kept moving my arm, extending, a little this way, a little that. “Relax,” he said.
Why do they always say that? People are NOT relaxed when confronted with a phobia.
“Make a fist,” he said. It was confusing. Hadn’t I already done that? I did it again, but I wondered if he was talking to himself, patience lost. Then he alarmed me. “It’s hard to find a vein.”
Whaaaaat?
This was a first. My anxiety went into another gear.
“Let’s try your left arm.” I tensed up, I made noises. Muffled? Were the people in the waiting room entertained?
I’ve never had blood drawn from the left. Always the right. I’m left-handed. I always get it in my head that my stabbed arm might be out of commission for the rest of the day. It’s not like I had a big assignment lined up that required handwriting, but I didn’t want my left arm to be vulnerable if something should happen. What? I don’t know. Don’t expect me to come up with a rational explanation. This is a phobia, remember?
He asked, “Are you taking any medications?” I named one, then struggled to remember the other. It wasn’t what he needed. He helped me along: “Heart medications or what?”
“For depression,” I said. “And anxiety.” It made me laugh. “I guess you knew that.” He laughed, too.
“The right arm, please,” I said. He tied the rubber band tighter, I made a fist.
“Tell me 1, 2, 3 before you do it,” I said. (My dentist tried the SURPRISE approach once. That did not go well!)
“Sure, sure.”
The countdown.
The poke.
Really, that’s all it was. That’s all it ever is. I know this. It’s never ever as bad as I think. It’s not worth the anxiety I feel or the agony I put the nurse through. But phobias will be phobias.
He said, “Oh, dear.”
What?!
Just finish, cover the wound—yes, “wound”—with a cotton ball and tell me to press.
But no. “I’m not getting much,” he said. The extraction took longer than ever before. I kept still. I gritted my teeth. I closed my eyes. Please, vein. Give it up! Be a geyser. (If it keeps gushing after the needle is withdrawn, I’ll deal with it. I can always faint. The chair has arms. I won’t crash to the floor like that time or that other time.)
I couldn’t message my vein to behave. I heard, “It’s…not…enough.” I got to press cotton but this was not the end of the ordeal.
“I have to try the other arm.”
I cried. Seriously. Tears. No wailing but my face was wet. I covered my eyes. It didn’t cover my shame.
I told myself it wasn’t just about this faulty vein of mine. I’m going through a lot right now. For weeks, I’d been wondering when I would cry. Anxiety notwithstanding, I didn’t expect it to be in a blood clinic.
“Let’s stop,” I said. “I can’t do this. I’ll come back tomorrow.” (Or never.) I finally made eye contact. “I’m so sorry. Thank you for trying. You’re very good. I’ve taken too much time. People are waiting. I just can’t.”
“Really?” he said. No sarcasm. No mocking. He looked let down. My anxiety may have been out of control, but I couldn’t stand to think I made him feel like he’d failed. “Did you drink any water?” he asked.
No. I didn’t think I was allowed to. “That helps with the vein.” That didn’t make any sense to me, but I wasn’t going to go home and Google it. I once fainted onto my laptop while researching injuries for a character in a novel I was writing.
I surrendered the left arm. If things went terribly wrong, I could learn to sign things right-handed. Chicken scratch…like a doctor. Ironic.
Another poke. Another excruciatingly long time. Slo-mo blood withdrawal. Finally, I got to press cotton, that gesture that conveys to me, It’s all over. You did it. Not pretty but your walk of shame exiting this place is moments away. My little round bandages made things look balanced. As far as my personality…not so much.
I still had to do the ECG. Piece of cake. Shirt off, lie down, a bunch of sticky things applied to my chest and midriff, a cable placed on each sticky spot. (Still, I didn’t look.) I could do dozens of ECGs. Like that’s a badge of honor.
He stepped out, flicked a switch or something, then looked at the results on a what I presume was a monitor. Not looking. This room still has needles, vials and whatnot, possibly all over the place. (I once fainted after seeing a poster of a diagram of an ear during a hearing test. Yes…very sad.)
“Oh, dear,” he said again.
What. The. Hell?!
He said the numerical result aloud. “Does your doctor know you have a very low heart rate?”
“I think so.”
“With a result like this, I’m supposed to call your doctor.”
What? Call?! Why not just email the result? Text message maybe. “Why?”
“Your result is critical. I’m supposed to make you stay while I get in touch with your doctor. Then you have to be transported to the hospital.”
Nope. Not happening! Let me just do my walk of shame.
“He knows,” I said with conviction. You’re just very fit, my doctor has told me. That was his same response when I told him I thought I had an eating disorder twenty-nine years ago. Should I trust him? I don’t know, but I did know I was not going in an ambulance. I was not going to ER. I just got stabbed…twice! I could not start fretting about my heart giving out now.
Whenever I’ve been in the hospital, nurses always freak out about my heart rate. I see it on their faces. I’ve had cardiologists visit me in the psych ward and on the eating disorder ward. I get another ECG and the doctor eyes me up and down, stoically. I imagine him thinking, He looks to be alive. He exits.
I’m a medical marvel…in a number of ways.
Nope! No sticker for me.
“It’s fine,” I said. This poor nurse had been through enough with me. He was only seventy minutes into his shift. Long day…
I’m still alive. Didn’t sleep well. Sudden worries about my ticker. I’ve been meaning to get a referral to a cardiologist. I don’t have any phobias about my heart. Not yet, at least.
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