I cannot explain properly the fear that overcomes me when
the topic of surgery or blood-draws is brought into light, but I know that I
turn into a very different person, and until the subject is no longer in
conversation, I feel weak, faint, and my mind is racing with thoughts of
disaster.
There is only one thing that is the worst thing in the world
for me: needles. I’ve written similar sentences countless times in my blog, and
had the thought in my head for days at a time in the case I’m about to present.
On Wednesday, for only the third time in my life, I had to
have my blood drawn. My hands are clammy now just typing that sentence. I had
known for days that it was inevitable, and the thought would not leave me
alone. Again, I can’t explain what it is that terrifies me about the act
itself. Blood doesn’t scare me, and needles don’t bother me when they go in my
mouth at the dentist’s, or say when I get a flu shot. It’s something about the
hollow tube entering my body to take what is mine. This is exceedingly tough
for me to type.
The first time they poked me, it was 2001, and it was
necessary for me to get my blood drawn to enter Hazelden. I remember I was in a
room with a guy who was equally terrified of the process, and we joked all
night about it while we tossed and turned in anticipation. The nurse knew we
were afraid, so she moved us to the front of the line, and I was first. I was
told I had to keep my arm still or they couldn’t get the needle in straight and
blood would fly out and I would die, and the world would explode. Or something
like that. I didn’t die, and whatever they tested me for back then—I think it
was routine bloodwork—came back fine, and it was over.
Flash forward ten-or-so years to my Salmonella illness, I had
to go to the hospital, something I never do. I went because I actually thought
something was killing me. I approached the desk and told the nurse that I
thought I was dying, and she commented that I looked the part, and I was
immediately escorted to see a doctor. His first comment was that they should do
a blood draw. Dick. I didn’t fight
it, but I was moderately upset that they found nothing wrong with my whatever
they look for in blood. Eventually, they would find what they needed in my
stool samples. By the time they called me with those results, I was well on the
road to recovery.
This past Wednesday was a little different. I had my blood
drawn because I care enough about another human being to get tested for
S.T.D.s. Although it has never been a routine part of my life, I think probably
that it is part of being a modern, mature adult, and to put certain issues to
rest.
We went together to the Red Door Clinic in Minneapolis. I
was a hot mess, she was calm and collected. Every time they called a name, my
heart jumped, and I was so relieved that it wasn’t mine, but eventually it was.
I went back into a room with a doctor who told me all about S.T.D.s and I told
her all about my terror of the draw, and she remained perfectly calm and
assured me that it would be quick and painless. She was good.
And she was accurate. My right arm was the only part of my
body that I was able to control during the 20-second process, and before I
could complain, it was over.
While I was still winding down, she had completed the H.I.V.
test, which quickly turned out negative. She told me the rest of the results
would be available online in just a couple days, and I found them this morning,
all negative. Finally, a negative to be positive about.
And that’s my post for the day.
