One of the pains of moving to a new town is having to reestablish yourself with doctors in the area. I found a primary care physician soon after we moved here, but it was just yesterday that I finally met with a gastro doctor.
Thankfully, this was more of a consultation, and I didn’t have to fret over the disrobe dash. We talked about medications, and he suggested getting blood drawn so he could have a “baseline.”
Sure, no problem. I smile, shake his hand, and curse myself for making this stupid appointment
The thing is, I despise having my blood drawn.
Thankfully, the lab wasn’t crowded and I was called back rather quickly. The nurse was kind, but her bedside manner could use some minor tweaking.
I’ll be honest, I said, I hate getting my blood drawn.
Are you gonna puke or pass out?
Oh, Christ, I hope not. But stranger things have happened.
I made a fist, she tapped all around my veins, and I looked the other way. She didn’t even tell me when the needle was coming, which I somewhat appreciated.
I hear her click one vile off.
Then a second.
Then a third.
And then… I started sweating. Like, sweating. And when I opened my eyes, I saw stars.
Hey, Miss, you gonna puke or pass out?
Ever so prideful, I tried to act like nothing was wrong. Oh, no, no. But are you almost done?
Miss, you look pretty pale. She then yells out of the room, Cathy! Hey, Cathy! Come here for a minute and help me with this one!
Each robust woman puts a hand in one of my arm pits, lifts me off the seat, and lays me down on a bed. I was sweating, shaking, and felt like I could blow at any second.
I literally apologized for being a diva. Which is stupid, because divas are fabulous and do not sweat.