Warning: if you are
squeamish about blood or blood tests, you might reconsider reading this post.
“Small but mighty” was the name I gave my “good” vein on my
right arm this past Wednesday when I did the voluntary biometric screening for
my employer. I always have plenty
of information concerning my red and white blood cells, but I figured it
couldn’t hurt to learn more about my glucose, cholesterol, and all those other
important numbers that seem to infiltrate anyone with entirely fused bones (aka:
27 years of age and older). Since
my own medical hysteria is aligned with someone possibly twice my age and with
the allure of a half price recreation center membership, I figured why not hear
a professional tell me that I’m overweight, right?
After checking in, a form is handed to me that asks
existential multiple-choice questions such as: what do you do when you feel
angry? Or, how often do you experience stress?
I turn it in and wait in line to have my blood pressure
checked and BMI calculated. After that, I wait in line to have my blood drawn
for the other labs. This is when I
inform the nurse that I have a “small but mighty” vein in my right arm. She feels it and nods saying that
helpfully she can get it to rise.
She ties the tourniquet around my arm and hands me a rubber ball that I
begin to squeeze. She feels it and
thinks it is good to go. I take a
breath and she inserts the needle.
A few moments later she says: “I don’t know if ‘small but mighty’ is
working for you today,” to which I pause, take another breath and tell her it
will be one moment. Sure enough, it
begins to flow into the tube.
I always look away, but I generally know what’s going on. It is strange to be so intimately
acquainted with my own veins. I used to hate blood tests. Well, I mean, I don’t think anyone enjoys having their blood drawn, but I
was one of those patients that needed to lie down and my jaw would shake from
nervousness. Having blood cancer
was bad coincidence served on a platter in front of me. I had to suck up (pun intended) the
blood test thing pronto once the treatments started.
The vein in my right arm, actually, no longer has feeling
from the number of times something has been stuck in it. I have a tiny little brown line on it
from the number of times it’s been poked, though it had surprisingly remained unused for a couple of months.
A few weeks before
the biometric screening, I had an incident at my oncologist with the
phlebotomist who I like a little bit less each time I go there.
This phlebotomist has
drawn my blood a few times, but she was not a believer about my “small but
mighty” vein. She felt my right
arm and decided to forego it because it felt like a “nerve”. I tried telling her that, in reality,
whatever nerve was near it was damaged, but she wouldnʼt hear me out. She tried my
left arm instead, which I knew with the tiniest bit of smug satisfaction would
not work.
I canʼt really complain too much because she didnʼt want to cause me pain.
She tries my left arm and sure enough, the twisted vein won’t
cooperate. I’m holding pressure on
it with gauze, once she’s removed the needle, waiting for a bandage as she is
looking down at my hands. She has me run my hands under hot water to bring the
veins in my hands to the surface.
I grimace.
She had done this to
me before, drawing blood from my hand, and it dripped out so slowly, I thought
an entire moon cycle had passed.
I was good, though,
and followed her instructions. After inspecting my hands and deciding my right
hand was better, she put a tourniquet on my right wrist to make the veins rise
to the surface. She then proceeded to put the needle between two knuckles and
it hurt so badly, expletives nearly made it out of my mouth. She sees the look on my face and says,
“ok, two tries is all I get” and pulls the needle out, much to my relief. I
then rub my hand and say, “canʼt Melissa [the chemo nurse] get it out of my
port?” and they decide they will ask.
A few minutes later,
I have cotton and tape on my left arm and right hand, and Iʼm led to a patient room to wait for my doctor.
When my doctor comes
in, he looks at my bandages and assesses rather astutely, “apparently, they had
trouble getting blood out.” I nod. “Why donʼt they just take it
out of your port each time?” “I donʼt know,” I respond, “they usually take it out
of my arm despite the port.” He shakes his head slightly.
The sensation of
having blood drawn from my mediport is a bit disorienting, despite the nice
lack of arm violation. It does
indeed feel like something is being sucked out of my chest. I always get a bit woozy and I make a face at the color of the blood in the vials once it’s over. Clearly the port is attached to
something going to my lungs, rather than away, because the blood that is drawn is always a dark,
almost purple, red color. It looks viscous and fake.
I mention the mediport to the nurse at the biometric
screening and she responds: “oh yeah, definitely easier than the arm,” as she
is writing my name on the labels on the vials. “However, sometimes it requires de-clotting medicine if done
a lot.”
“De-clotting medicine?” I ask. I’m not familiar with this concept.
“It’s the same medicine given to patients who are having
other heart or clotting issues.
It’s basically a blood thinner, but it goes directly into the port,
which is relatively simple, but not a ton of fun.”
I shiver a bit.
Maybe relying on my “small but mighty” vein was a good thing
after all.
Now, I don’t have to think about the next blood test until
June.
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