An Embarrassing Moment for Any Vampire

Recently, I had my annual physical. This is the first annual physical I have had in four years. I was pregnant or having follow up appointments (or inexplicable dizzy spells) for the majority of these last three years, so I felt like I was living in the doctor's office. When I received my clean bill of health, six weeks after having Hannah, I swore off physicians except under extreme duress. And then I'll try meditation, herbs, and teeth-gritting before they drag me to a hospital.

As part of my health insurance plan at work, you can earn points for healthy activities. If you amass 50,000 in one calendar year you get a $25 Amazon gift card. A physical with lipid/cholesterol testing, the "fun" she-exam, and blood work all together earns you 10,000 points.

So I went and had my physical.

Because I am an American.

Meaning: you can tell me that getting annual health screenings can prevent me from getting diabetes, detect cancer while it is treatable, and possibly save my life, but I just won't be able to carve out an hour during the year to do it. But you offer me $25 to spend at Amazon, and suddenly my schedule is wide open. Oh, and you want a kidney too? By all means. I have, if nothing else, my priorities straight.

My red white and blue self pulled on a little gray dress (figuring this would be the easiest way to receive all manner of testing without having to don a hospital gown made out of dinner napkins), and drove across town to my doctor's office. All went according to plan for a relatively healthy, stubborn, too-smart-for-her-own-good, 29-year-old, with fair skin and a proclivity toward spine curling. The doctor left and the nurse came back in with the dreaded "tote". The "tote" is the carrier for all manner of doom: alcohol wipes, vials, rubber bands for the torture of biceps, and, most dreaded of all, needles. Again, since being pregnant, needles don't really scare me anymore. After eighteen hours of hard contractions, an epidural needle could be the size of a medieval javelin, and I would still have been begging them to cram it into my spine (which is made all the more fun by having anesthesiologists attempt to weave said javelin around rods and hooks and the web of cybernetics in my spine, and then actually miss and have to give it two more go's. Yet, somehow, at the end of it all, I still got a bill for his splendid work).

The nurse asked which arm I wanted bled, and I plopped down the right one. She cinched up my bicep and started poking around in my elbow joint. She poked for awhile. She poked until unable to contain my curiosity I too began squinting studiously at my arm. As an explanation she offered, "You have small veins." I didn't know how to respond. "Thanks?" or maybe "Sorry." or maybe "Haven't you done this a thousand times? Would it help if I got out and pushed?" But it's best to not irritate the woman on the giving end of a sharp implement.

Finally, squirmily satisfied with her selection (which she indicated by tapping out what appeared to be the Gettysburg address in morse code on my forearm), she wiped it down, and slid the needle in. "Oh shoot." she muttered. Cause that's the first thing you want to hear from a medical professional. "I blew the vein." I glanced at my arm in concern as she slid the needle out, half expecting to see an explosion of blood as the vein burst outward. She grabbed some gauze and pressed down on the chasm she just created in my arm... pressed down hard... like a desperate Abi presses down on the slushy dispenser nozzle at the end of a long day. "This will keep it from bruising," she explained with an embarrassed smile.

Mean Abi: No, I'm pretty sure as soon as you let go I could still make quite a few bruises with this arm. This is my dominant hand, and I have a mean right hook, and I know I can make all kinds of bruises.

Actual Abi: No worries.

Then the vampire swept over to my other arm, banded it, had me fist pump, and commenced once again with the relentless poking. "Ok, here we go," she said and wiped the spot with another alcohol wipe. Before sliding the needle in she actually told me, "You can just go down to the lab and have them do it there if you want." The second thing you want to hear from your medical professional. But, I ain't no quitter. I wanted to see this girl squirm. The needle slid in. Another heavy sigh. "I didn't get it."

At this point I started composing the blog in my head. The squirmy vampire was playing the staring role, poor dear.

From there I was sent to the lab. She assured me that the vampiric brood in the basement, "Always gets it the first time. They are the best." Excellent. Let's give fate a challenge, shall we?

The lab folk got me positioned in a nicely restrictive chair (in case I suddenly decided getting skewered a half dozen times wasn't how I wanted to spend my Friday). After more poking, the lab tech filled a rubber glove with hot water, "Maybe if we warm you up some your veins will pop out." ... no part of this sounds good. She tossed the water glove back and forth a few times then put it down on my forearm. I instantly flinched... as human beings are wont to do... when they are being scalded alive. Noticing my jump, the nurse lifted the heat pack and saw the bright color red the area of my arm under the glove just turned. She hesitated.

But at this point I was taking no prisoners. I blinked at her with wide eyes, allowing her time to discern whether she would need a lawyer... or a plastic surgeon. She let the pack cool somewhat, then tried again. Finding a vein that she thought would work, she wiped it down with alcohol again (my forearms were just about plastered at this point), and put the needle in. She hit the vein, but only a few drops of blood came out. This seemed bad. "Well that won't work." Back out with the needle.

"You have small veins" she said.

"I heard." I replied. Actual Abi was losing her composure, Mean Abi was breaking through, all green and hulky around the edges.

From there she called the other two lab techs back and all three of them studied my arms, poking now and then, whispering, conferring. "Well, we could go in through her hand..." one of them suggested.

Oh, do let's.

The only difference between having blood drawn from your arm and having it drawn from your hand is that from your hand hurts... lots more. The similarity is that they couldn't get any.

If you're keeping score, the tally is now, Abi's tiny veins: 4, vampires: 0.

The head vampire, now tried to warm my left arm again. And then she said it. I am introverted and struggle with change. Even after this many sticks I would continue going to the same doctor's office. It wouldn't be worth the hassle and speech required to find a new physician. Five needle pokes would not drive me away. But she just had to say it:

"You're too cold; because you're wearing basically nothing. You're probably dehydrated too. When did you last eat, you need to eat before you give blood."

Translation: This is not my fault. This is your fault. How dare you have small veins! How dare you be a unique creation of the King! How dare you dress for the weather when it's 85 degrees outside. Didn't you know we keep it a balmy 64 degrees in here. How dare you wake up with your children at 4:30am and eat breakfast at 5:00am. You are making me look bad!

At this point I was staring straight ahead. And the fist clenching was happening completely involuntarily now. Maybe that helped because she muttered, "I think I can get this one." She slid the needle in. She missed. She dug. The needle wiggling and skittered about under my skin until finally the little tube attached to it filled with blessed crimson blood. My teeth were clenched, but not with pain. As soon as they wrapped the florescent pink bandage around both of my arms, I stood, and gathered my things, and fled before I gave my God a bad name.

I don't get angry often. Generally, God has given me a good sense of perspective. I have very little to be angry about. I have a beautiful home, a loving family, a healthy body, and a decent sense of humor when it comes to this world and it's annoyances. But this one time, something that they said blew the little fuse in my head. I need to locate that fuse box and somehow re-dedicate it to my Savior. I am glad I did not spit vile words at these women, but even knowing that vileness is in my head is discouraging. For every step forward I take in my faith, I am reminded of what I was and what sometimes, the world tries to make me again. Somehow I have to remember that the same grace that forgave me once with the shedding of blood, is the same grace that can carry me through when my blood will not shed.

Irrational fears at 18 months... grand

"Warrior Princess" is one of the job titles I'm mulling over in my head for my daughter. She seems to have the audacity, courage, and strength for it. She is deceptively beautiful and endearing, which is all a ploy to woo you into a sense of security. Then, when you think she's just sweet as pudding, she shrieks a warrior princess squeal, and lunges, leaving you dazed, terrified, and generally sopping wet.

However, after this nap, we may have to fallback on career plan B. We are all fighting off a bit of a cold, so I put the kids down for naps, cleaned a little, and then headed to bed myself. Usually, it's Noah who is my screaming waker. He doesn't do mornings or waking up well. I swear the kid's going to be addicted to coffee by the time he's in kindergarten. I'll have to put it in his Thomas the Tank Engine thermos. So when my eyes fluttered open (after a time too short to actually be considered a nap) to the sound of wailing, I rolled over and prayed that he would just get himself adjusted and go back to sleep. As consciousness descended, I suddenly realized this shriek had a distinctly feminine  roar to it. And it wasn't a shriek of boredom or hunger or "I threw my paci over the side, but I was very upset to discover it does not work like a boomerang, and now I need it back, please mother come and retrieve it for your sweet little daughter." It was a shriek that said, "that which you fear most in life has come, and it is eating you alive one mouthful at a time." (When the nurses told me I would come to recognize my baby's cries I don't think this is what they meant.)

I bolted out of bed and flew into my daughter's room, still trying to shake the cobwebs from my head. The sight that greeted me was heartbreaking. My baby girl was balled up in one corner of her crib, screaming in terror, pointing wildly at something on the other side of her crib. My eyes followed the direction of her mad gesticulations. There, a black speck against the white of her crib, was a little spider crawling up the railing. I glanced back at Hannah with my eyebrow quirked. "That's it?"

I understand that some people have irrational fears of little things. I just don't. I have rational fears of big things, like sharks. This is part of why I live in a desert. In order to get me here, a shark would have to break out of the Aquarium, mission impossible style, hop on the Trax line to the 54 stop, catch a bus west, cross five lanes of traffic, navigate his way threw a maze of suburbia, pick two locks, and get past my husband (who I imagine, when faced with a shark bent on devouring his bride, would be taking no prisoners). When my little girl lost it over a bitty spider, I really wanted to ask all eighteen months, 23 inches of her where her backbone was.

Grabbing an old, chewed on sock (gosh, it's weird living in this house), I went to smash the poor spider. I would usually find a way to transport it outside, but I thought if I tried that baby girl would start taking hostages. Only when I went in for the kill, it jumped down into Hannah's bed. What had been brink-of-death-screaming turned into almost soundless wailing as she desperately tried to scale the bars of her crib and escape. I quickly smashed the eight-legged terror, disposed of the corpse, washed my hands (because my daughter and her allergies are making me a freak), and returned to my baby's side. She grinned up at me as if she hadn't just been wailing like a banshee, and lifted her arms to be picked up.

"I can't believe you dragged me out of bed for that little thing," I muttered as I snuggled her close. I'll have to get some tighter reigns on my tongue when she's old enough to understand me.

So I suppose warrior princess may still be in the running for career possibilities. However, if she has any designs on being a Mirkwood elf princess, battling the spawn of Ungoliant, she's going to have to man up a bit.