Nobody. Nobody likes needles.
Unless you like heroin. Maybe then. But otherwise? Needles are sharp scary weapons that should be eliminated from medical necessity altogether. In my opinion.
Now. I am NOT a "Needle Nancy". Needles don't bother me. I'm not a fan, but I don't get lightheaded like some people (ahem-Hubby-ahem). ...Which is weird, given the whole anxiety problem.
Despite my tolerance, I'm certainly not pleased when a needle is required in my forearm, rather than my shoulder. THIS, my friends, is disturbing. A forearm needle is an entirely new level of discomfort beyond one's natural fear of being stabbed with a small metal stick.
So this morning, when the blood clinic awaited, I wasn't exactly rushing out the door. No. I took my time. I putsed around and nodded off and played with my cats. As any good procrastinator does.
Once I finally arrived at the clinic (soaked from rain and starving from the required 12 hour food fast), I wasn't aware of how irritating this whole process would actually be.
First, I had to take a number.
Then I had to sit in a chair and watch
They called my number and I gave them my forms.
The girl looked at my sheet and asked "Are you pregnant?"
"Um, no. Not yet."
She sent me to sit back down.
They called my name.
"This way. The nurse will be here in a minute."
She arrived, a nice lady with cool hair. "Hi Marianna. Oh, are you pregnant?"
Apparently I look fat today. "No..."
"Did you eat today?"
Yep, clearly looking really fat. "No. Can't you hear my stomach?"
This is when the hell began. You see, I happen to have a reasonable fear of needles (unlike irrational people out there). I have teeny tiny veins. Narrow little baby veins that have no interest in sharing their contents.
So of course Nursey spent several minutes tying a tourniquet on my arm, smacking me, pinching me, and generally cursing at my uselessness.
She eventually stabbed me ("Ouch!") and went on to explain how she had to shove it in there further than normal and pull it back out in order to get any blood.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
She proceeded to complain about the government and the health care system while I looked in the opposite direction listening to the sound of my life's liquid flowing from my body at the mercy of some crazy woman with cool hair.
When she was done, I looked over and gasped. There were eight - yes EIGHT - vials of my hot red blood on the desk next to me. EIGHT.
What the hell? Is she gonna sell it on the black market? Christ.
I left, back into the rain, wolfing down two granola bars and complaining to myself about the pain in my arm. When I arrived at work with cotton taped to my arm, someone asked if I just gave blood.
GAVE IT? Fuck no. They TOOK it. Thieving bastards.