- May 18, 2001
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- 380
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Where I work everyone has to have an annual physical, part of which is submission of a blood sample. While the physical is performed on the plant site, the blood work is done at our local hospital. Yesterday I decided to get up early and get the sample taken before church.
So I went to the hospital and met the lady who would extract the sample. We had a friendly little conversation, during which I found out that her husband works where I do. Keep in mind that the union at my company is in the middle of a rancorous strike. One might say that currently it is harder for a salaried person to be friends with hourly personnel than it is to find a hot chick in a thong at a nun convention. So being the friendly type, I asked the lady if her husband was hourly or salaried. She seemed a little reluctant to answer, then muttered something that I didn?t quite hear. So I asked again. This time, I think she answered with nothing more than ?uh-huh?, followed by a nervous chuckle. At this point, a smart man would have had all sorts of urgent warnings erupt in his head. I guess I?m a common idiot, so I continued to chat with heedless abandon. Had I only paused long enough to glance out the window, I would have quickly seen that the sun had stopped shining, the birds had silenced their singing, and the bony finger of Doom was gesturing in my general direction.
I asked which arm she wanted. She said it didn?t matter, followed by yet another creepy nervous chuckle. Since I?m right-handed, I offered my left. She noted that my veins were really easy to find, and that I had a small mole near the largest one. She said that it marked the perfect spot. She didn?t indicate why that particular spot was so freaking great, but I tend to trust medical professionals without question. Now I?m not normally all that distressed by the sight of a needle. At age 36, I?ve given doctors plenty of opportunities to slice and dice me in all the softest, most beloved, sensitive parts of my body. Sure, I always give a good ?I?m terrified? pre-needle show for the benefit of the nurses, but in reality needles just don?t bother me. I was ready for the worst.
So with a swift move, the nurse plunged the needle in, right next to the little mole. Holy Mother of All that is Torturous and Excruciating ? my eyes were closed, but the bright flash convinced me that lightning actually struck my arm. In a grave somewhere in Europe, a cruel smile slowly crept across the face of the Marquis de Sade. I had to look just to reassure myself that she was using a needle, and not a soldering iron. ?Try? <jab> ?to? <jab twist> ?relax? <jab jab> ?and? <twist twist> ?this will? <jab jab> ?be easier? <jab> ?on you?, she said. I tried in vain to find my happy place, but the best I could conjure was a vision that involved lots of flames and screaming wretches. With each twist of the needle I found myself twitching like an epileptic, contorting into shapes most gymnasts have never done. I think I began to curl up and suck my thumb. I?m pretty sure I soiled myself.
And then, just like that, it was over.
The nurse coolly explained: ?Sometimes moles have a cluster of nerve endings that surround them. I think the ?discomfort? you just experienced was caused by the needle drilling right through the middle of a bunch of them.? Well, at least it was over, right? ?Not exactly. You tensed up so much that I didn?t get any blood. I?ll need your other arm, please.? Once again, there was that creepy little laugh, this time accompanied by a smile that was all business ? the type of business that usually involves grilling live puppies.
I don?t know if the sight of a grown man sobbing uncontrollably affected some last refuge of tenderness in her heart, of if rather she was bored and disgusted with how quickly she had broken me. Whatever the case, the other arm went relatively quickly and pain-free. She grunted something at me that might have been ?get out?, then turned back around and offered ?have a nice day?, followed again by the weird little laugh. I gathered what I could of my pride and quickly retreated to the comfortable safety of my Jeep.
You can bet your sweet ass that I won?t be getting any more medical or dental attention until this strike is over.
CLIFFS
So I went to the hospital and met the lady who would extract the sample. We had a friendly little conversation, during which I found out that her husband works where I do. Keep in mind that the union at my company is in the middle of a rancorous strike. One might say that currently it is harder for a salaried person to be friends with hourly personnel than it is to find a hot chick in a thong at a nun convention. So being the friendly type, I asked the lady if her husband was hourly or salaried. She seemed a little reluctant to answer, then muttered something that I didn?t quite hear. So I asked again. This time, I think she answered with nothing more than ?uh-huh?, followed by a nervous chuckle. At this point, a smart man would have had all sorts of urgent warnings erupt in his head. I guess I?m a common idiot, so I continued to chat with heedless abandon. Had I only paused long enough to glance out the window, I would have quickly seen that the sun had stopped shining, the birds had silenced their singing, and the bony finger of Doom was gesturing in my general direction.
I asked which arm she wanted. She said it didn?t matter, followed by yet another creepy nervous chuckle. Since I?m right-handed, I offered my left. She noted that my veins were really easy to find, and that I had a small mole near the largest one. She said that it marked the perfect spot. She didn?t indicate why that particular spot was so freaking great, but I tend to trust medical professionals without question. Now I?m not normally all that distressed by the sight of a needle. At age 36, I?ve given doctors plenty of opportunities to slice and dice me in all the softest, most beloved, sensitive parts of my body. Sure, I always give a good ?I?m terrified? pre-needle show for the benefit of the nurses, but in reality needles just don?t bother me. I was ready for the worst.
So with a swift move, the nurse plunged the needle in, right next to the little mole. Holy Mother of All that is Torturous and Excruciating ? my eyes were closed, but the bright flash convinced me that lightning actually struck my arm. In a grave somewhere in Europe, a cruel smile slowly crept across the face of the Marquis de Sade. I had to look just to reassure myself that she was using a needle, and not a soldering iron. ?Try? <jab> ?to? <jab twist> ?relax? <jab jab> ?and? <twist twist> ?this will? <jab jab> ?be easier? <jab> ?on you?, she said. I tried in vain to find my happy place, but the best I could conjure was a vision that involved lots of flames and screaming wretches. With each twist of the needle I found myself twitching like an epileptic, contorting into shapes most gymnasts have never done. I think I began to curl up and suck my thumb. I?m pretty sure I soiled myself.
And then, just like that, it was over.
The nurse coolly explained: ?Sometimes moles have a cluster of nerve endings that surround them. I think the ?discomfort? you just experienced was caused by the needle drilling right through the middle of a bunch of them.? Well, at least it was over, right? ?Not exactly. You tensed up so much that I didn?t get any blood. I?ll need your other arm, please.? Once again, there was that creepy little laugh, this time accompanied by a smile that was all business ? the type of business that usually involves grilling live puppies.
I don?t know if the sight of a grown man sobbing uncontrollably affected some last refuge of tenderness in her heart, of if rather she was bored and disgusted with how quickly she had broken me. Whatever the case, the other arm went relatively quickly and pain-free. She grunted something at me that might have been ?get out?, then turned back around and offered ?have a nice day?, followed again by the weird little laugh. I gathered what I could of my pride and quickly retreated to the comfortable safety of my Jeep.
You can bet your sweet ass that I won?t be getting any more medical or dental attention until this strike is over.
CLIFFS
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