-The Minor League of Pathology-
As a frequent donor, the routine of giving blood no longer fills me with trepidation. Because it is so routine - a middle finger is punctured to test iron, some personal fluids questions are asked, and the transmissable disease of the hour becomes required pamphlet reading.
Next, the chair, the iodine swab, the tapping of a vein, filling a bag and four tubes with enough of my A+ to help four patients.
Only trouble is, yesterday's medical assistants weren't major league material.
They missed the vein on the left arm. They missed the vein on the right arm, finally catching and starting a slow flow. So slow that blood began to clot inside the needle. The attendant's solution (aside from blaming my blood's slow flow on my diet and not drinking enough water; wrong on both counts) is to jiggle and turn the needle still in my arm to restart the flow.
Can you see me wincing over here?
After approximately 45 minutes had elapsed since the "good" needle stick, his manager disengaged the tubes and told me she thought the might have enough, even though the weight hadn't dropped on the scale. More likely, she sensed my rising ire, which I think was spilling into my features.
For the rest of the day and even now, I think of that moment every time I lift anything heavier than a pen and paper. The ache in both arms from the bad needle sticks is not overwhelming, just infuriating. In my twinges, a more confident and cinematic version of myself snatches the clamp out of the slack-jawed assistant's hands, kinks the tube and pulls the needle out while expertlypressing the cotton to the puncture at the same time. I rise up from the chair and raise my arm over my head, turn to the pathology team, their mouths agape, and say: "And that's enough of that." in a gravelly but somehow magnanimous growl. This tougher self favors them with a condecending smile, and walks out to a jangling guitar riff.
Of course, I would also be willing to settle for the blood bag weighing enough for all that blood to be used. I really hate the idea of all that trouble counting for nothing, and I'll never know what happened.
Next, the chair, the iodine swab, the tapping of a vein, filling a bag and four tubes with enough of my A+ to help four patients.
Only trouble is, yesterday's medical assistants weren't major league material.
They missed the vein on the left arm. They missed the vein on the right arm, finally catching and starting a slow flow. So slow that blood began to clot inside the needle. The attendant's solution (aside from blaming my blood's slow flow on my diet and not drinking enough water; wrong on both counts) is to jiggle and turn the needle still in my arm to restart the flow.
Can you see me wincing over here?
After approximately 45 minutes had elapsed since the "good" needle stick, his manager disengaged the tubes and told me she thought the might have enough, even though the weight hadn't dropped on the scale. More likely, she sensed my rising ire, which I think was spilling into my features.
For the rest of the day and even now, I think of that moment every time I lift anything heavier than a pen and paper. The ache in both arms from the bad needle sticks is not overwhelming, just infuriating. In my twinges, a more confident and cinematic version of myself snatches the clamp out of the slack-jawed assistant's hands, kinks the tube and pulls the needle out while expertlypressing the cotton to the puncture at the same time. I rise up from the chair and raise my arm over my head, turn to the pathology team, their mouths agape, and say: "And that's enough of that." in a gravelly but somehow magnanimous growl. This tougher self favors them with a condecending smile, and walks out to a jangling guitar riff.
Of course, I would also be willing to settle for the blood bag weighing enough for all that blood to be used. I really hate the idea of all that trouble counting for nothing, and I'll never know what happened.
posted by Benedict | 9:21 AM
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