The Phlebotomist
I hate needles! When I was growing up, I told my parents they
would never have to worry about my becoming a drug addict, because even the
sight of a needle makes me queasy. Every
time I have to take a physical, I stress about the needle. I’ll worry about the blood test a full day
ahead, and I usually don’t sleep well the night before. It doesn’t really matter if it’s a prick on
the finger (still a needle) or an inch long needle in the main blood vessel, I
still hate needles! I imagine them going
in, coming out, and if I feel anything, I come close to passing out.
What
made matters worse was that In the 12 months from 2004 to 2005, I had 5
physicals, all for life insurance. It
was my own fault, because I kept changing carriers or adding policies. By the time I came to physical number 4, I
was a nervous wreck and had a little talk with my agent, Jim Wapner.
“Jim,
you don’t know what you are asking me to do. They’re going to need another
blood test, aren’t they?”.
Jim
rubbed his bald head, “Come on, don’t be a baby, it’s only a little prick. Plus, if you want insurance while you’re
flying your helicopter, you’re going to need it. Think of your family.”
He
spoke like a true salesman, and I knew that I had no choice.
“Okay,
but can you find me someone better than that group of roving nurses who show up
at my house or the office. They are like
gypsies and just seem to be in a hurry to get to the next job. I need a clinic, where I can lie down, get
relaxed and be done with it. And one
more thing, I need an experienced nurse who’s going to be sympathetic and
gentle.”
“I’ll
see what I can do,” answered Jim.
The
next day Jim called me all excited.
“You’re going to love me! I found
you the perfect person to take your blood.
Her name is Amy Dawson, and she has her own clinic in Kingsport
“Thanks
Jim. You’re a good man.”
I
woke up early the next morning and made the 30 minute drive to Kingsport
“Good
morning,” she said cheerfully. “You’re
the first appointment of the day. If you
would, please follow me into the examination room.”
I
sat in a state of morning drowsiness.
Amy was not what I imagined. She
wore pink scrubs and was heavy set, but she also had the thickest pair of
glasses I had ever seen. They were an
old style trifocal, probably from the seventies.
“Are
you coming?” she asked motioning to the door.
I
got up and followed.
She
picked up a clipboard and pulled it close to her face, to make sure she had the
correct form. She continued staring at
it intently, as if she was still not sure what it said and then began. “Now, I need to ask you some questions and
you need to answer them truthfully.” She
pulled the clipboard about 1 inch from her face and squinted. I could see that she was struggling to
focus. “Have you been with a prostitute
in the last 6 months?”
“No,”
I answered and then I watched her check a box.
“Have
you had sex with another man in the last 6 months?”
“No,”
I answered.
She
checked another box.
“Have
you ever been diagnosed with HIV?”
“No.”
“Blood
in your urine?”
“No.”
“How
about in your stool?”
“No.”
The
questions continued until she had finished her checklist. The phone rang. “I’ll be right back,” she said.
I
picked up the clipboard and scanned the questions. I was aghast when I saw that she answered
every question the opposite of my answer. So, according to the form, I had
slept with prostitutes, men, had HIV, blood in my urine, stool and so
forth. When she returned, I pointed out
her error. She pulled the form close to
her face again and answered, “Nuts, now I’m going to have to fill this all out
again.
“Give
me a form,” I asked. “I can fill it out
quickly.”
“It’s
not allowed. I have to ask you the
questions and then fill it out.”
She
got a fresh form and began again. On 2
occasions I caught her checking the wrong box.
“I’m
so sorry,” she said. “I just don’t see
like I used to. The old eyes are giving
out.”
It
took nearly an hour to have the survey completed to my liking and the moment of
truth had arrived. I was thinking of
only one thing, the needle. “If she
can’t see well enough to fill out a form, how is she going to be able to see well
enough to stick a needle in my vein?”
“Lie
down over here,” she said pointing to a small clinical bed covered by a white
sheet of paper. She pulled out her
medical kit and fumbled with the needle and the series of usual vials. “Now just relax, Jim said that you are a
little nervous. It will be over in a
flash. Make a fist…..there we go.” The last thing I remembered was a hard jab.
I
woke up 30 minutes later with her sitting beside me.
“Now, that wasn’t so
bad, was it?” She asked.
I looked up at her a
little weary. “No it wasn’t. Did I fall asleep?”
“Yep, you’ve been out
for about half an hour.”
My arm was throbbing
so I looked down. To my horror there
were about 6 holes in my arm, a couple of them still bleeding! “What happened?”
“I had a little
trouble finding the vein.”
“But I have big
veins.”
“They were a little
soft and I had to do a little digging.
But I’m going to wrap up that arm and you should be fine. She came back with a bottle of antiseptic and
gauze. “This may sting a little.”
I screamed as the antiseptic bit into the
wounds.
“We’ll have the
results in a couple of days,” she said matter of factly and left the room.
Still a little woozy,
I struggled to my feet and made my way to the door. As soon as I was in my car, I called Jim Wapner
and told him the story.
“I only heard good
things about her,” was his response.
“Now I’m worried that
she’s going to get my blood mixed up with someone else and God knows what the
insurance company will say.”
“Well I’m glad you
called, because I won’t call her again. Oh, for your disability policy they’re
going to need another blood test. Do you
want me to call the gypsies?” he giggled.
“Can’t we just use
the results of this test?”
“Different company.”
“Anyone but Amy,
please. Can you make sure they have
20/20 vision?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Can you wait a
couple of days for my arm to heal?”
“Did she poke both
arms?”
“No.”
“Then one of them is
still good.”
Fortunately the next
test was uneventful.
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