Perspective Is Everything - March 2014

I had a recent fasting blood test. No big deal, I know, but for the needle-resistant chicken that I am, it is close.

I made an appointment so that I could go early in the morning. I wake up hungry, never mind that my usual breakfast is cereal the consistency of shredded doormat. This rough, tasteless mass is redeemed—at least somewhat--by blueberries and a dollop of Chobani yogurt.

Anxiety mounts. Days before, I stuffed the order form from my doctor into my every-day pocketbook because one time I showed up at the lab without that scribbled-on, green-lined paper with all the checked boxes and screwed up the entire event.  

Resistance is so creative!

I don’t trust myself to remember to fast either. I worry that, on automatic pilot, I will steer myself right to the fridge and end up having to reschedule. To sidestep this possible pitfall, I stick a large Post it on my bathroom mirror that warns in black ink: FASTING!

I can’t miss it.

When I get up, the sign prompts me to drink two glasses of water, straight down. If they are going to remove three vials of my blood, I’m determined to be ready for them. Besides, it helps to wake me up.

At the lab, the paper work is accomplished and the tall, lanky, young nurse moves around the tiny room organizing vials and needles, while I roll the sleeve of my sweater up along my right arm.

I know this vein. Its prominence is a nurse’s dream. I have been told so repeatedly. Once exposed, it is so eager to be assaulted by that needle that it practically follows the nurse around the room. I rub it gently. The vein remains lifted, blue/green, and asking for trouble.

And trouble comes. This nurse is not a slider injector but instead, a jabber. “Yikes!” I react.

“Are you all right?” She asks, in a pro forma manner.

I am, of course.

She nods her head as she skillfully switches to a new vial. “You’ve got a great vein here,” she tells me. “So easy.”

I do not respond. She has jabbed my “easy” vein, a vein that would have poured out blood for her at the gentlest insertion.

Two vials later, I watch as she presses a square of gauze against my arm and then covers it efficiently with a bright orange Band-Aid.

 As I roll down my sleeve, suddenly I am remembering the people I love who are required to have frequent blood tests and worse. Much worse. My heart goes out to them. I can only imagine the traumatic and painful procedures that they have suffered.

 I think how lucky I am to be healthy and my irritation completely dissolves. Perspective is everything.

Isn’t it interesting that we are called to accept ourselves and get over ourselves at the very same time?