Drawn out.
written by Julie R. Neidlinger 8 comments link this postThe start of the three-week Pracs study was not promising.
Despite all of it that I liked -- the guilt-free reading time, the odd comfort of an institutionalized schedule even if only for three days, the silent mode I slip into while zoning out -- it wasn't the greatest weekend.
My veins are deep. My veins are at an odd angle. And every 20 minutes, when we had our scheduled draws, I found myself getting jabbed twice, sometimes thrice, the needle moved around to find that elusive vein. Blood draws turn out to be drawn out.
It hurts. I have a decent pain tolerance, but it hurts. I hate to even admit that it hurts but it doesn't feel great. I feel like a wimp to even have to bite my lip.
"Man," the guy sitting next to me said. "That looked like it hurt when he was moving the needle around in your arm."
They always apologize, the phlebotomists, and I feel bad that they even have to. I would like to say something stupid like "I'm sorry my veins are so lousy. I'm sorry for all the work. I'm sorry my arm is messing up the timing."
I bet that every time I, participant number 03, was up for a draw and approached the table, the phlebotomists would inwardly groan. One guy soon figured out the trick and made the afternoon much better, but his shift was over and so it goes. I can't say enough about how professional -- and kind, actually -- they all were, despite the hassle.
It's strange, you know. They jab me in the arm and try to find the vein and I think about how I'm going to use this money to get to Nicaragua and how, once I'm there, I'll appreciate what it took to make the trip. They pull the needle out and call for backup, for someone else to try. The next phlebotomist sticks the needling on the inside of my elbow, the tourniquet making my fingernails turn a bit blueish, my eyes watering as I feel the needle moving around, feeling like a wire line all the way up to my shoulder, a long pin poking through to the other side of my arm. I think about the many times people tell me how lucky I am. The ideal job, you know, it's what I have.
I have a client in Australia, a software company, that I designed a logo for and that I worked many weeks with, that has never paid me. The needle moves deeper and I bite my lip. "Are you OK?" he asks and I smile and say yes. I have two outstanding invoices for work from two other projects and I have an idea that it'll take a bit of nagging to get anything out of them. The needle stops moving, the pain doesn't, but I can kind of feel the blood moving and sit still for the 20 or so seconds needed to fill the vial. I've got a portrait in the beginning stages and I think it will pan out with the customer. He tugs at the tourniquet and it loosens, then falls to the table. I had a buyer buy a painting online twice, then "forget" to send the money even after I reminded him. The needle slides out and I press down on the gauze to stop the bleeding. I think of the guy sitting behind me in the study, the one with the graphic design college textbook, and I wonder if they'll teach him anything useful, like how to collect from late-paying customers and how to not send any final files without getting some money first no matter how upstanding and first-rate the customer comes off as. I see a lot of people doing these studies who have "regular" jobs. This is just one more thing I do and I am lucky because it's not something on the side. There are no sides in what I do. There's purpose in that, oddly; nothing is extraneous.
Today, for the final return draw, before I headed two hours home in the dark and rain, they tried three times, the needle tearing that hole Billy Corgan talked about, but under much kinder circumstances. Three different phlebotomists and no luck. They were very apologetic and I just felt pretty stupid for having veins you can hardly see from the surface. Three tries is the limit for return draws, I guess; I was worried they'd try from the hand. But despite three, I didn't bleed much. Which is kind of the problem.
My arm is a red-purple mess, but I am confident it will work itself out in time for the next round this weekend.
I'm pretty lucky, if that's the way people want to think about it. I know I am. Except for the deep veins.
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Labels: health, my life, pracs
Copyright (c) Julie R. Neidlinger 9/18/2006 11:57:00 PM
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8 Comments:
this has nothing to do with your post, but what do you think about this
By 
GraemeAnfinson, at
19/9/06 01:26
i don't know if I did that html link right, so it might not make sense
By GraemeAnfinson, at
19/9/06 01:27
Owww...that sounds painful!
Yeah, so do the blood draws, but I'm referring to the client hassles. Been there, amiga, and I empathize. I know I should ask for money upfront, but I like the freedom of being able to walk away if the client turns out to be a jerk. So, I guess it's my problem. Still...
By Eric, at
19/9/06 10:05
I think you might have meant Trent Reznor (i.e., Hurt) from NIN instead of Billy C.
Doc Adam
By 
, at
19/9/06 12:44
I think you're right -- I always confuse NIN and Smashing Pumpkins. It's Reznor. Corgan's voice was irritating to me.
By Julie, at
19/9/06 14:25
My wife has deep veins, and they tend to want to roll out of the way of the needle. Couple that with the fact that she has hypothyroidism and a couple other medical issues that require bloodwork, and the techs in the clinic lab wince when she comes in. In fact, she usually asks them to use the veins in the back of her hand. Better one stick there, than several unsuccessful tries in the elbow.
Anyway, good luck with the rest of the study, and I hope the trip to Nicaragua works out.
As far as the clients who leave you hanging...Pity you can't send someone to Australia to repossess your logo.
By Roy Jacobsen, at
19/9/06 22:04
...preferably someone tall, broad, with some impressive scars and tattoos, named "Knuckles."
By Roy Jacobsen, at
19/9/06 22:05
Yes, they said I had that too, that I had "rolling veins" or whatever. Now I know what they were talking about.
Gross.
By Julie, at
19/9/06 23:50
