Monday, July 26, 2004

Battle Scars

Needles. I hate 'em. I hate going to the doctor, 'cause half the time they want you to get blood taken. I mean, I know it's nothing. Just a little prick, some minor nerve sensations, not too much pain (certainly no more than I inflict on myself on occasion), so what's the big deal? "What's the big deal?" says the five-year-old in my subconscious that got stuck over and over for half an hour. "I'll show you what the big deal is! Hah-hah!"

So I felt a little ridiculous when I had an anxiety attack during my physical. In the end, I suppose it worked out for the best. At least my doctor knows I'm not kidding when I say I don't like the needles. The people at the clinic, though... They really must think I'm joking. I have no other explanation. Didn't I tell them I needed their best person? Small veins, nervous patient...

In the end, it took three technicians and two tries for them to vamp the blood they needed from me. I managed to hold still while they were searching for the vein in my arm, but boy did it take a lot of self control. Yeurgh.

I will say this, though: Needle bruises are more colourful and swollen than fencing bruises. As battle scars go, they're much more visible. But I'll take fifty fencing bruises over a single needle bruise any day of the week. I like my metal a quarter inch thick and capped with a rubber tip or electric push-button, thanks very much.



You know, I hear heroin addicts have all sorts of tricks for finding veins, as constant injections make veins more and more difficult to locate. Perhaps you should befriend a current, or former, addict, and see what tips he / she can provide. Hell, you might even find such info on-line!
And as much as I like to make fun; "How the hell do you ever expect to fight a duel if you're scared of a little pin-prick?!", getting blood drawn always has a queezifying effect on me, beyond what the insignificant blood loss can account for.

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