Phlebotomist Student

In preparation for the biopsy, I was required to have blood drawn (why do I have the urge to add 'and quartered' to that phrase?). I have tried several labs about town, and none of them gave the kind of quality attention I prefer. So I decided that on the way home from driving carpool, I would stop at the hospital lab.

It was no where as busy as I feared, and the waiting room was pleasantly decorated. The ubiquitous TV had been muted and the conversation scrolled across the bottom of the screen, easy to ignore. I watched people come and go as I waited my turn, amused to find two young girls seated across from me, one as straight laced as they come - Mom and apple pie and blonde haired girl next door, and the other as ska as they come - black hair, black nails, black lipstick, tight black jeans, rings sprouting from numerous body parts, hair dyed black and standing up on her head. Both nervous as cats, both leaning toward the Mom who ignored their fears while they fussed and writhed.

Soon my name was called and I followed a very competent all-business nurse into the back room. "Good." I thought. "This person is obviously experienced and knows what she is doing. I should have no problem today."

In the curtained off room, I met a young woman who, I was told, was training today and learning how to draw blood. In fact, it was her first day. I wanted to scream, "Practice on someone else. Do you have any idea what I have been through and how hard it is for experienced people to find my veins? I am a cancer survivor and I have been through enough. Leave me alone and get someone in here who knows what they are doing."

But I didn't. I know you have to start somewhere, and I'm as good as the rest to learn on. After all, if she can get me, she can get anyone. I listened patiently while the experienced tech talked her through it, showing her the tricks of the trade, how to make it look smooth and easy. It was as if I were not there, as if I were a practice mannequin.

I sat very still while she felt my arm again and again. "Do you feel the vein?" "No." "Move your finger down and to the left. Do you feel it now?" "Yes" - tentatively whispered.

"Don't lie," I wanted to say. "If you can't feel it, say so. Otherwise you will hurt me." But I am quiet, not wanting to spook her. At last she feels it. I can see the relief on her face [of course, my arm is turning purple and definitely numb].

She puts on the rubber gloves, swabs the area, bends the wings back on the needle - does everything just as she is told. Gently she inserts the needle. Nothing. The nurse tells her what to do (bend the needle this way, pull it out a bit, reinsert to the left) but nothing helps. I wince. The nurse looks at me and says, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt you." Considerately, she says, "Let me see if I can find it." She pokes the needle about a bit more, but still nothing.

She doesn't frog around now. She throws that needle away, pulls my arm down with firm intentionality, slides a new needle expertly and smoothly into the vein. She talks the student through filling the four vials, showing her how to shake them, how to flip the last few ounces from the tubing into the vial to make sure it goes past the fill line, explains how to hold the gauze so I don't end up with a huge bruise (only a small one this time).

As I am leaving, the young girl apologizes for causing me pain. "No big deal." I answer. "I've been through much worse. Besides, my veins are so bad, once they had to call the helicopter crew to get a proper stick. Its OK." And I am surprised to find it *is* OK. I walk out to the car, glad its over, hoping they have a better time of it Thursday when they have to hook up the IV. Shoot, they are doing so many sticks these days, maybe I should ask for a port! Or at least a bit of Velcro.

Well, on to better things.