I had a blood test today.
I’m a bit squeamish about needles, and in the 90s had a funny turn in the surgery afterwards and they had to pick me up off the floor.
Since then, I always warn the nurse that I may fall over, so they either lay me out flat to save time, or allow me to sit quietly for a few minutes until my circulation fills the gap.
My body doesn’t like to give up anything without a fight. My veins tend to run for the hills as soon as the swab is produced and it takes a while before one comes out of hiding sufficiently long enough for the deed to be done.
In Lincolnshire, blood tests always meant fasting for 12 hours, and the amount drawn varied. One time the nurse produced what looked like a pint syringe and proceeded to fill 8 little phials. I did hit the deck then and wish I’d done that before she stuck the needle in!
I bruise easily and a year or so ago I was sporting the worst case of body discoloration in my life . The nurse had missed the mark, made 2 another attempts and eventually went in sideways with what felt like a knitting needle.
Today I had to go to the hospital. Not a fasting blood test this time, apparently for type 2 diabetes that only needs to be done once a year if it’s felt to be necessary, so I’d had breakfast and my morning cuppa.
The nurse was lovely, very chatty and professional.
The strap went on, the swab came out, and the needle went in. I felt the prick and the usual temporary stomach-dropping lightheadedness (if that’s not a contradiction in terms), then the cotton wool was attached with clear tape and I was done.
We talked about the dog for five minutes, and I was on my way with no after effects.
In fact, I felt so good, I took Maggie for a walk before I went home.