Blood, Sweat, and Tears

I hate needles. I cry, break out in cold sweats, experience blurred vision, and ultimately faint when nurses brandish a sleek, pointy needle. On Tuesday, I got blood work done at the doctor’s office.

I hardly slept Monday night. By Tuesday morning, I was a wreck. I got dressed and put on my big girl pants. Yet, courage still eluded me. Would the needle be big? Would it hurt? Probably. Would I live? Hopefully.

I signed in at the front office, wiggled into a seat wearing my winter parka (in case I needed to bolt at last minute), and waited. I flipped through a dog-eared, four month old Redbook magazine and scanned the articles while “Lady in Red” played in the background. No eighties song, fashion advice, or photos of celebrities without makeup lifted my spirits.

A nurse called my name. I bit my lip and held back tears. I followed her to the lab and took a seat on one side of a curtain. Another girl was first. I watched her nervously tap her feet under the curtain.

“Wow, that’s a big needle. Ouch! It really hurts.”

What? Was she serious? Too late. The floodgates opened, tears raced down my face. The curtain slid back. There I sat… a little blonde in need of new highlights wearing a buttoned purple parka with hair askew, runny nose, and red eyes.

My turn.

I did fine until the nurse mentioned that women have to frequently get their blood drawn during pregnancy. She repeatedly said ‘needle’ and ‘blood’. A lot. Oh, the power of her words and my imagination. Sweat started to trickle down my back, the room swayed, and color drained from my face. Here we go. Or, more specifically, there I went. Somehow, though, I managed to not completely pass out. Perhaps, it was the Kit Kat I brought as a reward that kept me conscious or the knowledge that the pregnant nurse couldn’t help me if I hit the floor. Or, maybe, just maybe, New York City has toughened me up a little bit after all.