As I posted before, last week was yet another week of the every-three-day PIO shots. Given that the shots are less and less frequent, they are not as painful, but I still have nerve damage in my left upper thigh and a few hard bumps remain from all the stabbing. More distressing to me, however, was that we were gearing up for yet another refill of PIO during a financially-strapped time of year.
Last week, I went in for another blood draw and it was quite a haul. I had to tutor that evening and it was for a family whom I really like and I had already canceled last week's appointment. I really had no choice but to go. The blood lab was open until 6:30, I would be tutoring until 5:00, and it takes a little more than an hour to get to the office. So, here goes nothing...
I narrowly made it to the office and I was the last patient of the day. I had tried to drink a bit of water in the waiting room as I flew through the door, but I had a feeling this would be a rough one. She tried the "good vein" in my left arm, fished around for a bit -- nothing. Tried the right arm, fished around for a bit -- nothing. Then, she did the thing I have always dreaded -- she tightened the tourniquet around my wrists and started poking around in my hands.
When I have had issues getting blood in the past, several phlebotomists have flicked and poked at my hands, but they have always decided against it as there was nothing available. As I watched the frustrated phlebotomist consider her options a whole five minutes after she was supposed to close, I realized that this was really happening. She made me run my hands under warm water for several minutes, then tried the unthinkable.
I kept suggesting that I drink more water, that it had worked in the past, but in her thick Russian accent she shot back that it was unlikely that it would get into my bloodstream that quickly. I looked away, fully hiding my face with my arm. I attempted to look calm while my head was spinning and I felt nauseous. To be fair, I have been a trooper about the all these needles, but I am very touchy about my hands, wrists and feet. Add to this sensitivity, of course, this is finally happening while I am three months pregnant and still squeamish.
She stabbed my hand between my ring and pinky finger knuckles, then made a sound of frustration. Again, in her sometimes unintelligible accent, I hear her say, "...three times... get no blood... then it bursts." Oh. Crap.
She finally takes out the needle and the empty vial with it. Now the tiny pinprick on my hand won't stop bleeding. I look at my hand and there is a visible blue lump under the skin. And now it hurts. I'm no doctor and I have no idea what happened, but it is visibly swollen and blue. I am supremely grossed out.
She finally lets me go drink some water in the waiting room and sit down for a minute. My hand is pulsing and I can't make a fist. Of course, five minutes of standing around and four cooler cups of water later, she gets blood on the first try with the left arm again.
At this point, it is pretty late. I won't be home until after 8:00, so I decided to stop and pick up takeout on the way home. I drove home from NJ with an open hand just flapping at the turn signals as needed. My hand was still pretty sore all night as I slept, but luckily it was pretty close to normal the next day.
I know I am a bit of a whiner, but I choose to think of it this way -- we all have our foibles, fears and anxieties. I have overcome so many of these worries through the infertility process that I'm actually giving myself a virtual pat on the back. Maybe my traumatic tales seem hyperbolic to others, but to each his (or her) own. C may think I'm nuts for getting lightheaded and nauseous over the hand incident, but he would have the same panic about speaking in front of a crowd or going on an interview. We all have these phobias and I am a little proud of myself for tackling this one head-on...
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