My diagnosis of Graves disease came with a lifetime invitation to the laboratory to regularly test my thyroid levels. Regardless of what path I choose, I don’t see this happening any less frequently than once every six months. Right now, twice a year seems pretty far off.
I’ve had so much blood drawn over the last five years that I’m sure I’ve had a complete oil change by now. At best, I’ve gone to the lab every three months, but sometimes as often as every few weeks.
The insanity, by definition, is that I keep going to the same lab, hoping that the way I’m treated will change. Actually, it’s not really insanity so much as laziness. The lab is on my way to work.
When I show up, I wait by the sign that says “Please Wait Here” and is plastered with requests that I wear a face mask if I’m sick. Um, if I’m healthy, would I be here? But what I have isn’t contagious, nor is diabetes, high cholesterol or probably most of the other things people go there to get tested for, so the face mask thing is ridiculous. It serves no purpose other than to make me – the germaphobe to end all germaphobes – more nervous.
I have my lab paperwork and my blue card ready. The blue card is another thing I don’t understand. This particular facility and its affiliates require you to have a blue card to get service. Even if you have a gushing limb hanging by a single tendon, you need a blue card before they’ll get out the sewing kit.
Okay, not really, but I’m telling you, they’re blue card Nazis. The blue card has your name on it and your insurance information and to get it, you have to go deep into the bowels of the lab, stand in line again, hand over your insurance card, then wait 20 more minutes while it is printed up.
It also expires in one year, at which point you need it have it renewed. Fortunately you can do that online by filling out a simple 45-page questionnaire in less than 15 minutes, at which point it logs you off.
After waiting at the “Please Wait Here” sign for a few minutes while there are no other patients in sight of the reception desk, one of the women behind the counter glares at me and growls, “Can I help you?”
Either this is the worst place in the world to work, or they require their employees to fast for 12 hours before coming to work. Which would make it the worst place in the world to work.
I smile pleasantly as I approach the bench and say, “Hi there!” I hand over my paperwork and my blue card (because I’m efficient that way) to a silent individual who doesn’t once look up as she asked me the following:
“Spell your first and last name.” Why? Isn’t it right there on the paper?
“Date of birth?” Sure, no problem.
“Do you have your insurance card with you?” What?
Because I already have a blue card, I didn’t bother to bring in my insurance card.
“It’s in the car,” I tell her. She sighs heavily.
“Isn’t that what the blue card is for?” I ask timidly.
“We need both.”
This is retarded. And that’s all I have to say about that.
She lets me go this time with a warning. Yay! Still without looking at me, she tells me I’m all set to have a seat.
Since my blood work doesn’t require fasting, I get to thumb through old magazines about babies or race cars, neither of which I’m particularly interested in at the moment, while all the fasters go ahead of me. Once I finally do get called, a tech ushers me into a room.
Sometimes they’ll ask me how I am. Sometimes, not. But once I’m in the chair, this is always the conversation:
“Spell your first and last name.” Eye roll. I swear by all that is good and holy the next time I’m going to spell my name wrong, just to see what happens.
“Date of birth.” Didn’t we just do this?
As the tech preps the instruments, I roll up my right sleeve. I’ve only encountered maybe two people who have been able to draw blood out of my left arm. Without looking at me, the tech says, “Do you have an arm preference?”
Yes, I do. Please take the blood through the sleeve of my left arm. That’s how I like it done.
I really don’t have the patience for this kind of thing. But I answer civilly, if not pleasantly.
“Small pinch,” the tech says as she pushes the needle through my vein and out the other side. I can’t tell you how many times this has happened. It is not a pleasant feeling.
I used to cringe when I saw the interns coming because they looked so nervous. Now I pray for one. The interns are awesome. They are still new enough to be pleasant and they are so anxious to do a good job that they actually do. In my experience, it’s the seasoned techs that suck the most because they’ve stopped caring.
They draw a couple of vials (changing the vial sucks, especially when the needle is all the way through your vein), pull out the needle and press on the gauze pad. Invariably, they rip off a seven-foot piece of tape and practically wrap it around my arm five times.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but still. A two-inch piece of tape would suffice. Remember, I’m Italian. There’s no need to put adhesive on the front of my arms. If I wanted them waxed, I’d wax them, thanks.
The tech then recites the speech about applying pressure for 3-5 minutes to prevent bruising. I feel like saying, If you didn’t stick the needle clear through my vein, that would go a long way towards preventing bruising. Instead I smile and say, “Thank you.” Then I grab my jacket and high-tail it out of there.
I’m determined to find a new lab to try next time I get my “orders” in the mail. I’ll report out once I do – it should be in about three weeks.
How about you? Have you ever had to have blood drawn? Was your experience good or bad? Any suggestions or ideas on how to make the process smoother?