HUMOR

Blood Tests

Why can’t mosquitos do it?

— Miraculously, barely avoided death after blood test. —

9:16 am, NHS surgery.

Empty stomach.

Multiple sleepless nights tattooed over my eye bags.

Matt? the receptionist calls my name. It’s me. I whisper, trying not to choke on my saliva. It’s my turn. I am freaking out. My legs have the solidity of jelly pudding. The old witch had me waiting for 6.32 minutes, clearly, the exact time needed for my face to completely drain any single molecule of blood away. I am now paler than an albino wearing zombie make-up for Halloween.

I get into the room and I immediately beg her — the butcher, my executioner, generically called: the nurse — to let me lay down on the examination table. She looks into the fully-bearded, already wrinkled face of a 35 y.o. silly man and asks: Seriously? To which I reply: Seriously., and add, I’m such a girl, you know, but she doesn’t know, apparently, and she doesn’t smile. Fuck, she hates me already. I think, and I guess it’s because of all these new social rules about gender, and respect, and calling names, and whatever so, I feel ashamed and instinctively correct myself: I mean, I’m actually a real man, I joke and Yeah, she comments, grumbling a barely audible, you male bastard, while I try to lay down.

Are you feeling comfortable now? she asks, giggling at me crumpling over the shortest exam table ever designed. Sure, thanks, doc. I heroically lie like a rug, trembling and sweating, with my breath even shorter than the table. Anyway. I close my eyes, lend her my right arm and — in vain — I try to mentally reach some other place: Nirvana. Fuck it, do it, take my blood away. I don’t scream out loud in a delusional outburst. And I bite the bullet.

Ready

Set

GO!!

In the real world, the needle is probably thinner than thin air. In my mind, I have a heavy-duty, 10 inch screwdriver stuck into my poor vein but, who really can tell what’s going on? Definitely not me. I am most certainly not looking at the unattended item thrust in my arm. Thanks but no thanks. If only I knew it, I would have come to the surgery blindfolded, wearing ear defenders, and — while I space out for a second arguing with myself, the stainless steel Texan oil pipe is still sucking my blood, the motherfucker. — And I’m sweating.

The nurse, this time very gentle and human, suddenly notices my spectral face and my drenched t-shirt. I am clearly fainting, or dying? God knows, I am not a doctor. So, she breaks the ice and starts a conversation, you know, to distract me, to fool me, as if I didn’t know the trick, as if I am an imbecile 5 y.o. kid terrified by needles. Yuck! I mean, come on. But, since I am already one foot over the threshold of Heaven — Hell? — and I can see no light or creator whatsoever waiting for me on the other side, I grab that one chance to survive and I decide to play along with the dressed-in-white lady. She asks:

What do you usually have for breakfast?

Oh, nothing. Just: butter and jam on toast, some yoghurt, and fruit, and coffee, and — wow, I’m on a roll, I could go on like that without collapsing for more than a minute — I thought, and I felt like a rockstar.

You should eat eggs, she suggests, Britisher than Britain itself.

Fuck me! Eggs? I think, incredulous. But she makes me laugh and that keeps me from fainting — I guess — so be it.

You need proteins, some energy. Boy, you’re skinny! she continues.

Yeah, mum. And what else? Sausages, beans, mushrooms, Jesus, the Full English? I almost say out loud, but I’m paralyzed and I can’t move my lips so I only manage to produce a sort of heart-attack kind of grimace.

What about porridge? Do you like porridge?

Ah. Now we’re talking. I don’t say. Yeah, that could do the trick. I reply.

In the meantime, the clock keeps spinning and hanging around with his loyal circle of numbers, sunbathing on the dial, as if nothing is happening. No matter the distractions, which actually worked for a short bunch of minutes, some deadly feeling is surfacing again. How fucking long does it take?? My paranoia is screaming when finally — FINALLY — the bloody needle seems to vanish from my totally numb arm. The nurse has drafted so many blood vials off my body I believe she can even read my future through them.

She says, marvellous, all done.

Voilà. All of a sudden my body releases the accumulated tension, all at once, and I feel like someone emptied a full bucket of water over my head. I am transformed into a human waterfall, pouring sweat from my forehead, my armpits, and I’m cold. I’m drenched. So much so that I have to reach for my sweater even though it’s summer. My nausea levels skyrocket and I am this close to fainting. No jokes.

She says: breathe in, calm down.

But I am acting like a rookie freediver on his first day. Hyperventilation at its best. I’m choking. My face — I believe —has been brush-stroked with white chalk paint and I am dripping as if I just came out of the shower.

Do you want some water? she gently asks me.

Thanks. I barely exhale, like the oldest dog on earth.

She sneaks a peek at me and secretly giggles. After carefully, barely skimming the fresh liquid, I start feeling a tad less deceased. I suspect that, maybe, I might manage not to throw up right there, in the surgery, so I feel like a king. I finally find the strength to put on my sweater and I rub it against my chest, my back, even against my face, in a vain attempt to dry myself off. Lord knows, for two drops of blood, I am gonna catch Pneumonia, I think. Then I try to leave the examination table without falling down and crash into the floor like a wireless puppet. So I stare at her— the nurse, not the Grim Reaper sitting next to her — and I don’t ask:

Should I go?

to which she replies with a sharp glance

Jesus… how old are you?

her eyes standing still at a crossroad, undecided whether to act amused or pitiful towards me. Then, seriously, she tells me:

Come on, kid. It’s all done now.

Thanks, doc.

See you next time

You wish. — I almost tell her — sneaking out of there with the pace of a crippled turtle. I’m free! I shout in my mind. I immediately start planning my premature departure which will be 100% due to not having my blood tested ever again. So I finally exit the surgery. The door shuts behind my back and I kneel to the tarmac, my hands joined in prayer while I summon all the Gods, all of them, together in a bunch. I raise my gaze to the cloudy skies of London and beg those gentle deities to not having me — not in this lifetime — take another goddamn blood test.

Oh, yeah.

And I survived.

Like a Hero.

Matt Youth was born somewhere on bloody Saint Valentine’s day and he’s not dead yet. Even so, he’s extremely famous. You can check all his miserable, disastrous attempts of changing the world — and other enchanting adventures — on www.mattyouth.com