HUMOR

Blood Tests II (pt2)

Be Prepared

image: screenshot from the movie Home Alone

Feeling extra brave? Read pt.1 first. Or don’t.

Blood Tests II

The Saga Continues…

medium.com

Basically, if you’re scared of whatever, you need to face your whatever to get over it. Terrified of spiders? Watch those extra-legged monsters in action and, if you don’t faint it, you’re over it. Or so it seems. Anyway, where was I? Yes, I googled:

How to overcome needle phobia.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only wuss in town. One human (man, it’s men let’s be honest) out of ten was a wuss like me, yay! But that didn’t fucking solve my problem at all. So I immediately stopped cheering like a nitwit and I scrolled in search of a decent article where to find the ultimate answer to my existential issue. I was looking for a trustworthy blog like therealmeaningoflife.com or doesgodexistornot.not but, apparently, noone was interested in my nightmare so I panicked, I decided to give up and die, but then I found a sort of scam page that seemed to treat the subject. I clicked on nhs.co.uk and started reading.

you should breathe
relax
face your fear

Fuck me. Was there anything uselesser than that? I mean… anyway, whatever. It’s the night before the blood test, I’m this close to shitting my pants and I need solutions, any solution would do. So I try the third point.

Face your fear

Even though it didn’t sound like news or some fresh 🤯 idea that shook my boat, I decided to go for it. Actually, even before reading this bollocks article, I already thought about that, it felt just, how can I put it down, natural. As I said before, if you’re terrified by something you should… but I can’t repeat myself just because you’re a total distracted fuck, right? No? Are you reading my story or what? Focus, for Christ's sake!

Anyhow,

I considered approaching some of the wildest ideas that popped into my sick mind. For example: buy a syringe, bring it home and stare at it for as long as you can without fainting. Then touch it if you dare. Then rub your arm like the nurse does (does she?) and place the devilish instrument in the proximity of your veins. Obviously, never, ever remove the plastic cap, unless you’re braver than Brave Heart, that goes without saying. I thought about this option for months without ever resolving myself because, hey, who’s so sick to completely ruin his days/life/existence for free? Not to mention stop sleeping, having your stomach upside down with the acidest reflux syndrome ever experienced by humankind, only for overcoming your li’l needle phobia? Not me. Fuck no. Unless you have a blood test set for the day after. In that case, you shall try anything to avoid dropping dead in front of the nurse. So I sacrificed myself for science (you’re welcome folks) and started experimenting with deadly techniques on my body, mind and spirit.

Unfortunately, (or should I say for sheer luck) I didn’t have time for buying an actual syringe so I decided to score some so-called injection videos on YouTube. At first I wasn’t even sure such a disturbing thing existed but, silly me, of course it did and it (what I found) came in the form of medical tutorials for newbies. I was upset just by reading the titles. Intravenous cannulation. Intramuscular injection. I was sweating. I decided to start by looking at pictures of needles and similar. I clicked on images and carefully selected one, the first one. I observed the syringe on my mobile phone screen and the heartbeat went up. Breathe, breathe like a fucking pro Matt, I was repeating myself re-reading the useless tips on the NHS page again and again. I swapped to another picture, and another one and, but it wasn’t exactly going well, I was sort of panting like a fool, alone in my bedroom holding a bright screen, with no real needles in sight.

Anyway, I didn’t have time to waste so I skipped to the next move in the fear ladder. Videos. I tapped play on the first one. The nurse pulled out an enormous syringe that resembled bloody King Arthur sword, the one in the rock although this one was to be thrust into the arm of the poor soul sacrificed to the masses just for showing “how to” on a horror film tutorial. I shivered, felt sick and played another video. Worse. I felt increasingly sick. My heartbeat wasn’t slowing down an inch despite the recommended methods I read on the blog. Okay, I told myself, you can’t do everything in one night, you did more than expected by any regular human being. You are a true hero Matt, I concluded and decided to attempt sleeping.

Fat chance.

The morning after I was truly, completely not ready. But I was pretending courage (or was I simply delusional?). Matt, you’re not a fainter, you never fainted (so far) so why should you this time? I was motivating the shit out of me. I showered, I practiced avant-garde breathing techniques I made up for the occasion, I prayed to nonexistent gods and I was ready. Ready to walk my 30 minutes from home to the battlefield (the surgery), kick the door open and shout:

I’m here!

Sir, would you please lower your voice and sit down?

Sure. I’m so sorry doctor…

I’m the receptionist.

Indeed.

And what is your name?

I’m Youth. Matt Youth.

She pretends not to giggle at my cheekiness but it’s so clear that I am indeed a not-so-special kind of chicken that… whatever, I have bigger issues to deal with at the moment so I ignore her. I start walking back and forth around the room. Why? Cause I’m experienced. Cause only losers wait for their execution without doing a thing, spend their final day on earth sitting on a fucking chair with their hands in hands. Like a true Spartan I was ready to fight, I was fearlessly reading all the ads and brochures and exit signs, but then someone called my name

Matt?

It’s me

It was the nurse, the slaughterer, the…

Please, get in

I gather my aid backpack (aka survival kit) filled with chocolate bars, water and that’s it, and I walked past the gate of hell. I was about to kick the door down, fiercely, scorch the earth as I entered the room and face the doctor with a smirk right before telling her

I’m terrified by needles, please, please help me!, on my knees, this close to crying.

Don’t worry, it will just take 2 minutes

2 minutes???? I don’t say

Sit down, relax, I’ll measure your blood pressure first.

Okay. I can do that.

Lay back, breathe and close your eyes, she says, and I do it.

Then, after one second, maybe less, I start suspecting the worse. Is she gonna fucking stick the needle in my arm while I’ve got my eyes shut? I immediately unshut my eye (one, just one) and, as if it was a submarine periscope I have it inspecting the room, assessing the situation. All clear. The evil woman is pretending to type stuff on a prehistoric computer.

Umph… I hiss, and finally (maybe) relax just that much for not making the pressure machine explode. The thing pumps my arm, then it blips off and

All good, see?

See what?? I don’t say.

Now, lay down on the stretcher.

The bed.

Oh.

It will take just two minutes, relax.

But I can’t. I try, but it’s hard. Especially because she keeps telling me the words, relax, relax, as if I didn’t know that. It’s like telling a hooligan on match day to calm down. Doesn’t work, does it? And I perfectly know that if I don’t fucking relax, chances are I’m gonna faint (I read it on the NHS blog, true story) and they will need to call an ambulance (not so true story), the police (maybe not), the undertaker (what??), ahhhhhhh!!!

But I’m a man. A no-bullshit man. So I lay down, turn my gaze against the wall and even close my eyes, just in case. I’m ready. I’m so ready that I already know she will ask me bollocks questions just to keep me fresh and awake. The needle pinches my arm (I can’t write vein ahhhhh because ahhhhhh it hurts just by saying it ahhhhhh loud.)

Tell me stuff.

Aight doc.

What do you do?

And, as I said, I perfectly know she doesn’t give a damn, it’s just to keep me awake, unfainted, alive but it’s not my first rodeo so this time I play along and I start telling her everything, the story of my life in chapters, and she nods, pretends interest, not much to be honest but hey, it’s the NHS, they do what they can. I keep narrating my life, I give her details, plot, highlights of my miserable highlightsless life like a pro bloodtester with needlephobia.

I have a studio nearby, I walk there every day

So you walk? Good.

Yes, I walk a lot, and I stopped smoking

Did you?

Indeed, about a year ago, you know it took me a while. First, I tried vaping and

Good.

Hey, don’t interrupt, please! I don’t say, and I continue, but vaping wasn’t exactly the solution, actually, it was even worse, or, I don’t know, the doc scolded me last time she… and, as for a magical Disney Christmas movie miracle, the needle seems to exit my body for good. Is it really done? Already? Does God exist for real? Yet, the nurse doesn’t say a thing and leaves me blathering gibberish as if nothing happened. But I’m too smart for this second-grade trick therefore I stop talking and start worrying straight on. My accumulated tension suddenly drops from the ceiling like a bucket of water. Not again, I think. Not again. Last time I was overwhelmed by military-trained aggressive sweat, I basically showered in my sweat inside the nurse's room and that wasn’t pleasant for anyone. And that’s why you/I/everyone should remember rule numero uno:

Be prepared

So this time I was fucking prepared. I was so prepared that I even applied extra deodorant for not stinking when dropped dead, sorry, dropped fainted in the surgery. Did it work? No way. The tension eased, I probably turned white and I just stank like a skunk.

Are you ok?

I…

Do you want water?

I’m feeling a bit nauseous.

At those words, the calm and steady nurse seemed to get alarmed, she looked at me and

Don’t you fucking dare to vomit in my surgery, you fucking bastard! she doesn’t say, at least not in words but in gazes. What she actually pronounced was, put your legs up, on the bed, yes, the other way around.

Feeling that I might have a few more seconds before vomiting, I do what she said and try to stop panting, slowly getting back to breathing. My face probably gained colour again and suddenly I am not feeling like a zombie anymore.

Better? she asks

And, like the manliest of men I reply, thank you doc, thank you so much for all the help, you were great, thanks, thanks for everything, for the support, for,

It’s our job, she cut short as in, please now leave, haven’t you caused enough trouble already? But, truth be told, I didn’t. I did way much worse in my previous tours of duty. So I felt spectacular. This time I somehow withstood the death procedure better. It felt like quicker and what the fuck do I care about it now? I was free, the torture was done and I could surf the waves of my good mood forever. I took a sip of my filtered bottled water, thanked the doc/nurse/anyway again and hit the road. The door shuts behind me, I avidly inhale the morning mist, admire the led grey sky with a joyful grin scratched on my face and fuck yeah, I’m free. No more blood tests for Youth. Never again (please).

Breakfast, here I come!

Wanna know more? Wanna read a happy ending for once? Here is

The Light After the Bloodtest

— Another Hero story by Matt Youth —

(possibly published in a not-too-distant future, or possibly not)