I remember — damn, has it been seven years already? — sitting in a doctor’s office white as a sheet waiting for them to stab a needle into my arm and literally siphon blood out of me. It had been the first time I’d been voluntarily pierced by a sharp object in decades and I’d been in no hurry to renew the acquaintance. Obviously I survived the process, but you couldn’t say I was eager to repeat it.
Today, I idly chit-chatted with the nurse while she drained two vials of the stuff out of me, and was mostly concerned with finally being able to eat after having to fast before the bled me. I even had to undo my own tourniquet because my vein was being a little clingy and didn’t want to let the red stuff go.
It’s nothing that I get all excited about doing, but there’s not the sheer terror anymore either. Having to have blood drawn every six months over the last six years has pretty removed any reservations about it. In fact, the worst thing about it isn’t the needle going in my arm, it’s peeling the band-aid off and taking half the hair on my arm with it.
Now that’s something to dread.