Okay, so I forgot to mention in my weekend recap that I had also gone to Quest Diagnostics to get my blood drawn for some lab work. Last Wednesday, I went to a naturopath to discuss some chronic irritations: IBS, insomnia, persistent chilliness, to name a few. So he sent me to get some blood work to test for anemia and hypothyroidism. Doesn’t that sound FABULOUS?!
So I went and got my blood drawn, and now I have a large, quarter-sized (that’s less than 2cm for you non-americans) yellow and green bruise on my arm. It could have been worse. My veins are slippery, tricky little bitches. I learned that the hard way, after my first trip to the Red Cross, doing my civic duty. I wound up with two, very large, biscuit-sized bruises on both arms. Apparently, these veins are deep, and the needle needs to be angled steeper in order to get a good poke.
When I had my gall bladder taken out oh-so-many years ago, even the surgical team couldn’t find a vein. I spent nearly 40 minutes getting stuck in both arms (at once!) by a cadre of nurses and an anethesiologist, my arms spread out before me like many a Renaissance-era Jesus painting. Finally, the surgeon came in with a “what the hell’s taking so long?” and took matters into his own hands. The needle ended up in my thumb. Quite an uncomfortable thing to wake up to, I’ll tell you that.
I ended up with two large bruises on my arms, a smaller bruise on my thumb, and four incisions on my torso. One just under my diaphragm, one on my belly button, and two on my right side, staggered near my waist. The all made nice-looking scars.
I’ve got a few other scars. One diamond-shaped on my left knee for that time I flew off my bike after striking a large rock. I was seven, if I recall. Another one on my palm, whose origins I cannot remember; many many tiny cat scratches on my hands; old flea bites, the lousy bastards; and my favorite: one tiny, long cut on the inside of my left thumb, from when I used adult scissors to cut construction paper at the wee age of five (I think. Mom?) Boy, did that one bleed like a bitch. I remember howling and snot running down my face and copious amounts of bright red blood running down my arm. Ah, childhood. Its amazing I don’t have more scars, the damage I’ve done to myself. Burns, cuts, electrocutions, scrapes, etc and so forth.
I’d tell y’all about the time I tried to cook frozen chicken in boiling oil, but I’ve already blathered on long enough for today.