Week of Blatherations: If you prick me, don’t I bleed?

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.


15 thoughts on “Week of Blatherations: If you prick me, don’t I bleed?

  1. I have two idnetical scars on my right index and middle fingers from when I was working in a restaurant and went to wash a tomato slicer (those things with all the blades so the slices are all the same) and I didn’t realize that the blades would go RIGHT THROUGH the scrubby (and a fair way into my fingers before I snatched them back.

    The blood trail from me pulling my hand away and up out of the sink went all across the ceiling and down the wall behind me.

    The cuts weren’t really that bad in the long run, but boy did they bleed!

    That’s the only scar I have that I can still feel the pain when I think about the event.

  2. I’ve got a scar on my neck from where the hole I used to breath through was located.
    There was no scar from where a cigarette was put out on me.
    I’ve still got this nasty scar from when a nice young lady decided to rip my heart out of my chest with her bare hands and spit on it while it was still beating.

  3. Mmm… Scissors and children…
    I recall sitting on the sofa as a child, wielding a hefty pair of sewing scissors (stealthily removed from my mother’s sewing stuff) and, with my left hand (because I am left-handed), trying to slice a hole through a piece of thin cardboard (because I was making something cool out of it) and, after some resistance countered by a bit of force – ta-da! – right through the cardboard those sewing sheers went. For a moment though, I couldn’t quite figure out why the soft web of skin between my thumb and forefinger on the back of my right hand (the hand which had been bracing the cardboard) was suddenly sticking up about a quarter of an inch in the air.
    And then I looked at where the scissors had gone through the cardboard and slid into my palm just below my thumb.
    That’s a pretty scar…

      1. No, I shoved one blade of the scissors through the cardboard, into the soft skin in my palm, just near my right thumb and the blade nearly came out the other side of my hand, sort of tenting the skin on the back of my hand. Didn’t hurt until I had to pull the blade out.

  4. A frozen chicken in boiling oil? Whoa, kitchen idiot though I am, even I wouldn’t try that!

    Oh, and for the record, we have quarters here too. :-p

    1. Well, in my defense, I was only 12 or 13!

      and you KNOW I’m an american, so therefore, due to american insularity, canadian currency doesn’t count. 😉

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