So I tried to sleep in today. I don’t really get much sleep at night. I have a tendency to wake up two or three times. And I don’t mean just to turn over, but actually get up. It’s always one of three things: My medical condition (which I SO will not discuss here), Zoey, or Sara. Usually, it’s Sara.
Last night I made it to 3:45-ish before the little imp came in.
“Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy!” She rushed the bed like it was D-day. “Daddy turned on my light!”
No I didn’t. I turned off her light. She has a Hello Kitty lamp in her room in addition to her night light. I seriously think our house is too well lit during the day; I’d rather not have it looking like Circus Circus at night. Sara speaks in riddles at times. She’ll say the opposite of what she means. It can get confusing and often leads to some heated… “discussions” at the dinner table.
I let her fall asleep before returning her to her bed. Then I was up until 5. Her mother gets up at 5:30. And therefore, so do I. As it happens, come 5:30… Sara was back and grinding her teeth as usual. That girl can make the windows rattle…
|Individually packed serving sizes!|
I tried to doze, but my guilt got the better of me and so I got up to make Stephanie lunch. She said, “You are literally the walking dead. Go back to sleep. Or eat some brains, but LEAVE ME ALONE.”
Ok, she didn’t actually say that. But I did go back to bed. I may have dozed for about 10 minutes… but the grinding. HOLY COW this girl isn’t gonna have any teeth to put braces on at this rate. Seriously, fingernails on a chalk board are not this irritating. If I put her back to bed at this point, she’d just be up. And a Sara without a good night’s rest makes for a very grouchy Sara which in turn makes Daddy long for an all-inclusive vacation to Cancun.
So I cut up some beef and cured it to make some beef jerky tomorrow. Why the hell not?
I had my follow up doctor’s appointment today for that condition I’ll not discuss. Mom, if you gotta know, please e-mail me. That’s goes for the rest of you too. I don’t care who knows about it. I don’t care if all of you know… I just don’t think it really goes with the theme of my blog… or something like that.
It was for 2:00 pm. I sat there an hour before being seen. Long time to sit. Sit sit sit sit sit. I can’t even remember what I did before smart phones. I don’t remember being that interested in those dated magazines. I guess I just sat there.
The good thing about my doctor is that he doesn’t rush the appointment. When it came my turn he gave me his full and undivided attention. We discussed treatments and options. He stuck his finger up my butt. I HATE GOING TO THE DOCTOR.
Then he said, “We need to take some blood.” And he has an accent.
Vietnamese. You totally thought I meant Transylvanian. You know you did.
So they sent me downstairs to the lab. There was no wait! I was the only human being in the clinic needing blood drawn. How weird is that?! The lab techs were really nice this time. They had a whole new crew.
So they sat me in the chair and locked me into place.
Me: “Be gentle, I don’t do well around needles.”
Tech: “Don’t worry, I used to be the same way. And now look at me! I use them all day.”
Me: “On other people.”
Tech: *laugh* “True, but just the sight of blood used to make me feel like passing out.”
So here I decided to tell her the story behind my dislike of needles.
Me: “When I was nine or ten years old a nurse was drawing my blood. She must have been new. I watched with great interest as the needle entered my arm. I didn’t mind seeing the vial fill with my purple blood. But she didn’t put the cotton down before removing the needle.”
Tech: “Oh my God. It went everywhere.”
Me: “I hosed her straight up her blouse and into her face and hair.”
By this time she’s starting the third vial. What are they testing me for that they need THREE bottles?
Tech: “Reminds me of my training. We had to train on each other. There was…”
And here’s where my memory starts to fade.
“blood everywhere. It looked like the zombie apocalypse. I totally drained my lab partner onto the floor. My instructor was like, ‘get a straw! We’ve got to put it back!’. And then there was the time we needed to stick this guy like 90 times before we finally found a vein. But it was totally our error, as he bled from each hole. We ended up just getting an empty Dr. Pepper bottle and letting the blood drip from the fingers of his cold mutilated arm.”
Me: “Here I go.” And I blacked out for about a minute. She used the word “psychosomatic”.
I’ve cut myself deep before. I worked at a glass fabrication plant, and cut my finger hardcore. I bled all over the place. You could see the bone. Did I pass out? No. I walked up front and got somebody to take me to the clinic. Seven stitches later, I was fine. I’ve got a nice scar on my right hand now. Needle in my arm? Not so macho.
I was suddenly being attended to my three techs. All women. The tiniest one, a little Hispanic lady says, “Why is it always the big guys that get all woozy?”
|I'm gonna knock your 204 lb. ass ON THE FLOOR.|
Me: “To get attention…” I was still pretty wobbly. Good answer, though, right?
They got me an ice pack. Apparently wussing out makes you really hot and sweaty. They got me ice water and orange juice. They walked me to a nice cushy chair. By the time I left seven techs checked on me (all women!). I have no pride nor shame. I didn’t care. I just didn’t want those tiny women to have to lift my 204 lb. ass back up into a chair. (That’s 92.5 kilos for my international readers) Eventually, I made it home.
Now if it been a lab full of dudes… it would have been a different story. I’ve thought about this. A guy wants to man-up. Instead of talking about blood drawing experiences, we’d have been utterly silent. I would have stared at the pock marked ceiling thinking about boobs and then it would have been over. Or at most we’d have said something like, “Football’s almost here.”
I finished my trip with a visit to the liquor store where I stocked up on beer, vodka and my wife’s favorite wine. I’d have gotten a cigar too, but it’s a 102°F and my Doctor said I’m not allowed to be outside. Seriously, he said that.
By the way, they needed four vials, gallons… whatever.
And in closing…
You’d think after 7 years of parenthood I’d learn by now my children need water at bedtime.