Trauma at the Medical Center

Even though I'd already received the diagnosis of breast cancer from my nurse practitioner, I still had an appointment with my Group Health doctor at the medical center the following day. She would be the doctor who would refer me for surgery and follow-up treatment.

The doctor didn't spend much time explaining my biopsy report or anything else, since she could see that I'd already been given that information. She told me that I could expect--worst-case scenario--to be "profoundly fatigued" for the next year. Yippee, just what I wanted to hear to motivate myself to go through the next year. :~)

I will give her credit for getting me in to see a surgeon right away. Many of the best surgeons in the county were out on summer vacation or booked up. She apparently pulled some strings and got me in to one of the best surgeons the following week for a consultation.

Maybe she took pity on me because I still planned to go to Mexico and was trying to fit my Mexico plans in with breast cancer. I had many people telling me that I should just go ahead and go to Mexico and deal with the cancer surgery when I got back. They thought it would be good for me.

Ideally, it sounded like a good idea. However, one of the advantages of living to the age of 51 is that you know yourself well. I realized that there was no way I could just shelve the idea of having a breast tumor unless I had a definite plan of how it was going to be extricated. Since I couldn't get in to see a surgeon until the day before my trip, I knew that I needed to handle the breast cancer FIRST if I were to have any peace of mind. Mexico would always be there the next year. Still, I was extremely disappointed that I wasn't going to be able to go.

Before we left the doctor's office, my doctor said that I needed to have some routine blood work done. She handed me a lab slip and said that I could do it that day if I liked, since the lab was upstairs from her office.

Unfortunately, I hadn't had anything to eat or drink yet that day. When my husband and I visited the lab, I thought it would be a quick blood draw and then we could leave. How wrong I was.

When it was my turn to have blood drawn, my husband came back with me to the area where the patients sit. We both made pleasant chit-chat with the phlebotomists and I casually mentioned to the person drawing my blood that sometimes they have a hard time getting blood out of me.

Well, after two pokes, it was clear that today was not going to be my day. The phlebotomist used a butterfly needle that is reserved for young children with small veins. No matter, even with the needle directly inserted into my vein, the blood wouldn't come out.

I was asked if I'd eaten or had anything to drink and I said, "No." "Well, that's the problem," the technician said, "You're dehydrated. Go and have something to eat and drink and come back afterwards."

So, disappointed and frustrated, we left the lab and headed to town for a bite to eat. We went to one of our favorite restaurants that specializes in homemade bread, sandwiches, and soup. I drank two or three full glasses of water while we ate our lunch.

Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed with emotion. I didn't want to get emotional sitting there at the lunchtable, but no matter. I could feel myself dissolving into a cascade of tears. "I'm losing it," I said to my husband. All he could do was sit and look at me and hold my hand.

My husband spent a lot of time those first couple of weeks looking at me and holding my hand or holding me. He later told me that he was afraid that he would say the wrong thing. I think he handled it very well, because at one point, he actually did say the "wrong" thing (for me at that point in time anyway) and we began to verbally attack each other.

Forgiveness was quick to follow after we'd calmed down. I think we both understood that we were under an enormous amount of stress, a kind of stress that was new to us. We'd already been through infertility, bankruptcy, losing a parent, and losing a home to the I.R.S. We'd been around the block a few times in regard to strife, but this was the first time one of us had been diagnosed with a dread disease and . . . well, it was stressful and our emotions were running high.

After lunch, we headed back to the medical center lab, but first, my husband said, "Let's go for a brisk walk. That should help get your blood pumping." So he grabbed my hand and we walked a few blocks around the medical center. Since it was a warm summer day, I could actually see my veins coming up under my skin on our way back into the medical center building.

Confident that this time my blood veins would cooperate, we walked back into the lab's waiting area, where I grabbed a paper cup and started sucking down more water.

When my name was called again, we headed back to the same chair. Once again, the phlebotomist poked me, but no blood would come out. I prayed and asked God to help them get the blood out of me. All I could think of was that I had months of surgery and cancer treatment ahead of me and they couldn't even get a routine blood test done! What kind of chance did I stand in the months to come?

One of the technicians seemed to be more experienced and debated whether or not to look at getting blood from my foot. She apologized for having to poke me so many times and then said she'd try one more time. The FOURTH try yielded nothing. She said she could keep trying to poke me or that I could simply come back another day. I asked, "What difference will another day make?" She said that I could work at being more hydrated the next time and it could be a completely different experience.

I opted to come back another day. To say that I felt demoralized when I left would be an understatement. I left the lab that afternoon with band-aids all over my arms and nothing to show for it.

Over a week later, I chose a day to try giving blood again. I went to work and began drinking tea and water from 7:30 a.m. until my stop at the lab five or six hours later. I drank enough water to float away.

I also took a brisk walk and took the stairs to the 3rd floor lab. I had to wait a few minutes, but when they finally got me in the chair to take my blood, I explained to them the problems we had before.

This time, I had a male phlebotomist who was a really nice guy with a sense of humor. He tried to distract me, but I could tell he was a little nervous about making this time successful.

He commented on the cross I was wearing and then I noticed that he had a cross on as well. I assumed he was a Christian.

He tried poking me once and it didn't work. He seemed bewildered that the needle was actually IN my blood vein, but the blood wasn't coming out. Did I mention that I also have low blood pressure?

Right about then, a little girl about 6 years old was brought in to give blood. He was called over to help with her. I couldn't believe it when they poked her ONCE and it was over. She barely made a peep. Suddenly, I felt like a real underachiever. :~(

Fortunately, the "expert" woman who said she'd been "doing this for 20 years" walked in and asked if she could try getting blood out of me. "Sure, go ahead," the male technician said (I bet he was happy as a clam to be off the case).

Sure enough, on the SIXTH attempt, she got the blood. After she finished, I said, "Thank you, Lord!" I left the lab feeling victorious at last.