When the needle goes prick, lancing flesh and entering my vein, I reflexively turn away to avoid the carnage. I instead picture the syringe slurping up my blood into those glass vials containing the violent harvest, which I also won’t look at, lest I get lightheaded and require smelling salts to keep me from passing out.
That’s what happened to me as a 12-year-old sick with mono. (The kissing disease. I rule.) I had to get regular bloodwork, but my body and mind weren’t having it. Even lying down so I wouldn’t topple over, I got woozy when the nurse drew blood. More than once she had to fetch smelling salts to prevent a fainting spell. It was a spectacle, drama, like a scene out of “ER,” pediatric unit.
I’ve gotten much better about being pricked. Getting bloodwork, as I did yesterday, is child’s play of the more mature sort. Pivoting my head from the procedure is merely habit, and if I happen to catch a glance of the needle and the blood, I’m sturdy, acting my age. I even thank the blood-tapping technician when it’s over, like he’s some kind of hero.
I’m also rather effusive to those who jab my arm with flu and Covid vaccines. It’s a thankless job, poking the skin of a nervous needle-phobe who tries to crack jokes to lower the pressure. All business, they rarely laugh. I recently got both vaccinations and thanked them like a madman, even though my jokes tanked.
Incidentally, if you ever need smelling salts, they are amazing. Perk you right up, like a cartoon character.
GNASHING. 
I, too, become woozy around needles. The first newspaper I worked for held annual blood drives, which I believe to be a worthy cause. When I struggled to remain conscious, they had to stop the blood draw and administer fluids to replace the volume in my blood (I believe that was the verbiage). Later, a kindly attendant told me I might need to find a different outlet for my altruistic leanings. “Giving blood may not be for you,” she gently admonished.
Point taken. I’ve never lined up to donate again. And I still turn my head away for every needle encounter. The whole process of getting my inside blood to the outside makes me queasy. I am not the person you want to have around in a bloody emergency.
But if you need a quick press release written about the chaos, I can deliver.
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Oh, man, I won’t get near blood drives. I can’t imagine being tethered to a bloodsucker for that long while I lie there helpless then get a complimentary cookie afterward for being so brave. I would also rather keep my blood safely inside and not have to see it and crumple to the ground. And we know you can write a mean press release, or anything for that matter! ; ) Rock on, Anne!
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I used to be scared to death of having a blood draw. And then I was put on the blood thinner Warfarin, which requires regular blood draws. Nothing for it but to get used to it.
I usually find something, anything, on a wall, any wall, to read while the procedure is done. Actually, the phlebotomists are by and large very skilled. There are times when I’m told the procedure is finished and I didn’t know it had commenced.
I had one instance in which the phlebotomist looked like an NFL lineman. I was terrified. How could he possibly have a light touch. Painless.
I’m blessed with large strapping veins – a phlebotomist’s dream.
My wife, poor woman, has tiny veins and a blood draw usually requires a number of stabs.
I recently went off Warfarin and moved to Prodaxa. No more routine blood draws.
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