The last time (and I mean last time) I gave blood, I think I had the worst phlebotomist ever.
Background on me: I have very visible veins on both arms. High tolerance for pain. Given blood lotsa times, always been told I’m a good bleeder. And I like free t-shirts, cookies, and juice.
I climb into the blood bus, and I am presented with a visibly uncertain 19-year-old girl holding a donation kit. I sit down, knowing that if they trust her with doing the procedure, that’s good enough for me. I try not to judge others based solely on age. She opens the kit and begins aiming the needle at the elbow region.
I have not had my arm tied off. As forgiving and trusting as I am, I still find this alarming.
I point out that she has not yet tied my upper arm off, so she makes this giggly “Oopsie!” noise that I find vaguely unsettling. She ties me off, and the veins rise out of my arm. OK, back on track, everything’s good. She again comes at me with that needle, because apparently she thinks that just anywhere on the arm is good enough. She aims it at one of the risen veins and sticks it on in there. She of course totally misses the vein. I am watching in a mixture of horror and bemusement. You see, when she put the needle in, she managed to push the surface vein away and slide right past it.
She yanks the needle out and apologizes again with her giggly noise. I am far too timid for my own good at this point, because I do not call for an immediate halt to this procedure. She comes after me with the needle again and this time, manages to stick it in the vein (internal, quiet cheer on my part) and then all the way through the vein and right into my ulna. (Non-meds: Hold your palm up away from you. The bone running from the inside of your wrist to your elbow is the ulna.)
This is an interesting sensation, to say the least. Her enthusiasm has caused a little overexertion, and now I have the tip of a needle poking my ulna. I think she realizes something is wrong, because veins are not normally hard. To add to my not-quite-pain-but-something-is-definitely-wrong sensation, she accidentally brushes the end of the needle with a stray finger while pulling her hand away in surprise. Those of you who know about levers know that at this point my vein is being used as a fulcrum and my bone is being scraped by a needle. In my calmest tone, I ask her to please take the needle out, because I believe that bone marrow transplants are beyond her skill and in any case not something I signed up for. The needle comes out, and there has been some, um, tearing, of the tissue.
A small stick has become a decent-sized hole, about twice the size it should be. The vein is perforated, one hole on each side, and all I get is a cotton ball to hold over it. This is not as bad as it could be, though, because I’m a good clotter too.
At this point, you are no doubt assuming that I raced out of the blood bus as quickly as I could. You are assuming wrong. She calls someone over to do it for her and says I’m a “hard stick”. The new one ties off the other arm and pulls a pint out with no problem. I take my juice and my cookies and my t-shirt and depart as quickly as decorum allows. The next day, my true reward becomes clear: a purplish yellow bruise the size of a couple of half-dollars in the crook of my elbow.
And I haven’t been back.