Monday, April 23, 2012

What does God look like? I'll tell you.


Why do I have such awful thoughts?

Why do I have such awful thoughts on a Monday morning?

I’ve been writing a sort of informal ongoing series of posts about my complete disillusionment with organized religion.  After years of struggle and spiritual anguish, I had to cut the ties, drop out. Too many things were eating at me. There was not one single person I could talk to, and some of my very best friends were being told to leave. Run out of town. So who would be left?


So I left, but this was after a very long period of being. . . what? One day, years ago, I wrote in my journal a single word: Disaffected. It seemed to sum it all up. Whatever “affected” means, and it can mean many things beyond the obvious.

It can relate to “affect” (NOT the same as “effect”, you Philistines of non-grammar!), which is in a larger sense just a reference to emotion, particularly the expression of emotion. But then there are words like “affection”, and we all know what that means.

I wonder if I am doomed to enact and re-enact the rejections of my youth. I wrote a post called You’ll Never Get Out of the Playground which had a surprising number of views, at least for me - more than 100 overnight (and counting: I think it’s 200 now). This was about a middle-aged woman who was disaffected with the social media scene, feeling profoundly out of step. I wonder why anyone was interested, why anyone bothered. Being out of step? Does anyone feel this except me, I wonder?










I won’t tell you what happened on the playground, or in high school, and what happened later on in my church after 15 years of meaningful, if frustrating involvement and contribution (including financial: people used to visit us in our homes and subtly, or not-so-subtly, guilt-trip us into giving more than we really could afford). The thing is, in a church setting you are at the mercy of leadership, which is apparently chosen. Then why did we “choose” a leader who turned out to be jaw-droppingly destructive and wildly inappropriate? Does a group of people necessarily know what is good for them?

But this isn’t the bummer, the spiritual shadow that goes in and out with me. Maybe it’s early conditioning, I don’t know. My beliefs are such a ragbag, or a fluctuating tide, or something. They change and shift. They don’t get “better” and I don’t “evolve”, like I am supposed to: in fact sometimes I think I am devolving or even deteriorating.




The cold dense shadow that chills my sunniest day is wondering about death. I often have strong feelings that departed people are very near me, even physically. I know where they are in the room, and they seem to speak, though not exactly in words. They convey pure meaning, somehow. This could be imagination. The problem with being a writer is that you must flex your imagination again and again, constantly, like a bicep, until it becomes so monstrous your whole arm is disabled.

But what if it isn’t? What if this is a strange gift? I try not to close the door on it. Yet it seems to say, if there is any truth in it at all, that we don’t just disappear when we die. That something of us lives on. If you’re to believe mediums (media?), the soul lives on in much the same form, so that the departed person is recognizable even visually. Thus the Long Island Medium with her fake blonde hair, fake talent, and voice as grating as Fran Drescher in The Nanny.

So OK. What is the other option? We just disappear, we die like a tree, we become soil, or not even that. We “are not”, we are “no more”. We are “departed”. To where, nobody says.




Imagine there’s no heaven. It’s easy if you try. No hell below us. Above us only sky. This was John Lennon’s vision of Utopia. I’ve heard that as far as spiritual contact is concerned, John Lennon is damn hard to find.

But there’s another possibility, and this one just makes my guts quail as if there’s a big frog jumping around in there.

It’s based on a very old model, so I didn’t make this one up.




What if every wrong deed, every bad mistake, every unkindness, every slight to others, every bit of ungenerosity, every theft, every verbal slap, every sense of glee at someone else’s misfortune (sometimes known as schadenfreude), every cheat of every kind, was carefully kept track of, never erased, never forgotten? What if all of it has been strung together in a chain, and how long is your chain anyway? Is it “ponderous”, like the chain of Ebenezer Scrooge? What if all your nasty little deeds, most of them kept secret, were laid end-to-end, bald and visible to some awful judging Force that doesn’t let you get away with anything?

What if?

This model annihilates that all-loving, all-caring God that everyone quacks about. I just don’t feel that sense of God any more and wonder if I didn’t make it up just to make my life more bearable. But if I don’t believe, does my non-belief negate God? Does God only love believers, those who go to church and are pious and either never make mistakes and unkindnesses, or repent for them so mightily it’s as if they never occurred at all?



What a horrible thought.

The only meaningful God – and I really doubt any such being exists – is a God that does not know how to do anything BUT love, a God who IS love like Jesus was, if Jesus ever existed (which I now doubt: but look what we did to him anyway). This God doesn’t play favourites, doesn’t lay sins end to end like some poisonous necklace of doom. But if this God really does exist, why don’t I feel it any more?

Why did despair drive out the glory, the power, the honour, the trumpet-blasting  blah-blah-blah I used to sing about in those endless dreary hymns with 39 verses? You could blow the dust off this God. It had no vitality. It was conventional and tame. After a while I felt so lonely in my growing unbelief that I just couldn’t stand it any more.












So have I been driven out? Cast out of Eden with those other sinners (who shall remain nameless)? Am I alone after all, a huddled mass of confusion and fear?

Every time I find myself starting to pray, I cut it off. Come on, stupid, don’t.  It won’t get you anywhere. What does prayer accomplish anyway? What is it for? It’s asking God to change things, to change the way things are now. If God is a God who makes reality, how stupid is that? Aren’t things “the way they’re supposed to be”, as so many people like to put it? So why pray at all?

Pray for mercy? I can’t see how that works, either. A big hand doesn’t suddenly come down out of the sky. In fact, nothing does. Nothing changes. Pray for healing? Why? Will a big nurse suddenly. . . OK, you get the idea.


Pray “for” someone? If people knew what other people were praying for, they might be pretty surprised. “Oh God, please make Frank less of an asshole so he won’t bug me so much.” OK, that’s extreme. How about, “Oh God, please reconcile Karen and Rob and make their marriage whole again.” In fact, Karen and Rob’s divorce might be totally liberating for both of them, freeing them from a relationship that went dead years ago. Joe might want to die from that tumour, because he’s lonely and no one from his church comes around any more because he’s difficult and besides, he has stopped praying and believing.

So stay away.

And if two people compete with each other, praying for completely opposite things, which one will God listen to? Who will win? The political ramifications of this are frightening to contemplate.



So I can’t figure out prayer. It somehow has a Wizard of Oz quality to it. “Please sir. . . I am Dorothy, the small and meek.” And you know what happened there.

Did I pull back the curtain somehow, to reveal the little man pulling levers in a desperate sweat? Should I pay any attention to those strange luminescent figures in my room late at night? What is the mystery? I had an experience years ago of looking God right in the eye, of having a tiny glimpse for a billionth of a second through an aperture that opened, then closed again. I don’t know why this happened and I had a welter of feelings about it:




A sense I shouldn’t be seeing this, that it was a mistake.

A feeling I should take off my sandals because I was on holy ground.

A sense of "Me? Are you sure? You must have the wrong person."

A sense I had opened a door and saw my mother standing there naked and slammed it shut.

An absolute, soul-shattering awe.




A sense I was seeing everything: everything ever created, from the beginning of what we call Time (which is an illusion) and on into the infinite Future. This is beyond my powers to describe.

It was as if every question I had ever asked, every question I asked in the present, every question I would ask in the future, and in fact every question I could possibly ask, ever, in all the realms of possibility, along with questions I could never ask because I didn’t know what they were, had been answered in a single stroke.



This all happened under very deep hypnosis conducted by a friend who was not a trained hypnotist. The purpose was to restore my sleep after a bad bout of insomnia that had gone on for months, resistant to any drug.

I suppose I should have guessed I wasn't really under hypnosis, but something far more profound and dangerous. It was years later, taking an anthropology course, that I learned about trance, the altered state of consciousness that allows shamans to pierce their cheeks without pain or walk over glowing coals.

Did I somehow get there without knowing it? I had heard over and over again that in hypnosis, you can come out of it any time you want to. I couldn't. My "consciousness" was so far above my corporeal being that it wasn't visible from the ground. It was on the right-hand side in a specific place, not just in my head, and the "whatever" was in front of me, an aperture almost like a  strange-looking gate.




At some point I saw myself, my physical being, inert on the couch far below. I had been "under" for more than an hour, one of the many idiotic things my friend did. He was trying to bring me out of it and couldn't. He was trying everything. I was shit-scared. I wanted to come back and couldn't.

Finally there was a sense not of falling but of being sucked back, though instead of feeling disappointed (gee, heaven was so nice!), I only felt relief. But something was wrong.

"You look. . ."

"What?"

"No, don't look in the mirror."






But I did. I was grey as stone. Blue-grey, and cold all over. I wonder now if I really had been near death, and what would have happened if the life force hadn't decided to take me back. I did not sleep that night, and the next day my brain was on fire, to the point that I could hear it searing and popping inside my skull.



My Divine Encounter. I suppose a fundamentalist would say it was the devil or something. I’d say there was no sense of a Being or Presence, but there was – and, surprise, it wasn’t a being of Love at all.  In fact it was completely indifferent. Which is the opposite of love (not hate, but “not-love”).

If the Universe is indifferent, if God is indifferent. . . or was it a projection of the tragedy of my mother, a Being so indifferent she did not even list my name in her obituary, as if it would be better if I had never existed at all?

Officially, I have been wiped off the record, and that does get to a person after a while. How can you worship God if you don’t really exist?



But I did notice something else. There was some sense of a slightly ironic sense of humor, of a sort of indulgence, and a sense of “someone or something” touching or stroking my right cheek. But it was like a child finding a ladybug. Funny little thing. Look what I’ve created. Pssshhhhhewwwwww.



I don’t know if writing about this experience is a mistake or not. It disturbs me and I still do not understand it. Easy to say, “oh, you were tired, it was just a bad dream,” or “oh well, that wasn’t really God.” I was completely convinced I was witnessing Ultimate Reality, and it was totally disillusioning and terrified me beyond words.



If Jesus loves the little children, then I guess I am still an abused child huddled in the corner, waiting for some grace that never arrives. I suppose it will always be that way. If my sins are strung out in space like some spiky ugly necklace, I am done for.


If it’s some other way, I do wish I could find out about it now, in some manner that is understandable to me. I am not getting any younger.












Sunday, April 22, 2012

Shut up about it, I love him



Wait a minute, while I finish wiping my eyes. Which is always what happens when I listen to this, the most beautiful thing I've ever heard sung by a man who was beautiful and doomed.

Shouldn't say that, of course, because he DID live for 60 years and have a career and a loving wife and two fine sons and an endless parade of male lovers, some of them serious. His was a restless questing mercurial nature, anger and lightning in a bottle, a storm focused through a magnifying glass that would burn holes in people if he didn't like them.

I get obsessed, then unobsessed with Anthony Perkins, see him occasionally on Turner Classics (most recently in Goodbye, Again, in which he plays the most charming and doomed young man, someone you can't take your eyes off of though there is something about him that is always passing strange).

He comes around and over again, planetary, apogee, perigee, apogee. A few moons have sifted out of him by now and whirl around him in ebony-polished space, deep dimensional. Has he found his wife yet? Is that the way it happens? Berry Berenson was one of the doomed airline passengers on 9-11, and I cannot imagine a more horrible way to end a bittersweet life, the plane dropping lower and lower, people screaming and praying, the Trade Centre building getting closer and closer as everyone moans with the sickening realization that this can only end one way.

Never mind all that. You can tell what sortofa quirky following someone has on the internet by how many gifs you can find. Look up Gregory Peck, you won't find any. George Clooney? Forgetaboutit. But Perkins, hey. I have a whole storehouse of them and since I feel him in the room right now, as I always do when I listen to the devastating pure sincere notes of his transcendent singing, I want to try them out to see if they move now.

They didn't use-da before. Does this mean anything, I wonder?









Saturday, April 21, 2012

What rhymes with vulva?





Measures: 5" L x 3-1/4" W x 1" D
Wt: 3.5 oz.


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Well, OK, and I'm sorry about that title. Sorry to use such a "dirty" word, but the original was worse, a word that nowadays is only heard when someone wants to talk about "tweet" and has a slip of the tongue.

Not that tongue has anything to do with it.

OK, I have a beef (I can't seem to use neutral terms here!). Sometimes at night, I have a habit. It's a very bad habit and I am deeply ashamed of it.




I watch old reruns of Sex and the City.

This is when I'm really desperate and my PVR recordings of  those wonderful History Channel and National Geographic shows have run out. When I can no longer stand to watch, for the 17th time, Adolf and Eva: A Love Story or When Aliens Attacked the Pharaohs.

I just want something to help me make it through the night, or make it from 9:30 to 10:15 (for the unedited version runs something like 29 minutes sans ads, a very awkward length).





It's like an archaelogical dig, in a way, seeing people with cell phones the size of a loaf of bread, talking about Y2K (and by the way, what was that anyway?) and pondering whether to start using some strange new invention called email.

The sexual stuff now seems rather silly, though I guess it did break some ground and shatter some taboos. But seeing Samantha endlessly groaning and shouting as a series of nearly-identical men pound on her in the missionary position gets old in a hurry.

None of this is about eroticism. It's about screwing. But never mind, that's not what I'm here to tell you.

I'm here to tell you that I'm a little tired of hearing women refer to their genitalia in the WRONG WAY.












There's just one word for everything below the belt: vagina.

Maybe it started with The Vagina Monologues, some sort of bizarre harpy-fest in which a whole lot of fading celebrity women, eager to prove themselves hip like actors making guest appearances on Batman, sat around and dished and jived about their VAGINAS.

Yes, women have them. But in a funny sort of way, a vagina "isn't". It's a hole, a tunnel, a non-thing. What women do have, the part of them that most often responds sexually, is a vulva.

Vulva.

You heard me.

Vulva!



A lot of women do not even know what a vulva IS, because no one ever tells them, but what it IS, is (are?) the external genitalia that includes the labia majora, labia minora, and that pearl beyond price, the clitoris.

But we don't talk about any of those things because, let's face it, they're "dirty", and besides they don't exist anyway. We have vaginas, and that's it.

The one word does for everything, doesn't it?

But does it?




If men talked about their prostates, and only their prostates, as describing their entire sexual paraphernalia, would it be accurate? Uh.

My feeling is that all this external stuff, which for many women is the locus for most of their sexual pleasure and release, is still considered dirty, smelly and secret.

It's "down there", the same "down there" we learned as children and later deodorized and shaved and ignored.




But hey! We've come a long way, baby, because now we have VAGINAS. Which are tunnels. Yes, it goes in, but it also comes out (though we won't go there). 

I have never once, in my life, even on Sex and the City, heard a woman refer to her vulva, her labia or her clitoris, either on TV or in a movie. Not even in a book (except for my novel Mallory - buy a copy now on Amazon! - in which a girl struggles with the social implications of her "abnormal" genitalia).

These words, the names of perfectly respectable body parts, body parts that are known to have given limitless pleasure to countless women, are considered so deeply taboo that most people don't even acknowledge their existence.

You may have heard of female circumcision, a barbaric rite practiced in parts of the Muslim world (and it really is, so please don't call me anti-Muslim, though I am definitely anti-female-circumcision). In its most extreme form, a young girl, a prepubescent girl, is attacked with a dull instrument which removes every trace of external female genitalia: vulva, labia, clitoris. All those things. They don't remove her vagina because they can't, though they do sew the ravaged opening shut so tightly that only a tiny hole remains.



On her wedding night, the girl (probably only a teenager) is cut open so that her husband may be admitted to the bridal chamber. One can only imagine what childbirth must be like.

So her "?" is mutilated, even removed. Her "?", which she doesn't need anyway, because she still has a vagina, right?

Heard on a news story when a woman was humilated during an airport pat-down: "He touched my vagina." OK. He must have done more than touch to penetrate a physiological tunnel. "My vagina is depressed" (Charlotte on Sex and the City, having been diagnosed with a condition called vulvodynia, an unexplained pain in the VULVA NOT VAGINA).




There was a time, and maybe that time isn't over yet, when you could say "penis" on TV, but you could not say "vagina". Why not? It made people squirm to say "vagina". It reminded them of gynecological exams and speculae and tampons and feminine deodorant spray and all that swampy stuff. 

Then suddenly, after the taboo-shattering celebrity girl friend sit-around called The Vagina Monologues, you suddenly could say vagina, it was suddenly cool and hip and funny-in-a-good-way to say vagina,  and in fact you were expected to say vagina any time you referred to anything that lived between a woman's legs.

Vagina, vagina, vagina! Say it loud, say it proud.



But what about that other language, which is far more accurate? Let's try it on. "He touched my vulva." (Excuse me while I run for the bathroom!) "My vulva is depressed." (Excuse me while I run for the police!)

I'm not saying anything unseemly here. At all. Can't I name body parts? Can't I say "liver", "colon", "upper respiratory system" or anything else?




"He touched my body." "My body is depressed." Oh, but "body" may be just too squirmy and uncomfortable and taboo. It's got all that mushy wet stuff inside it, you know. So let's just say my "you know". My "mm-mm".

"My whoozis hurts." "He touched my snickerdoodle." "My jimjam is depressed."

THAT is how we empower ourselves, girls. By telling it like it is.








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Friday, April 20, 2012

The Bloodletting: or, Day of the Vampire



This is still so traumatic that I haven't even been able to write about it in my private journal. I sit here this morning after a lousy night, waking repeatedly and full of anxiety, trying to get through my giant mug of coffee and make sense of it all.



I'm not sure yet if I was the victim of medical mauling, or my own aging physiology. Though the pictures here are trying to help me play this for laughs, it wasn't too goddamn funny.

For medical reasons I won't go into, I need to give blood samples at intervals for analyses of cholesterol, glycogen, that kidney stuff I can't remember - all that shit - so there's no way around this visit to the clinic and the dreaded arm-stick.






Does it make sense to you to say I've never enjoyed this? Eons ago when I was pregnant, we first ran into my little problem: the technician (I think it was a nurse back then, before every medical procedure was farmed out to a different specialist)could not always score a direct hit on a vein. This involved (if they were shitty at it, which most of them were) repeated poking, twisting, trying the other arm, and a growing irritability towards ME for holding things up with my difficult veins.



Back then, if it didn't go well, I'd really hold things up by fainting. By now I've got past all that, but in recent years, after a stretch of relative normalcy (i.e. only five or six tries, leaving a black and blue mark 2 or 3 inches in diameter), things got much worse.




At first it was intermittent: some days the technician (usually one of the more competent ones who show up randomly on good days) seemed to get it bang-on and it would all be over relatively quickly. Sometimes it took forever because the needle was not all the way in or in at an angle, and the slow, painful dripping would go on and on. I needed to fill four or five of those little bottle-y things for some reason, and I wouldn't watch, though the technician acted surprised that I didn't want to eyeball the whole procedure (complete with a needle lifting up the skin in a point as it cranked around and around and around in a futile search for a viable vein). I had learned to cope, and as usual my coping methods were suspect and probably wrong.


There were some highlights, or lowlights to this process. Once a hysterical-looking technician had an anxiety fit and asked me, almost wild-eyed, if I was always like this and what was the matter with me. She had insisted on applying the tourniquet very loosely on top of a thick sweater to avoid bruising, though none of the others ever did this. She seemed to be sweating with dread. It took her a long time, but at least she didn't call in a second technician, something that seemed to be happening with alarming frequency.

To call in a backup is a disgrace because it makes them look incompetent, wastes a lot of time (there are other customers waiting, after all, customers with normal-sized veins),and make no mistake, *I* am the cause of this holdup and making everyone look bad. I'm making it look as if they don't know their stuff!




The fact that every so often someone would show up, touch my arm with a fingertip, aim, shoot, and hit it bang-on with no trouble, drawing the sample in 2 minutes, did make me wonder about competence and dealing with non-standard veins. But in reality, my veins were treated like an aberration, something they had never seen before, as if I had walked in with two heads.

The explanation, if I got one at all, was that my veins were small, deeply set in my arm, and moved around a lot (probably because they were small and deeply set in my arm). Trying to inflate them with a super-tight tourniquet seemed like a good idea to me, but they wouldn't do it because their training told them they weren't supposed to.




The over-the-sweater-sleeve tourniquet technique may be OK for a normie, but for me it's a disaster. But I can't tell them to make it tighter, can I? I will get that "whaaaaaat?" look. And why don't they do that little two-fingered tap-tap on the spot any more? Will it be too traumatic and painful? Will it cause. . .  bruising? But it can't cause the kind of lead-pipe black-and-blue mark I come away with after a typical bloodletting ordeal.

Can I even pick a "worst"? At least up until yesterday's debacle, that would be the young trainee who poked and prodded in the usual way, skidded over my arm which finally began to bleed furiously (though not into the tube), giggled, yanked it out, halfway capped the tube and began shaking it violently. Blood flew through the air and splashed all over the front of my blouse, ruining it. She giggled some more. "Gee! That's never happened to me before!"

Translation: there must be something wrong with YOU. You are a freak. A nineteen-foot-tall Atomic Woman stalking Port Coquitlam.




When I try to tell this story to anyone with a medical background, they say something like, "Oh, that didn't happen. The cap can't come off like that. You couldn't be sprayed with blood." It's great to be listened to, isn't it? How I wish now that I had immediately complained to the front desk, ripping open my jacket to expose the gobs of gore.

So on it went, every three months forever. The bad episodes were intermittent, and I found tricks that I thought worked, kneading and slapping the crook of my arm, swinging my arm as I walked over to the clinic, pumping gallons of water like someone said I wasn't doing. 

Whistling in the dark. Putting out a forest fire by peeing on it. Peeling a turnip with a stone.




So yesterday it gets bad. WAY bad. I arrived on time, sat dutifully in the waiting room and was able to go in almost right away. I said a little prayer, not so much for my inaccessible veins as for the idiots who couldn't find one and turn on the tap.

This was it, the day it got more than bad. WAY more.



The technician walked in. She was one of the more senior ones and seemed to know what she was doing. But on her first poke, her face fell in that dreaded, all-too-familiar, this-is-going-to-take-up-way-too-much-time way.

"Is the other side any better?" She had done me maybe fourteen times already, but acted as if she had no idea who I was and addressed me as a complete stranger.

"No."

"Let's try it, then."

No dice, just nothing. That little gleaming device was like a drill-bit, twisting around and poking and jabbing. I tried not to wince, but it hurt like hell and I knew it wasn't supposed to.

"Sorry, am I hurting you?"

"Oh, no."

Then came the dreaded "calling in another technician" manoevre.




A younger woman with long dark hair and glasses, very poised, very serious, almost doctor-like in her sense of entitlement, swept in. A resident fulfilling a training requirement, maybe. (She was even holding a clipboard.) There was something Special about her. She was the one they called in for Special Cases, when someone became hysterical, fainted or attacked someone in frustration after being fruitlessly drilled for half an hour.

"Let's see what we have here," she said, crisply and calmly, not making eye contact.







She shook her attractive medical head and began to poke into me again.

"Oh, sorry, no, we can't. . . " Weirdly, the first technician hung around. That had never happened before.

At one point I noticed her pressing on my opposite wrist, which already had a huge, godawful plastic clamp on it that left a red welt.

After ten or fifteen pointless minutes, during which I gabbled on and on in explanation, irritating them as I always do when I try to explain anything I clearly don't understand (though not explaining would be even worse because I was being unco-operative and sullen), they gave up on the traditional method. The two of them were beginning to turn away and whisper to each other. I was alarmed. I heard words like "butterfly" and "back of the hand".

They used the butterfly. I've had the butterfly before, and it's no big deal, just another method of jabbing your flesh to suck up your blood, but the butterfly didn't work this time.

At all.

Not a drop.



Now they were really nonplussed. (Yes, that is correct, so don't correct me! Look it up.) They kept looking at my right hand and pressing down and pumping it. Anything there? You would have thought so: I'm old enough now to have those blue veins you see on little old ladies.

"Will this hurt?" I shouldn't have asked: I'd had the back-of-the-hand treatment before, and I knew it hurt.

"Yes, it hurts most people, but we'll try to be quick."

Quick, like. . . ten more minutes?

I stayed calm, but at a cost. I prayed they would get something, even a little bit. Suddenly I remembered a dreaded word as they stepped away to whisper and natter at each other yet again. 

Cutdown.




I knew that if they couldn't get blood any other way, they just used a scalpel and cut you open. Presumably they tied off the vein after the Niagara Falls of blood gushed across the room.

"Oh, no, that's only in the hospital." The two of them, alarmed, looked at each other uneasily. She was having delusions, wasn't she?

Meanwhile, the hand thing wasn't working at all. I had my eyes closed and willed myself to relax, but the first technician took it as dread and panic and asked me - no, I am not kidding about this, "Would you like me to hold your hand?"

"Oh, wait. I think I see something."

A drop!

"Uh, yes, but. . ."

"It's very, very slow."

Drip.(25 seconds)

Drip. (25 seconds)

Drip. (25 seconds)

Drip. (25 seconds)

It took almost half an hour to partially fill a vial, and they were not at all sure it was enough. I prayed they would put the cap on before they shook it. There came another round of flustered, whispered consultation.

I was a freak, a weirdo, something they had never seen in their lives before.

THEY WERE TRYING TO GET BLOOD FROM A TURNIP.




Then came the reasons why, all having to do with me. "You're dehydrated, dear. You'll have to start drinking water."

I didn't know how to tell her that I always pound back water before a test: it helps my creatinine levels. (THAT'S the shit from my kidneys.)

"Maybe you're a little bit anemic." My hemoglobin was always routinely tested, and it was normal. Had never been abnormal. But they treated me as if they could see through me.



"You do look a little blue," the entitled one said.

I can't imagine why.




No one apologized, but there was a funny feeling *I* should have, for taking up 40 minutes for what should have been a 3-minute procedure. At least there was no indelible gore-splatter down the front of my blouse.

I decided then and there to change clinics, but what good would it do? If I started fresh and just told them nothing, might they just score first try? Bingo?




Of course I had to look all this up on the internet, and two seconds later I hit pay dirt. It was a forum about donating blood, and one woman recounted in frustration being turned away because she had "bad veins".

"My veins are small and deep and they slip around and they can't seem to get into them at all. The butterfly doesn't work, the back of the hand doesn't work. Nothing works."

Another post: "Why are my veins so hard to access? The technicians are getting really annoyed with me. The veins are small and deep and they slip around and they can't seem to. . . "

Fifty thousand entries later, all of them virtually identical, a picture was emerging.




SURPRISE. Some people's veins are not very accessible because they are . . . you get the picture. But at the clinic, they were anxious, astonished and even irritated to find that they just couldn't get me to act like a stuck pig, no matter what they tried. In fact they behaved as if they had never seen anything like this in thirty years of experience.

I have often had the experience, when trying to explain something to a medical person, that they think I'm  making up stories. At very least, it's hypochondria, being dramatic and inflating my symptoms out of sheer narcissism. Was my body lying to them this time, I wonder? Being narcissistic, or deliberately making a fool of them? Apparently.




Almost worse is something I hear often when I make the mistake of "sharing" my experiences with anyone. The listener's eyes fly open and they say, "Oh, that's never happened to ME!" This is called "empathy" and is more common than you might think.

Though such people always advise you (right after telling you to throw away those pills and take milk thistle) to make medical people do what you want, it's a great way to attract the hostile stare. And whatever you do, do not ever, ever, EVER mention the internet to a doctor, or their eyes will glaze over. "Don't go on the internet," I've been told, how many times? Medicine hates the information age because it penetrates the hallowed brotherhood that began eons ago with the local shaman.

I didn't cry or whimper or faint, though many people routinely cry and whimper and faint even when their blood-draw is quick and painless. But I don't look forward to going through this every three months. Hell, the back-of-the-hand thing is foolproof, it HAS to work!

I can't go back there because, against reason, *I* am embarrassed. I will try another place. But if they come at me with a scalpel, I am out of there.





Post-blog observations. It's been a while since I originally posted this, and yes, I DID find another lab. I didn't say a thing about my "little problem" because I wanted to see what would happen if they didn't know about it.

Magic! The technician, a brisk, no-nonsense lady with a Germanic accent, whisked into my vein and out again in about 30 seconds: no poking, no pain, just a direct stab and a steady flow of blood.

Miracle of miracles! But it HAD to be a fluke. I went back in three months, got a different technician, but exactly the same results.

This was a magic place!

And it went on for, oh, a year and a half at least. Pay dirt every time. Every three months, they always struck oil. And then. . . something happened.

I think it was a trainee or something, and she had some problems with me. She asked me all the usual questions: "Has this happened before? Does this always happen?" After all the usual drilling and twisting and pain, some blood came out. Slowly.

Then when I was having my colonoscopy, they immediately gave up on finding an arm-vein and stuck it in the back of my hand. Same with my CT scan. Something was afoot.

Yesterday, it collapsed. The whole structure of hope and freedom from the sickening, accusing questions came crashing down on me. They couldn't get blood. "Does this. . . you know. . . has this. . ." The consternation, the projected shame at feeling incompetent which was somehow meant to be absorbed by the patient.

I have no idea what I'm doing: sucking my veins in, then letting them out again? I always drink water, etc., blather blather blather, and stand upside down and shake myself like a ketchup bottle for an hour before the drilling. No dice. Nevertheless, they always mention something I "should" be doing, some vital preparation no one told me about before, to avoid holding up the whole enterprise.

Last night I got a call from the lab. That's right. From the lab. There was something wrong with the sample they had finally, laboriously drawn. It had clots in it, making me think it had come out too slowly or had been contaminated in some way. So on a Saturday morning, because they close at noon, I have to go back in and go through the whole ordeal again.

And be asked, in puzzled half-contemptuous amazement, "Has this ever happened to you before?"


 



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