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I should have realized it was going to be one of those days when I woke up at noon and thought "Gee, I have to go on base anyway, I could stop by the hospital and let the fiends take their tube of blood today."
I spent nearly an hour sitting in the lab waiting to be poked with the needle. I saw two different staff members miss multiple times on their respective patients. Who were nice enough to sit there and let them try again. I, however, had turned green and was shaking by the time it was actually my turn. And then, as my lab tech pulled on her gloves, the children appeared. Two four year old kids, both getting blood taken out, both very calm. And I knew I was about to vomit or pass out in front of the kiddies.
Lovely.
As the lab tech reached for my arm I held up my hand to stall her. "I haven't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours because of the fasting and I can't stand the needle. You're going to get one shot at this and if you miss I'm going to bolt. I just want to warn you now. Seriously. One shot. Please make it count."
Maybe it was the tremble in my voice, or the cold sweat, or the pasty tint to my skin, but she took me seriously and felt around looking for a usable vein on both arms. After a few minutes of taking off the tourniquet and re-applying it tighter and then doing it again, she asked if I would let her try my hands. I told her whatever she needed to do to get it on the first go.
She ended up admitting that she couldn't find a usable vein anywhere and she was going to go get Raul. Raul is the only person at that lab who has managed to hit a vein on the first try without puncturing anything or leaving me with the infamous six-inch bruise of doom. I was all about her going to find Raul.
Raul spent a few minutes poking and prodding, had to resort to removing the finger of his glove to feel for a sturdy vein and gave up on the latex tourniquet and got out the velcro strap thing. Seriously, there was no feeling in my arm by the time he was ready.
The lady lab tech stood there talking to me through the whole thing, I think it was to keep me from noticing anyone else getting blood drawn and to keep me from passing out.
After sitting in my car for a good ten minutes to make sure I was actually going to make it without embarrassing myself or causing a wreck, I drove to the PX to visit my bank.
Where we discovered a small discrepancy between the amount I said was in my account and the amount they said. A tiny, small $900 discrepancy. Totally not in my favor.
And the best part? At first they didn't want me to see the deposit records because DH is the primary on the account. I'm on the damn account. I have his Power of Attorney for shit's sake. Because he's in Iraq.
She told me to call him. This, by the way, is the bank in the PX on the base of the military installation to which we've been assigned. My irritation at her suggestion should not have come as a surprise.
The Glare of Death must have been a bit off due to lack of food and the earlier trauma because it took her a good thirty seconds before the light bulb went off in her brain.
Turns out that since I could not access my husbands LES records for the first month or so after he left (long, long story, all sorted out, too much to get into now) I had been relying on the bank teller to let me know how much the latest deposit was. And on one particular occasion instead of the deposit she gave me the entire amount in the account. Hence the $900 difference.
Thank goodness my tax return had come in a week and a half sooner than I expected because that managed to cover the checks I'd written on the money I thought I'd had. To say I was upset is a huge understatement.
And then, the Doctor's office called again. To schedule another appointment. I swear, you give those vultures an inch and they want everything. She very politely requested that I test my blood sugar twice a day for the next two weeks. I very politely told her no. That I had a deal with the Doctor where I only had to do it twice a week.
She said that they couldn't alter my medication if they couldn't figure out what cause highs and lows and it would make their jobs easier if I tested myself twice a day. At this point I was not above being childish. I admit it.
"Look, ma'am. I'm going to be honest. It's not going to happen. I didn't just wake up one day and decide it would be great fun to be diabetic, I didn't ask for this. I'm making an effort to watch my diet and exercise and I'm sorry if it's an inconvenience for you and the Doctor, but this is the best you're going to get until a miracle happens and I get over my life-long fear of all things sharp and pokey."
I spent nearly an hour sitting in the lab waiting to be poked with the needle. I saw two different staff members miss multiple times on their respective patients. Who were nice enough to sit there and let them try again. I, however, had turned green and was shaking by the time it was actually my turn. And then, as my lab tech pulled on her gloves, the children appeared. Two four year old kids, both getting blood taken out, both very calm. And I knew I was about to vomit or pass out in front of the kiddies.
Lovely.
As the lab tech reached for my arm I held up my hand to stall her. "I haven't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours because of the fasting and I can't stand the needle. You're going to get one shot at this and if you miss I'm going to bolt. I just want to warn you now. Seriously. One shot. Please make it count."
Maybe it was the tremble in my voice, or the cold sweat, or the pasty tint to my skin, but she took me seriously and felt around looking for a usable vein on both arms. After a few minutes of taking off the tourniquet and re-applying it tighter and then doing it again, she asked if I would let her try my hands. I told her whatever she needed to do to get it on the first go.
She ended up admitting that she couldn't find a usable vein anywhere and she was going to go get Raul. Raul is the only person at that lab who has managed to hit a vein on the first try without puncturing anything or leaving me with the infamous six-inch bruise of doom. I was all about her going to find Raul.
Raul spent a few minutes poking and prodding, had to resort to removing the finger of his glove to feel for a sturdy vein and gave up on the latex tourniquet and got out the velcro strap thing. Seriously, there was no feeling in my arm by the time he was ready.
The lady lab tech stood there talking to me through the whole thing, I think it was to keep me from noticing anyone else getting blood drawn and to keep me from passing out.
After sitting in my car for a good ten minutes to make sure I was actually going to make it without embarrassing myself or causing a wreck, I drove to the PX to visit my bank.
Where we discovered a small discrepancy between the amount I said was in my account and the amount they said. A tiny, small $900 discrepancy. Totally not in my favor.
And the best part? At first they didn't want me to see the deposit records because DH is the primary on the account. I'm on the damn account. I have his Power of Attorney for shit's sake. Because he's in Iraq.
She told me to call him. This, by the way, is the bank in the PX on the base of the military installation to which we've been assigned. My irritation at her suggestion should not have come as a surprise.
The Glare of Death must have been a bit off due to lack of food and the earlier trauma because it took her a good thirty seconds before the light bulb went off in her brain.
Turns out that since I could not access my husbands LES records for the first month or so after he left (long, long story, all sorted out, too much to get into now) I had been relying on the bank teller to let me know how much the latest deposit was. And on one particular occasion instead of the deposit she gave me the entire amount in the account. Hence the $900 difference.
Thank goodness my tax return had come in a week and a half sooner than I expected because that managed to cover the checks I'd written on the money I thought I'd had. To say I was upset is a huge understatement.
And then, the Doctor's office called again. To schedule another appointment. I swear, you give those vultures an inch and they want everything. She very politely requested that I test my blood sugar twice a day for the next two weeks. I very politely told her no. That I had a deal with the Doctor where I only had to do it twice a week.
She said that they couldn't alter my medication if they couldn't figure out what cause highs and lows and it would make their jobs easier if I tested myself twice a day. At this point I was not above being childish. I admit it.
"Look, ma'am. I'm going to be honest. It's not going to happen. I didn't just wake up one day and decide it would be great fun to be diabetic, I didn't ask for this. I'm making an effort to watch my diet and exercise and I'm sorry if it's an inconvenience for you and the Doctor, but this is the best you're going to get until a miracle happens and I get over my life-long fear of all things sharp and pokey."
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