76 NewZealandWoman’sWeekly
Vein
IT’STESTINGTIMESFORTHEFAMILY
OFTHISFORMER BLOODSUCKERGLORIOUS
Catch Jeremy on The Project
on Three, weeknights at 7pm.B
lood test. The words alone
are enough to send a shiver
down some people’s veins.
Sorry if they have that effect on
you. I probably shouldn’t have
written “veins”.
I’m okay with them. I used to
work as a phlebotomist: someone
trained to draw blood from a
patient. In my case, the “training”
part is possibly overstated, but
in my short-lived part-time career
of sucking blood from people’s
arms, I learned three things:
1 Women deal with the experience
way better than men.
2 Even men who have tattoos
fear needles.
3 Wearing a white coat makes
you a doctor.
Honestly, the number of times
people would ask for the “doctor”
to take their blood was astounding.
I was the only bloke-vampire among
four or five nurse-vampires and
I guess my white coat stood out
from their blue smocks.
Anyway. Having stuck hundreds
of needles in other people’s arms,
I feel it unfair to make a fuss when
someone chooses to do the same
to me. So I’m a good patient.
It doesn’t run in the family. When
one of them needs a venepuncture,
it’s my job to coax them along, hold
their hand and comfort them.
Recently, I had to take one of my
girls to get some blood extracted.
It took me half an hour to get her
into the car and a similar time at
our destination to get her out.
(I am grateful appointments are
not necessary for blood tests. We
would never have made it.)
We waited nervously in the
waiting room (the best place todo your waiting), and eventually
our number was called.
A number? When did they
do away with names? Is it
easier to jab someone when
they’re just a number? Does
it make the patient so angry
to be depersonalised that
the injection becomes less
painful by comparison?
We followed the
nurse into the room.
She spun around,
looked at me and
pointed, “Oh my
goodness! I recognise
you! You’re that guy!”
Yes, I am. And you’d be
surprised how often that
exact description is used.
“Oh, I’m so nervous!”
she said. This did not help.
The patient was already on the
verge of tears. A nervous, shaking
nurse was not what she wanted.
I tried to fix the situation: “I
think you have me confused with
Dai Henwood.”
This only exacerbated things.
Adamant I was indeed that guy, the
nurse outlined her argument as she
busied herself extracting body fluid.
Her target looked up at me
pleadingly and squeezed my hand,
and the pent-up nervousness and
fear burst from her eyes and silently
trickled down her cheeks.
Then we were done. The nurse
double-checked her name – no
longer was she a number! The
plaster went on and we bid our
tormentor adieu.
As we drove home, I made an
observation: “No wonder our kids
are hopeless with needles when
their mum is a wreck like that!”JEREMY CORBETT
directMALE