BODY FLUIDS

One of my earliest memories of the Netherlands is being chased around a doctor’s office by a man with a needle.
It’s a very intense multi-facetted memory – institutional green surfaces, bright lights, a rainy day (a wet tannic aroma from the fallen leaves outside coming in through the open window), and the smell of strong disinfectant.

I’m not entirely sure, but I think my mother may have been laughing her head off. Discretely, of course. No need to traumatize the frantic three year old any MORE than necessary.

We can deduce TWO things from this little datum.

1. There must have been a previous experience with a needle. Why else would I panic?
2. Since then I have had an.. Issue.. With.. Hypodermics.. Puncturing.. Skin.. And.. Slipping.. Into.. Resistant.. Flesh.. Then.. Spurting.. Liquid.


I bring this up because there are good times to recount certain events and bad times.
What may seem like a good time to you may not be a good time to me.

On Saturday Savage Kitten donated blood.

Sunday afternoon we were on the bed, in a state of pronounced undress, when she started talking about being at the blood centre the previous day.
They no longer use butterfly needles at the blood centre - butterfly needles are useful for draining people who have narrow veins - which means that they're back to using the giant horse syringes that take a heavily muscled nurse Ratchett type to fiercely jab in, and in again, and again, until she finally finds that elusive vein.
Also, some middle-aged man in another donating bay was going into shock - they had to keep adding blankets over his shivering form, and apply cold towels to his fevered forehead.

At this point she casually remarked that in that light I looked distinctly green.

['No, honey pie, I too am going into shock. Do you HAVE to mention needles?']

Seeing as I didn't say anything, she blithely carried on. Apparently one person there had NO veins. They kept jabbing him and not finding anything. Or if they did, it was too tiny. See, that's where butterfly needles would have come in handy, they're good for small veins and delicately built victims. By the time they finally found a rich pulsating blood source in his other arm, he must have felt like a pincushion. She rolled the word 'pincushion' around in her mouth. Veins. Needles. Pincushion. Wonderful meaty words.

Long thin metal tubes with a vicious diagonal tip that just slides into the crux of the elbow. The spongy flesh resisting slightly, then enfolding the sharp device.

Savage Kitten also has thin veins. A butterfly needle would have been so nice. But they're probably economizing. Giant horse needles and nurse Ratchett instead.
Cheap sadistic bastards.

Warm dark red liquid pulsing into a baggy in an agitation device, sloshing back and forth, back and forth, to keep from coagulating. About forty minutes.
Everyone should give blood.

She was quite adamant about this. Detailed about the process, too.

Really, I'm going to have to tell that woman that certain things are just not bedroom conversation. Distracting in the extreme. They rather spoil the mood. And are, in fact, inappropriate subject matter for any time.
I was rendered quite "exhausted", and needed to "nap".
What did you expect?