The first time I had to stick, I held the surgically sharp tip with my right hand just above the bulging vein in my left bicep. I just held it there. After some time I tried to imagine my hand moving forward at the correct angle. I tried not to think about the razor sharp metal slicing layers of skin until I felt a “pop,” the feeling described to me when the needle bursts through the vein wall allowing blood to flash into the connected tubing. I was instructed that at that point I would know when to stop pushing. “But, how would I know?” “What would keep me from continuing right on through the opposite wall skewering the Triceps brachii like some tender piece of marinated tenderloin?” The answer given was that I would just know, which was comforting, not!
After a few more very long seconds of what on the outside must have looked like a Zen meditation trance but on the inside I knew what was really going on - panic and a mental image of me throwing the needle out of my hand and lifting my butt of the seat and hauling it on out of there. Instead, I took my leap of faith. I thrusted my extended fingers forward while my left big toe searched for a table leg to wrap around to calm itself all the while I silently screamed, “I do not like this “Sam I am.” I do not like big needles in my ham.” But before I could butcher any more Seuss it was over. Some magical force stopped my forward motion leaving the needle right in the middle of my vein. I sighed. My arterial bloodline was secured. After a few moments of quiet celebration I reached for another needle to secure my venous bloodline. When both lines were set and the machine was on, I leaned back into my chair exhausted but smiling. . . I had scaled the Mountain and found that my life was better for it. Six out of seven days I scale that same mountain but each day the slope flattens just a bit.”
