Workman Chronicles
By Morris Workman
"Bloody Tale"
Published in the Desert Valley Times
July 12, 2005
In the course of daily events, we often take for granted the mundane chores done on our behalf by store clerks, receptionists, tellers, and technicians.
Unless we happen to stumble across the occasional Simon Cowell of customer service, which happens less often than you might think, our day-to-day lives run along smoothly thanks to competent people doing their jobs.
Unfortunately, they are often ignored, and rarely thanked for their contribution to our smooth lifestyle.
But once in a while, someone comes along who does their job so well, you can’t ignore it.
I experienced this last week during a visit to my doctor.
First, let me explain that I am nearly 44 years old, a big hefty guy with a beard who frightens forest animals and some small children.
But when it comes to needles, I am a big sissy.
Wait, that’s a politically incorrect term.
Let me try again.
I am a big chicken.
No, not nearly forceful enough.
Excuse me for a minute while I consult my thesaurus.
Coward…phobic…faint…lily livered…weak-kneed…
Here it is.
“Wet my pants and scream like a little girl.”
That’s it.
That is me when it comes to needles.
So here I am, sitting in the
phlebotomist’s chair (“phlebotomist” is a fancy medical term for the
person who sucks your blood out with a hollow spike attached to a
While the person wearing this intimidating title is actually someone I know outside of the sanitized walls of my doctor’s office, I won’t embarrass her by mentioning her name.
After all, at some point in the future, she will probably be stabbing me with a sharp metal object again.
In any case, she began poking around with her fingers in search of a vein (a process that, in all my experience watching Dracula movies, has never been used by a thirsty vampire, and yet they never seem to miss the mark).
Then, she employed the “good cop, bad cop” routine often used in bad TV shows, allowing another staff member (another wonderful person I know outside of the doctor’s office) to distract me with conversation while she prepared to, to, in-, insert, um, the uh...
(Please excuse me while I go change my pants.)
Anyway, while talking with the other staff member for a few moments, I dared to look over at the phlebotomist’s ministrations.
To my shock, surprise, and relief, she was gathering her goodies and preparing to send me on my way.
This Michaelangelo of the hypodermic needle had managed to extract a few tubes of my sugar-tainted, cholesterol-clogged, red American coward’s blood without a single scream of searing pain, or even an “ouchie.”
In all my years of being used as a diabetic pin cushion, I’ve never had blood taken that didn’t involve terror and suffering.
This angelic health care specialist with a devilish sense of humor probably does a hundred blood raids every week, to the point where it is an automatic endeavor like dragging a potato chip bag across the scanner at a grocery store.
But to me, her skill was special.
I didn’t want a week to go by without letting her know that her work is appreciated.
And the next time I come in for blood work, I’ll leave my Depends at home.
For
more articles or comments, visit the blog at workmanchronicles.blogspot.com.
To e-mail the author regarding this article, send your e-mail to column@morrisworkman.com.