I Became A Nurse So I Could Tell Strangers How Good Their Veins Are

Nothing gets me going like a good vein.

Photo by CDC on Unsplash

Imagine: It’s March 2003. I’m in Geography class sitting next to George O’Connell, the star of the wrestling team. I look over, and boom. I spot it. The most incredible cubital vein I had ever seen. Like it was taken out of an anatomy textbook. I stared at the vein, and it stared back at me. I could imagine each blood cell pass through it.

It was then I knew that my life would be dedicated to sharing the beauty of the vein with total strangers.

Don’t get me wrong: not every vein I see is a winner. I’m really not a gal who beats around the bush when a vein isn’t up to snuff. It’s a friendly gesture to tell a friend they have salad in their teeth, and it’s a friendly gesture to tell you that your veins are utter shit. Believe me, most veins I see are just flaccid, wormy little tubes of endothelium, and it’s my duty as a healthcare professional to tell you to be ashamed of them. But if I look you in the eye and say “This is a good vein. A lovely blue. You should be proud,” you’ll know that I mean it, damn it.

I’ve come across loads of good veins during my time. But what distinguishes a good vein from a great vein? That’s when I look at the components of my four-point rubric: Diameter, Hue, Bulge, and Wow Factor. I keep little printouts in my pocket in case a patient asks why I only gave them a 4 instead of a 5 on Bulge. So far, nobody has.

Every type of vein has the potential to be great, but not all veins are created equal. The tiny ones on your hands? Amazing. The jugular? Overrated. Sometimes in patients with unusable arm veins, you have to find a vein on the back or chest — you can discover some really great fuckers that way.

I know what you’re thinking: “This is a weird sex thing, right?” Sorry to disappoint, but my daydreams about veins are chaste and scientific. I assess veins as a public service. And if I bite my lower lip in the process, it’s only to keep me from shouting “Eureka! A comely vein! So smooth doth it flow!” in the middle of the clinic. Again, I am. A. Medical. Professional.

One time I saw one big vein that branched into three smaller veins. I call that a trident. I was so giddy I paged every doctor in the hospital so that they could see it and maybe submit the case to JAMA. They fired me, but who cares? Mama saw a trident.

Okay, on second thought, maybe it is a sex thing.