Phlebotomy got hold of me

One of the aspects

Of being chronically ill

Is that you must allow

The machines

To constantly scan you

To stay on top of developments

I don’t mind the machines themselves

In fact, I have become comfortable enough that I must brace myself

From falling asleep inside them

I am at peace with the machines

But I have developed

An aversion

Over the last five years

To phlebotomists

All the constant blood work

And endless intravenous applications

I am somewhat low, these days

On both patience and veins

I find it impossible to not approach each blood draw

The putting in of

Each needle

With some trepidation

The whole procedure is depressing

As your own arm never looks

Thinner, sadder, paler, or more ineffectual

Than when it is stretched out

For the technician’s prep wipe

(Though it never seems to actually happen)

There is always the fear that they simply won’t be able to find a vein

That they will simply spray saline into the meat of your arm

I have found it best to warn them

In the fewest words possible

To take care

As I sit down

In the blood-draw chair

Each time

I say

Slowly and clearly

“I don’t have a lot of veins left, as I’ve had stage 4 colon cancer for 5 years”

What I intend to impart with this

Is a simple, self-contained message

Essentially

“Use a small needle”

And

“Do your best work”

But, unfortunately, this always seems to invite further conversation

Almost invariably

I am asked if I have a Port

And I must tell them

That I did

Many years ago

But it was awful

And I will never have one again

This confuses them

They can’t imagine why I wouldn’t still have an access port

For injections

For, you see, they see things entirely in terms of procedural convenience

And so, at this point, I must ask them

“Have you ever had a port?”

To date, none of them have

They do not know

What it is like

And that is why we are here

In the middle of

This poem

I have been thinking about it

And I think I finally know

How to describe it

It is like having

A pebble

Sewn into your neck

Your fingers find it constantly

Whether you intend them to or not

And it is the first thing you see

Every time you look into the mirror

A constant reminder of how sick you are

How far your body has fallen

Its convenience is a myth

For you must have it flushed out

Washed with saline

At the hospital

Every few weeks

Whether you’re using it or not

Last, but not least

With its placement

So close to your face

Just a few inches from your mouth and nose

All the saline and surface prep

Sterilization chemicals

Hang in your nostrils

And turn your stomach

A thousand times over

A thousand

You may do nothing

To distance yourself from it

There is nowhere to escape to

And it is almost certain (if you are sick for years on end)

That you will develop at least a moderate aversion

To such sensations

But it is convenient

And the nurses and technicians

Like them

Well, no more

Not for me

I shall never have a port again

Let them spread my toes

And peak for the veins (between)

Additionally

In the interest of helping

We could probably find

A juicy one in my ass

Perhaps that not where it’s heading

But I’ll go where I need to

I’m just not looking to banter

About the weather

Or my day

I am simply there

For the highly tuned machinery

To scan me precisely

To tell me

(After I’ve drunken my liquid metal)

With a large degree of accuracy

Whether or not

I’m going to prematurely

Die

My appointment

Is to (once again) stare into death’s

Eye

And I may wink

But I wink not

At the chatty phlebotomist

No

I am winking into the void

I am winking and smirking

Into time

I am smiling

Into the night’s sky

That, my friend, is what my Friday mornings are like

*I’ve been meaning to update this entry. It should be noted that I wrote this poem almost eight months ago, and since I have written it, no one drawing my blood, in all the time since then, has brought up the matter. While there is some truth to the poem, I find that it comes across as too hard overall. Lastly, I should have delineated, right in the beginning, that the nurses and technicians who work in oncology wards, are generally good about this sort of thing to begin with. They know what’s up and don’t give their oncology patients a hard time. The situation that the poem addresses usually only arises when you have someone who is drawing blood in a more generic setting, i.e., with a nurse or technician has been assigned to a particular MRI or CT machine, to put in an endless array of IV’s for all of the different patients, with all of their different ailments.