Needles and wings

I don’t know why this would be, but at this moment, this very moment in time, I feel great.  It doesn’t make any sense, because I’ve been dragging around here half awake for months.  Maybe it’s because the sun’s out and the grass is growing into that luxurious mop of velvet green you get in May (assuming it’s not raining and you’re not hunkered down inside, sniveling – which is pretty much a portrait of me every April).

The silly thing about this is that I just got home from the hospital.  You know that phrase that used to be so hot: “I’m mad as (heck) and I’m not going to take it anymore?”  Yeah.  Well, that’s how I feel about how I’ve been feeling.  So, miser that I am, I decided to dang the torpedoes (life is NOT as much fun when you watch your mouth) and get some answers.  Hoping I don’t HATE the answers, but the truth is easier to deal with than anxiety.  

So I went first to the county clinic, where they can do a cholesterol and general chem screen without taking a second on your house.  I had to fast, of course, and I didn’t want to exercise first, worried that whatever endorphins are supposed to be unleashed when you plug in your treadmill (they are?  Really?  When????) might put rose colored glasses (I’m really into cliches today) on the results.  So I got to the clinic, starving, anxious (I said to the sticker woman – “Does anybody every come in here and NOT say, ‘I really hate needles’?”  She said, actually, EMTs think being stuck is really cool, which makes me worry about the sanity of people who have your life in their hands -) and not happy – but the wait wasn’t long, and the girl was so good, it was NOTHING.

They have these new syringes now – a small needle in a butterfly sleeve with a tube attached, and all the heavy part – the carpel part – is at the far end of the little tube, which means there’s no weight drag on the needle, which means it’s SO much easier not to freak out.

So now I have this nice little cuff of lilac vet wrap (I don’t know what humans call it) around my right elbow.

And then I drove to the regional medical center lab and signed on for the big fat panel of tests they have to do: including West Nile (see, Rachel?  I did it!).  You go in to the new building and find this bank of kiosks where you check in at a touch screen (and how many bags are you taking?) and pick up a numbered buzzer.

About three minutes later, the buzzer, which makes this muling little siren sound, accompanied by huge vibration and flashing lights (do you give these to heart patients?) went off and I got to sit for ten minutes or so talking to the nicest woman in the world.  Even with the trouble-free first stick, I was worried about this second one, but this great gal and I swapped female aging stories till I felt like I was in her living room.  Not only that, but she very cheerfully supplied me with an ESTIMATE, so I wasn’t helplessly going over imagined numbers in my head anymore.

Then I waited for the sticker-girl, who used the SAME KIND OF fabulous syringe, and was totally nice to me.  She showed me the five carpules she had to fill, and about a minute later was pulling that needle (what needle?) out of my arm.  I looked down and non of the carpules (is there another way of spelling that?) were full yet. “Do you have to use a new needle for each one?” I asked, grimacing.  “Heck no,” she said, and showed me the gallons of blood waiting to fill them.  I was FINISHED.  Totally FINISHED.  And I’ve got another cuff of vet wrap on the other arm – this one royal blue.  I’m wearing them ALL DAY.

On the way home, as I turned into our street, I caught a summer moment: there are flocks of pelicans on the lake, and every so often, they rise in clouds.  You don’t see them at first – not until the cloud banks, chasing dinner.  When that happens, their wings catch the sun, and like nature’s little card section, you see this marvelous flash of white wings.  It only lasts a second, a strange surreal second, then they level out and become gray dots against the blue sky.  I rushed home for my camera and drove toward the lake, hoping to show it – but they were gone.  And I was hungry.

So now I am pleased with myself for being brave, happy the morning’s over, and I’m going to eat.  Life is good.