Miz Shoes was obliged to go for some blood tests this week, and advised the snarly young woman who was doing the blood draw that the best bet for getting blood from this particular stone would be a butterfly. The sullen tart didn’t argue and proceeded to stab Miz Shoes in her inner elbow. Repeatedly. Poking around trying to get a vein that didn’t roll. After a minute or two of this, Miz Shoes suggested that the vein in her wrist, although she knew it would hurt like a motherfucker, might be a better option, as having been tied off for several minutes now, it was standing out like a rope.
The nurse-like blood taker was happy to abandon the useless elbow, and WIPED OFF THE NEEDLE WITH AN ALCOHOL PAD AND JAMMED IT INTO MIZ SHOES WRIST! The same fucking needle. The next day I called my doctor’s office to suggest a review of policies and procedures, not to mention universal precautions. Sometimes, it is hard to remember that I do not live in a third-world country, where needles are a precious commodity. I did point out to the office manager when she apologized for any inconvenience Miz Shoes may have suffered, that we weren’t talking about inconveniences, we were talking about health-care regulations. Blood-draw needles are not, Miz Shoes pointed out, made of gold-plated latinum. The reference went way over the office manager’s head, but the veiled threats about regulations and laws didn’t.