Thursday, May 5, 2011


I would make a terrible junkie.
Not because I don't like to get loaded. Not because I don't have a Herculean tolerance. Not because I don't like to associate with the fringe elements of society. No, I have all those things in spades.
I'd be a bad junkie because it's impossible to find my veins.
I just spent all morning having four different women in two different locations jab a total of six different needles into me searching for a vein. And they were just trying to draw blood, not even inject sweet sweet Morpheus into me. I used to joke that my fear of needles is the only reason I survived the 90's, but little did I know that even if I had conquered that fear, I still would have had another hurdle to clear on the path to potential junkiedom.
Nurses have always had trouble drawing blood from me, but usually after one or two tries, they hit it. Not today. Today I spent an hour at the doctor's office while a medical student, a nurse, and a nurse's aid fished around in my arms and hands with sharp needles to no avail. They told me I was going to have to go to the hospital so they could try there. When I left the room I had more band aids and cotton balls taped to me than an epileptic after shaving. When I was at the reception desk getting my paperwork, one of the nurses walked by and I pointed to my arm and said "You missed a spot." That killed. The receptionists and even the doc couldn't help cracking up at that one.
I drove over to the hospital and the phlebotomist pro nailed it on the first try. She had a trick involving two tourniquets and a "butterfly" needle. She and her colleague scoffed at the incompetence of the nurses from my doctor's office. I think that was pretty catty though. My veins are tough to find.
I have a new found respect for the junkies I see on the shows Intervention, Relapse, and the movie Dope Sick Love. Once they've abused their bodies long enough, their veins start to collapse, and they have to search forever and end up shooting in their feet, neck, and genitals. No thanks. It was bad enough spending one morning with a needle poking and prodding under my skin searching for pay dirt, let alone doing it every waking hour, every day, for the rest of my life. Ugh. That is a brutal and tough existence.
Besides, it's like my drinking buddy Sean used to say: "If you can't get fucked up enough on booze and weed....then you've got a problem."

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