I lay there silent on the sterile table, awaiting the vein drain. I hadn't a morsel since yesterday evening; nothing but water had passed through my system for over twelve hours. If this doesn't give me a clean report, nothing will. “Knock, knock!” The nurse thought she was being cute. “Who's there?” I answered. “The Marquis de Sade.” Oh, great. She had performed the last test, and done it quite well. Today, however, was a different story. After a few swipes of the alcohol-laden cotton puff, the needle started to slither under my skin. Instant pain. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” She didn't go in far enough, which is (in many cases) worse than going in too far. She pulled out, which was a mixed blessing. Hyperventilation ensued (the very reason I was here in the first place). She was ready to give it another shot. Pun intended. “Give me a few minutes,” I pleaded. The second prick was inevitable – just like a bad Ron Jeremy movie.

After my hands stopped tingling, I gave her the green light. “You've got great veins,” she remarked. “Thanks.” I was doing my best to concentrate on something else. Like, beagle pups running through an open field… calico kittens playing with a ball of yarn… schoolchildren laughing at… OH FUDGE! Only, I didn't say 'fudge.' I said the word. The big one. The queen mother of dirty words. The f dash dash dash word. It was all over. I was dead. Not quite, it would seem. I survived another botched attempt at a blood draw. My mind had already crossed the finish line, and my right arm wasn't faring any better. We'd have to reschedule. Next Wednesday would give me more than enough time to mentally recuperate. She apologized profusely, and I was very understanding. I couldn't even stick myself, let alone someone else. I'm sure she did her best, but she promised to set me up with someone with slightly more experience next time. Fair enough.

I left the doctor's office feeling only partially relieved. There was still time before my next appointment. The can of V8 taunted me. “Drink me.” Who knew tomatoes could be so cruel? I turned to face the clock hanging above the elevator doors. My extremities were feeling much better, but they'd have to face fate in another week. I thought to myself: “Look Chris, you're bigger than the needle. You can do this.” And I did. I walked back to the registration desk and asked for Hope. That was her name, after all. She was surprised to see me so soon (as was the Marquis). We wandered back into an open room, I exposed my bruised krelbow, and she prepared the instruments of doom. What happened next was nothing short of a miracle. From insertion to retraction, this was (by far) the least painful blood test I had ever experienced; it was a job well done. With three holes in my arm, I left the building feeling more confident than I've felt in a long time.

You have to understand something about me – I'm not the kind of guy who enjoys pushing the envelope. For me to do what I did this afternoon was completely out of the ordinary, and I can't help but wonder what other parts of my life are like the needle? What small, meaningless things have I been needlessly worrying about lately? The proverbial big picture is starting to come into focus. Does this have any bearing on you? Probably not. Other than knowing that I, too, am a human being – with real emotions. Writing this newsletter has always been therapeutic, and I'm thrilled to see that you've stuck with me for as long as you have. Does it mean anything in the overall scheme of things? Probably not. But if Lockergnome gives you another reason to check your Inbox every day, then I'm happy to have helped.