Anyway, I'm told now by phlebotomists that after all that chemo, you "lose" your veins. Of course, they still exist. They have to. Or should. But after all that strife, they begin to hide, burrowing themselves deep into tissue, living lives of shame and fatigue. They deserve to be left alone, I admit, but sometimes they need to make an appearance. So I've got to throw them a bone--some yoga, massage, maybe a little vacation from the metal watch.
I've been having blood drawn and nuclear medicine injected on a pretty regular basis lately. I don't think of it as morbid, though. It's to try to figure out what's going on with me. I've got a new job, these days: I'm currently seeing a slew of specialists in different avenues of medicine because years and years after all that chemo--plus, a bone marrow transplant and enough radiation to zap off Tom Selleck's mustache in one beautifully swift move--I've got some elusive health issues. It's understandable, and it doesn't vex me too much until a member of the professional medical community decides to be inept (and this never happens) or worse, annoyed at me for their ineptness (even more unusual).
But this is all setup to the vein story. You see, because I'm taking so many blood tests of late, I think my green snaky friends are hiding even deeper now. They don't want to come out even after I treat them to a jacuzzi. I guess they've had it. Who can blame them?
But this is all setup to the vein story. You see, because I'm taking so many blood tests of late, I think my green snaky friends are hiding even deeper now. They don't want to come out even after I treat them to a jacuzzi. I guess they've had it. Who can blame them?
Still, I had to take three MRI's the other day, and therefore needed a little cooperation. When you take an MRI, you often require an injection of "contrast"--in this case, a nuclear fluid called gadolinium--that helps the bad stuff light up on your films. It feels icy going in, but doesn't really cause any side effects. Except for making you as radioactive as Kim Jong-il's hottest power plant party.
The other day, however, the veins just didn't seem to care--either that, or the person hired to find them just didn't have any patience (how unlikely; I was, after all, getting scanned at a pricey suburban imaging center that brags more revenue than a branch of Fidelity Investments).
As I lay on my MRI body tray, three nurses were called to simultaenously poke and prod me. First they apologized a lot (which was nice, but I'm used to this minor pain, so I didn't mind). But then as I tried to visualize my veins relaxing and coming to the surface--not to be too new agey, but I've found that that helps--they began to send me their agitation.
To the point where one yelled: "You have DEEP VEINS, SIR!" "SQUEEZE YOUR FISTS HARDER!" "FUCK, MARIE, CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?" "GODDAMN!"
The other day, however, the veins just didn't seem to care--either that, or the person hired to find them just didn't have any patience (how unlikely; I was, after all, getting scanned at a pricey suburban imaging center that brags more revenue than a branch of Fidelity Investments).
As I lay on my MRI body tray, three nurses were called to simultaenously poke and prod me. First they apologized a lot (which was nice, but I'm used to this minor pain, so I didn't mind). But then as I tried to visualize my veins relaxing and coming to the surface--not to be too new agey, but I've found that that helps--they began to send me their agitation.
To the point where one yelled: "You have DEEP VEINS, SIR!" "SQUEEZE YOUR FISTS HARDER!" "FUCK, MARIE, CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?" "GODDAMN!"
Now normally, I would have tried to calm down the needle-woman, and made an ineffectual nurse without the skill to find my veins feel good about herself so she can perform better--my veins may be deep, but the lovely 'bloods nurses' at my oncologist's never have a problem, which is often the reason we have so much time to chat about the impending world cup, their kids' musical instruments, and Garcia Marquez.
This, time, though, I was peeved. Who dares yell at me? And who dares yell at my veins? As they sit on an MRI table awaiting three long-ass scans? For which your lovely imaging center will be paid thousands of dollars?
I almost screamed back a princely comment making brilliantly insulting and obscene use of the word "deep," given the lady's haggard appearance and apparently nominal intelligence. Thing is, I know my veins. They don't respond to my anger. They hide deeper in the face of conflict. Like most of us.
The nurse should have known this. So this time, I just looked her in the face, emotionless, and stared, tilting my head a bit from left to right. Scanning her. Peering invasively into her world of simplicity and short-fuse anger. Like Larry David when he suspects someone's getting over on him. Needle-woman didn't know how to respond, of course. But her cohorts smiled, and I could tell I made her realize her errors without having to ascend to her level of anxiety.
Angrily, she poked again, the ninth time, and guess what? She found something. I had made someone feel bad about herself, sure, but that seems fair to me, even now.
"LET'S SEE IF THIS ONE, WORKS," she roared. I stared more. And within seconds I felt the frozen chill of radioactive fluid zoom up my arm. I had been injected with contrast successfully, had allowed my deep, tired veins to rise higher and play ball with someone who might never make it to the big leagues. Or maybe just to be patient as one of our world's hard workers does her best.
One thing was for sure, however: I was done thinking about it. Soon I heard the Curb Your Enthusiasm music play and I slid back into my white plastic box for some sweet magnetic resonance. Comedy to the rescue, again.
This, time, though, I was peeved. Who dares yell at me? And who dares yell at my veins? As they sit on an MRI table awaiting three long-ass scans? For which your lovely imaging center will be paid thousands of dollars?
I almost screamed back a princely comment making brilliantly insulting and obscene use of the word "deep," given the lady's haggard appearance and apparently nominal intelligence. Thing is, I know my veins. They don't respond to my anger. They hide deeper in the face of conflict. Like most of us.
The nurse should have known this. So this time, I just looked her in the face, emotionless, and stared, tilting my head a bit from left to right. Scanning her. Peering invasively into her world of simplicity and short-fuse anger. Like Larry David when he suspects someone's getting over on him. Needle-woman didn't know how to respond, of course. But her cohorts smiled, and I could tell I made her realize her errors without having to ascend to her level of anxiety.
Angrily, she poked again, the ninth time, and guess what? She found something. I had made someone feel bad about herself, sure, but that seems fair to me, even now.
"LET'S SEE IF THIS ONE, WORKS," she roared. I stared more. And within seconds I felt the frozen chill of radioactive fluid zoom up my arm. I had been injected with contrast successfully, had allowed my deep, tired veins to rise higher and play ball with someone who might never make it to the big leagues. Or maybe just to be patient as one of our world's hard workers does her best.
One thing was for sure, however: I was done thinking about it. Soon I heard the Curb Your Enthusiasm music play and I slid back into my white plastic box for some sweet magnetic resonance. Comedy to the rescue, again.
