We surveyed three so-called doctors and asked, “How many needles have you jammed into Jim’s arms in the month of June?” The top answer is on the board. Survey said… 15! Yes, fifteen fucking needles! Holy Mother of Chris Chambers, my arms look like I’ve been speedballing! Over the past month, I’ve been stuck for allergy blood tests, intravenous contrast, an arterial blood gas test, phlebotomies, and numerous CBCs. It’s a good goddamn thing I don’t have trypanophobia, huh? Seriously, look at the size of a 16-gauge needle compared to a US penny. It’s fucking huge! Funny thing, though, the nurses that stick me with that railroad spike of a needle are professionals. They leave a small scab and slight bruising that disappears within a week. The lab techs, however, are amateurs! They stick me with a tiny 22-gauge needle to draw blood for a CBC, yet blow my vein out frequently leaving a giant hematoma. Look at this cell phone photo! Jesus, I look like a domestic violence victim!

Last time I told you that I had an abdominal ultrasound to check the size of my liver and spleen. Luckily I didn’t have hepatosplenomegaly, but we were no closer to finding the cause of the polycythemia vera my hematologist believes I may have. So, I was referred to a pulmonologist who put me through several uncomfortable tests.

The first was an Echocardiogram. Just like the abdominal ultrasound of my liver and spleen, the cardiac sonographer slathered me with conductive goo and jammed the transducer into my ribs and chest. I like it rough, baby! After the first pass, he injected me with two milliliters of a microbubble contrast called Definity. Did you know it only takes about four seconds for blood to completely circulate your body? I didn’t. Anyway, I guess the frequency of the sound waves bursts the microbubbles after a while, so he pushed another 2 mL to finish the job. Of course, it wasn’t until a few weeks later that I read Definity can kill. Awesome! Can you imagine being killed by bubbles which are smaller than red blood cells? We are such frail, gentle snowflakes. According to the pulmonologist, my heart is okay. Finally! Now I can have bacon on my Ultimate Cheeseburger!

Next on the “Let’s See How Much We Can Bilk From His Insurance” list of procedures was a couple of Pulmonary Function Tests; spirometric tests and a body plethysmograph. The spirometric tests measure a bunch of shit my lungs should be doing; like how much I blow, how fast I blow, how much I suck, and other headache inducing functions. For the plethysmograph, I was locked in a sealed glass booth that reminded me of the Grab-O-Lux that killed Kenny, and tried to suck air through a mouthpiece. Here’s a shitty cell phone picture of the booth. The purpose of this was to measure the volume within my lungs using Boyle's Law to determine if I have any disease or airway restrictions in my lungs. What did these tests prove? I have asthma! DUH!

Then I had an appointment for a polysomnogram, a fancy word for “sleeping in a strange bed with wires on my head as some creepy voyeuristic weirdo watches me with infrared cameras.” Here’s a frightening photo of me wired up for my session of peeping tomfoolery. The sleep study was ordered to determine if sleep apnea might be causing any breathing issues. I don’t think I have sleep apnea, but what the fuck do I know? I feel like I get restorative sleep at night, I don’t have daytime sleepiness, and Tina says I don’t stop breathing at night (she ought to know, she has insomnia and watches/listens to me sleep). I thought for sure I would never be able to sleep with all that gadgetry soldered to my cranuim. But four hours sleep the night before coupled with no caffeine for two days put me out like a… draining battery. Result of the sleep study? Doc says I have a slight touch of sleep apnea. Yeah, right.

After a follow-up with the pulmonologist, I was scheduled for a chest CT. This wasn’t going to be fun. A chest CT is equivalent to 58 chest X-rays. Holy shitballs! I was sure I was going to have gills, or a third nipple by the time I got home. Anyway, I had to drive to Everett for the CT scan. My paperwork said to show up 15 minutes early and expect the procedure to last an hour. My scheduled appointment time came and went, I had already stood in a hallway 15 minutes waiting to check-in while some casino indian fuckstain frustrated the admissions woman, who was obviously new. Finally, “Chief Sits With Hemorrhoids” was done, and I was able to check in. I wasn’t seated for a minute, before they called my name, and instantly my sphincter slammed shut like the blast doors at NORAD. They led me into a room where the CT scanner was and told me to lay down on “couch,” face down. Uh, excuse me? The couch? It was a skinny little table. I was somewhat surprised they didn’t make me empty my pockets, take off my shoes, or rub my belly and pat my head before laying down on the “couch.” They quickly told me to listen to the breathing queues, and began the scan, like they were late to a lunch date. What the hell? The couch lifted my fat ass up and positioned me in front of the opening. Then the couch moved me into the opening, then somewhat quickly moved me in and out, like I was a huge dildo being thrust into a giant radioactive minge. When the actual scan was taking place, the couch moved me in a few inches at a time, pausing to take a series of image slices as the X-ray tubes rotated around me. After two scans, they had me turn over face up on the couch and proceeded to irradiate me again. Bring on the freak tail! After the scan, they bum rushed me out the door and I was walking to my truck. Jesus! Did I step in shit and reek to high hell? The scan took less time than I spent waiting for Chief Takes Too Long. On the way home, I stopped and picked up a liter of Sprite, because I had a phlebotomy in Coupeville in just a couple hours. Here’s a cool picture of the unit of blood they drained from me.

That’s all I got for now. Sorry it took so long for an update, but y’all can eat me if I seem to be taking too long. Take it easy my gentle snowflakes, and hopefully I’ll have something more to post about before the end of July.

Finally, it was time. I hopped in the shower and spent a little more time than usual getting ready. No quick armpits, asshole, crotch, and teeth shower for this date. Once I was dressed, I gathered my keys, wallet, and cell phone, and jumped in my truck. I was to meet her at 1:15pm, and there was no way I was going to be late. It was 8 miles to town, and afternoon traffic on the two-lane highway that led to her office was heavier than I thought it should be for a cloudy afternoon on central Whidbey Island. I found a parking space on the far side of the small lot. I was hoping that the the grouping of trees and bushes nearby would hide me from the road so no one would recognize my truck. When I entered the building, the receptionist told me she was expecting me, and she’d be right out. I took a seat and started paging through a magazine that had a picture of a hot blonde woman on the cover.

After a twenty minute wait, I finally saw her. She wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous, and maybe she had ten or twenty pounds too many. But who am I judge? I needed this, and I sensed she was more than willing to oblige. She called me by name and motioned for me to follow her. She led me through a set of double doors and down a hallway to her office. She stopped at the doorway and I walked past her. She closed the door quietly, dimmed the lights down real low, and told me to sit on the table. It was fairly dark in her office, and I wondered what was going to happen next. It was all so exciting yet somewhat unsettling. She told me take off my shirt, and I eagerly obeyed. The office had a slight chill, and I could feel the air conditioning on my bare shoulders. I watched as she walked into a brightly lit room off her office. She was only gone for a minute. When she returned I could only see her silhouette in the doorway, but she appeared to be carrying a cord, or maybe a whip. Her sandy blonde hair glowed like a halo around her head. She stepped next to the table I was sitting on, and told me to lie back. Again, I obeyed her wishes. As I tried in vain to prop my head up on my balled-up shirt, she applied lube to my stomach. The lube was not quite cold, but warmed up as she started to spread it around. All I could think was, “Don’t fart. “Don’t fart. No boners. No farts.“

Okay, both hands on your keyboard, you perverts! If you haven’t figured out I was at a doctor’s office, you don’t know me very well. Actually, I was at the hospital. The “affair” was actually a sonographer doing an ultrasound on my abdomen, and her “office” was the exam room. If you recall, I had my doctor draw blood for a cholesterol test in late March. That test showed my cholesterol level was fantastic, but showed my red blood cell count was elevated. Another CBC in early April showed the same thing, so my regular doctor referred me to a hematologist at Whidbey General Hospital in Coupeville.

My first visit with the hematologist was Tuesday. She’s a nice FOB asian lady, but has determined that I have polycythemia vera. I’m not so sure PV is the correct diagnosis… yet. To find the cause, she ordered even more blood tests on Tuesday, and an ultrasound and phlebotomy for Thursday.

I walked over to the Lab where a dykey-looking woman sat me down to tap another vein in my arm. I noticed the lanyard that held her hospital credentials had the Pittsburgh Stealers logo on it and listed their Super Bowl “wins.” I jokingly looked out the door over my shoulder and asked, “can I get a Seahawks fan to draw my blood, please?” She laughed, but I don’t think she thought my joke was funny. She stuck that needle in my vein, and she wasn’t too gentle about it. When she had the SIX Vacutainer tubes of my blood that the doctor ordered, the needle was extracted with a great deal of pain. It felt like she had rubber band around my arm, pulled it as far as she could, and let it go! The was so much pain that I instinctively jerked my arm away from her. I told her that really hurt, and she gave me some excuse of a self-retracting needle that leaves the vein “at warp speed.” Her words, “warp speed.” The next day, the crook of my left arm was all black and blue. Warp speed my ass, you goddamn Steeler-loving Trekkie cunt.

I left the hospital right after that, but had to return in two days for the ultrasound and phlebotomy. I was told to fast for the ultrasound, but they scheduled the phlebotomy first. When the phlebotomist asked how much I had to drink that day, she was shocked that I had nothing. I told her I was under orders to not eat or drink for 10 hours before my appointment. She called the imaging department to see if they could squeeze me in earlier than my appointment, and they could. So off I went to my “date” with the sonographer. The ultrasound was needed to check the size of my liver and spleen to determine if I have hepatosplenomegaly. Say that quickly five times!

When I returned to the clinic — with an umbilicus of conductive gel — the nurses started throwing all kinds of fluids at me. They gave me a tuna sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and had me wash it all down with four 7-ounce cups of water, two 10-ounce bottles of apple juice, and one 8-ounce can of lemon-lime soda. For those with weak math skills, I drank 56 ounces of fluids — eight ounces away from a half gallon — in about 15 minutes. Satisfied that all those fluids made my veins plump, the phlebotomist went to work.

She used a blood pressure cuff as a tourniquet and found a good vein in my left arm. She snapped some kind of alcohol swab that reminded me of a glow stick. She bent the swab breaking a small vial of fluid which seeped through the swab as she rubbed it all around the injection site. It’s supposed to sterilize and anesthetize. After that, she sprayed the site with a liquid that was very cold. This was also to deaden the the area so the gigantic needle doesn’t hurt as much going in. All the prep to lessen the pain was bullshit. A 16 gauge needle hurts no matter what you do. It’s a 1.65 millimeter steel spike being jammed into a vein, people! Call me a pussy, but it hurts! I’m okay with small needles, but ones that quite literally resemble 2d nails are a sonofabitch!

The hard part was done. The lumber fastener was securely in my median cubital vein and taped to my arm. However, my hemagravy wasn’t cooperating and the flow stopped almost as soon as it started. The nurse gently moved the needle around a little, trying to get the blood to flow again, but it was a no-go. So, it was time to start over. The nurse got a new bag and needle, and proceeded to stab me in the cephalic vein in my right arm. Yep, matching holes, one in each arm. After about 15 minutes the bag, which holds a unit of blood, was full. A unit of blood is about 450 milliliters. If you’ve ever had a Rockstar or Monster energy drink, imagine the can filled with blood. Drink up, queer!

The nurses made me sit for about 20 minutes before I could leave. They wanted to make sure I didn’t face plant in the parking lot and sue their asses off. I finally left the clinic and drove home. Having a unit of whole blood drained out of you really zaps your energy. Not that I’m energetic in the first place, but sitting here early Saturday morning and typing this blog entry is about all I can muster.

So, I get to find out what all the blood tests and the ultrasound say on May 19, when I go back for a follow-up appointment. Guaranteed they’ll take more blood. I’m hoping they don’t want to take it out in units! I have more holes in my arm than a heroin addict, and I’m more than a little tired of needles.

Wafwot’s Note: As usual, I either didn’t have the time (or energy) to finish this entry when I started it on May 9… so it got published on May 31. I’ll try harder next time. I see a pulmonologist in Everett on June 1, 2009… so I should have some shit to say about that. Stay tuned.

They asked us to fast the night before, and I did. By 9:30 the next morning, I was in our conference room, surrounded by women in latex gloves. While that might sound like something you’d pay someone in Belltown an extra fifty bucks for, these women were armed with pipettes, lancets, SpongeBob SquarePants band-aids, and apple slices.

First it was blood pressue. What is it with blood pressure? Everywhere you go, someone wants to know your blood pressure. The doctor’s office, the dentist’s office, the drug store, Wal-Mart. It’s only a matter of time before we’re ordering quad Venti skinny whip caramel Macchiatos with our arms shoved in a sphygamajigometer cuff. Whatever. As usual, my pressure was 138 over 86. In the United States of Expensive Health Care, my blood pressure is in the prehypertension range. In the United Kingdom of Fucked Up Teeth, my pressure is in the normal range. Maybe if I wasn’t so amped up over some mystical cholesterol numbers that will more than likely change my life as I know it, my blood pressure wouldn’t be 138 over 86. It’s always high when I’m surrounded by people in white lab coats. My wrist-mounted, battery-powered, ninety dollar blood pressure sphydoohickeymeter machine says I’m normal… and that’s US normal, not UK normal.

I got up from one chair and sat in another, next to a phlebotomist in latex gloves. She swabbed my finger and stuck me with a lancet. As expected, blood oozed from the hole in my finger, however, not enough to fill the pipette. She felt pretty bad that she had to prick my finger once more. And again, my blood started to clot and denied the pipette. One of the other women got a bowl of warm water. My desk is under a ventilation duct, and my fingers were a little cold. As I was doing my Madge imitation, a more experienced phlebotomist decided to try her luck with my stingy sausage fingers. She had me hang my hand at my side and really pressed that lancet against my finger in order to get a deeper hole. This time, enough blood flowed for the test. They kicked me free with three holes in my fingers, as I refused to put cartoon band-aids on my fingers. Who am I, Corky Thatcher? I didn’t get to wait for the results; everyone’s results were to be revealed, privately, at a cholesterol seminar on April 8.

As I was enjoying my apple slices, saltine crackers, and glass of water, one of the Blood Girls (who has a really nice ass) came back to my desk and informed me their machine spit out my sample as unreadable, and asked if I’d be willing to subject myself again. This time, they pricked my thumb, and just as with the third attempt, the fourth provided enough blood for the test. I wasn’t leaving the room this time until I knew the machine liked the taste of my blood. While we waited, I sweet talked the women into giving me my results right away. It was more like guilted them, after four holes and enough DNA in the sharps container to keep William Petersen happy for a week. But, it wasn’t to be. Again, their fancy cholesterol and glucose sniffing machine spit out my alien blood like a four year old spitting out asparagus spears. They offered suggestions for the failure, telling me that fouled hematocrit levels, iron deficiency, or lack of oxygenated red blood cells could cause the machine fits. Fucking excellent. Now I’m like my old Mustang… in need of an oil change, or some such shit. I don’t need this worry.

I asked them if we could try again, after everyone else had gone. This time, I took a walk down the hallway and back before the test to get my asthma-riddled lungs sucking on some oxygen. I sat down and they poked a fifth hole in yet another finger. This time, blood flowed easily, and the pipette filled quickly. With my blood dispensed onto the cassette, we waited another five minutes only to find the machine still thought I was alien… or dead.

Since I was at work, I had Tina call my regular doctor and make an appointment for some blood work. My Dad was diabetic and died of ESRD and/or MG, my paternal grandmother was anemic when I was a youngun, and I haven’t have had any blood work done since I started seeing this doctor about two years ago. I now know I’m flagged in my doctor’s computer as “near death” or “hypochondriac,” because they scheduled me for the very next day. My bosses don’t like giving time off without warning, but begrudgingly granted it. Hey, it was YOUR idea for this fucking wellness hoopla. I’d rather plant my ass in front of a computer while eating cheesesteaks than have some blood-thirsty medical student shove a spike in my arm.

The next day, LDriver and I left work at one o’clock so I could get home and take another shower before going to the doctor. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like going someplace that might require me to disrobe after spending nearly five hours (2+ in each direction) in leather seats. I’d rather go to the doctor knowing that the note-taking in his laptop was merely symptom entry, and not “he smells like swamp ass and foot funk.” I can’t have that.

I arrived promptly at 3:58, and checked in with reception. The place was packed for a Friday afternoon, but I only had to wait a couple minutes before they called my name. As soon as I jumped up on the exam table, a temperature probe was shoved under my my tongue, and a goddamn sphyhoochamabobometer cuff was strapped to my arm. Again with the fucking blood pressure! When the doctor came in, he asked what he was seeing me for. I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of what you just read above. After a few more questions about my genealogy, I was off to see the phlebotomist. He wrapped a tourniquet around my upper arm, jabbed a hypodermic into my vein, and filled 3 vacuum tubes. The lab sheet said they were performing a CBC, a lipid panel, and a CHEM-7. I paid my $20 co-pay, as my doctor said he’d call me Monday with the results… and to yell at me some more. Sweet.

Monday morning, they called the house, and it went to voicemail. I played voicemail tag with their office for 30 hours, literally, before I finally got to talk to the PA. I was barreling up I-5 at 79 miles an hour at the time, too, and didn’t have anything to write with. She told me my cholesterol was 104, which is great, but my red blood cell count appeared high. She informed me the doctor wanted to do more blood tests to find out why. When asked where I like to get my blood drawn, I told her my arm is acceptable. She laughed, but I don’t think she realized I was kidding. I got the feeling she hears that joke a lot, or other people answer in that manner out of stupidity. I told her having their office draw the blood is fine, and an appointment was made. Of course, I had to cancel that appointment after some bullshit at work would have had me and LDriver driving down in separate vehicles… The new appointment is Tuesday.

One hundred and four? I used my phone to look up what the cholesterol ranges are. Wikipedia indicates that the optimal cholesterol range is 100 to 129… and I’m 104? Whoo hoo! My blood isn’t mostly bacon grease. Wow. My diet consists almost entirely of butter sticks and hamburger fat, washed down with cooking oil. Ya got to love genetics! Since the PA didn’t say my glucose was high, I’m guessing my blood isn’t mostly HFCS, either! I guess I’ll find out why the red blood cell count is so high sometime next week. Doing some cursory homework, it’s probably due to chronic lack of oxygen. This asthma crap kicks my ass during the winter months. LDriver says I should move to Arizona. I would if I could find a job down there… or even had the time to look for one.