Blood Letting

Taking blood the first time is scary.

I prepare the trolley, picking out the things I need for the process as the nurse shows me what I need.

Cotton wool. Check.

Alcohol swab. Check.

Tubes. Check.

Tape. Check.

Sharps bin. Check.

Syringe. Check.

Needle. Check.

Light glints off the metal of the needle and I cannot take my eyes off it. I am morbidly fascinated with the metal, with its sharp tapered edge. The thought that I will soon be piercing someone’s skin with that very needle makes my skin crawl.

I smile reassuringly at the patient, but little does she know that my heart is pounding in my ears, that I am as nervous as a teenager on her first date. But she doesn’t need to know, and I put on my most professional face.

I slip on my gloves and slowly attach the needle to the syringe, praying that my hands don’t shake.

I then put the tourniquet on the patient, tentatively feeling for her vein, wondering if I have done things in order. There is is. Strong and steady, and I can feel the pulse bounding strongly under my fingers. I can feel the warmth.

Alcohol swab.

I angle the needle, with the nurse hovering over my back, and slowly slide it in. The patient winces for a second, and I apologize. I can see blood rush into the needle and I quickly lie it flat, and slowly advance it. The nurse hands me a tube and I attach it at the vacuum adapter.

The nurse is chatting to the patient but I tune out as I watch the tube fill with blood.

Blood.

Flowing freely into the tube, red and warm and bright. It is something that some people cannot look at, that some individuals turn away from. It reminds me of life, of passion, and I marvel at how bright it seems, and how alive it makes me feel. It is the life force within us that keeps us going where we go, and I watch it flow into the tube with a rush of satisfaction.

It feels almost vampiric.