The Adventures of Pastor Wuss

As already detailed above, I have recently discovered that I have a battle to fight with high cholesterol and high blood pressure. The fight has been going well, running has been upgraded from "Worst Thing On Earth" to "Thing I Would Rather Not Do," and I am learning to live life without the joys of cheese, red meat, and chocolate on a uber-regular basis. Last Thursday was the big day...my blood test. But in order to get a status report from the front, I had to face another bitter enemy:

Getting my blood drawn.

I know. Pathetic. How old are you? The funny thing is that I have gone through about a ten year period of my life when I've been fine with it. I had my blood drawn on a handful of occasions through grad school, seminary, and the like...but for whatever reason this last time (in June) got me. And I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I watched the whole thing. By the time it was over I was stumbling around the house like Dean Martin, looking desperately for some juice, and desperately trying to convince the nurse who had come by our home that I was "fine" (Translation: "I am a real man. Put away that skirt and back off.")

This is all to say that I was nervous and psyching myself out last Thursday. The receptionist informed me that I would be meeting with the doctor first and then I would go back to "the lab." So I have a great, though slightly nervous, meeting with the doctor, who congratulates me on having the "fortitude" to stick with running.

Then he calls in the nurse. She, of course, asks the first question: "Are you going to be OK with this? Do you get queasy?" My response: "No...I'm great." (Translation: "I eat meat raw!!!! Give me a steel beam and I'll rip it in half!!!! Give me motor oil, and I'll drink it!!!! GRRRRRRR!") We proceed to walk into "the lab," and the nurse informs me that she's going to use a smaller needle so the prick doesn't hurt as much. "It takes a little longer," she says, "but you'll hardly feel the prick." I'm on board with this...until she breaks out the FIVE vials she needs to fill. Great Caesar's Ghost!!! Why doesn't she just take a finger!?! Sweat starts to appear on my forehead. As she ties the gigantic rubber band around my arm, she asks: "You OK?" My response? A very terse, "Fine. Go." (Translation: "Dear Lord, please let her find a vein.")

It takes her roughly three tries to find the vein, all the while giving me the John Madden play-by-play. I now not only have my eyes closed, but am calling on the name of Jesus. I'm ready. Rapture time. Come on. After what was probably thirty seconds, I get up the nerve to look over: The vial isn't even 1/8th full. Vial number one that is. The nurse senses my panic. "It takes a while, but you didn't feel the prick did you?" Nope, I just heard about it. A few minutes go by and I start to feel woozy. I open my eyes again to find the vial...vial number ONE...at the exact same level. The nurse is tapping the syringe, a perplexed look on her face. She looks at me: "Sometimes it clots. This might take a while. You still good?" My reply: "I'm hanging in there." (Translation: "Are you KIDDING me!!?!?! I don't care about the poke...just get the blood!!! Get a straw and sharpen it for all I care...just get the blood!!! Now!!! You want me to poke myself with a pen? I will!!!" ) The sweat starts coming and the "You Can Do It" posters from Highlights magazine start spinning...so I give in: "I need to stop." (Translation: "I give in!!! Yes, a ten year old girl could be me up!!!! Just, great God in heaven, stop tapping that syringe!!!")

They put the ice pack on my neck and walk me out, holding my arm, back to our room. We pass the doctor, who smiles and says: "Hang in there, pastor." Nice. By the time we get back to the room, the doctor is in there to with a big book of jokes. I soon realize that he's there to distract me. I half expect him to pull out a stuffed lion and wiggle it: "Now show me that smile!" So much for fortitude. He know probably thinks that I run to avoid scary things...you know, like puppies and butterflies and sunshine. The good news is that the process goes quickly and efficiently with the normal needle (humility is evidently an anti-coagulant.) I feel the prick...no, I welcome it. By the time I walk out of the doctor's office, I have two massive cotton balls on each arm, three pats on the back, and a severely bruised ego.

The call came in the next day: my cholesterol is down nearly 15 points. My good is up, my bad is down. But, unfortunately, a couple of the tests came back sketchy...they think that the two gallons of blood were shaken too much in transport: "Is there anyway you can come back in for another sample next week?"

My appointment is for the 14th...my prayers are for a needle the size of toilet paper roll and/or a sudden influx of testosterone before then...or, if at all possible...

Jesus on the 13th.