The phlebotomist takes my blood. I have passed out almost every single time I have ever had blood taken, but have only myself to blame, as I am the one who donated blood my freshman year of college and thought that the advice not to do so on an empty stomach meant everyone else but me. My body has since determined that “blood taking” = “passing out,” even for blood typing.
Related note – why doesn’t anyone ever believe that I know my own blood type? I am O negative. I have always been O negative. Trust me that I know my blood type, medical people.
I don’t faint, which really surprises me. I do feel crummy, though, because it is unnatural to have blood extracted forcibly from the body and my body has a keen sense of self preservation.
A few years ago, after performing a minor procedure on me, during which I did faint, my doctor told me that I had a “highly developed vasovagal response,” to which I replied, “Thank you.” It was a compliment, right?
Doctor B presses his cold, cold stethoscope all over my lower belly.
Doctor: According to your chart, you are at 12 weeks. I should be able to hear a heartbeat.
Me: Maybe there’s too much padding there.
Doctor: No, you’re pretty lean.
Woo hoo! I am, according someone who sees a lot of people, “pretty lean!”
Oh wait. I got distracted for a second but now I remember why I am here.
Me: What does that mean?
Doctor: I cannot hear a heartbeat. I should be able to hear a heartbeat. I can’t find one.
Me: Oh. Right.
Doctor: Come back on Monday for another blood test. We need to measure it against the test we took today. I’ll call you when I get today’s results, though. And keep that ultrasound appointment you have on Monday.
Doctor: You still might need it.
Whew! I might still need the ultrasound! Maybe everything is OK. But man, this is stressful.