It always happens with young men. I get a young, healthy man in my drawing booth and stick a needle in his [usually gorgeous] vein and voila, he goes kerthunk on the floor.
Kerthunk. Technical term. Write it down.
I hate this. They're usually fairly heavy and difficult to pick up, since they're all limp and dead weight-y. And the paperwork is a pain in the tookus. Really, it's very inconvenient.
Yesterday, a delightful young man sat in my booth and made it through the whole blood draw. It wasn't until he had his choice of granola bar in his little paw that he said, "I'm feeling kind of weird." Sure enough, his skin tone had taken on the shade of dead fish belly and I suggested, in a calm and loving tone, that he rest his head on the counter and try a little breathing.
It's astonishing how many people stop breathing during a blood draw. Word to the wise? Breathing = good. Go ahead, write that down too.
After alerting some staff from the walk-in clinic, a couple of nurses arrived with a wheelchair and the ability to play straight man. This is something I always appreciate, as, at that moment, I have a seriously captive audience. I introduced the nice, albeit pale, young man to the nurses and informed them sadly that I didn't think he was going to marry me now. I'd have to cancel the hall. I'd already booked the band.
Muffled chuckle. It's hard to laugh when your head is resting on your arms.
Young man was relocated to a wheelchair and rolled down to the walk-in clinic and I bid him a fond farewell, hoping he was amused rather than embarrassed. It's not their fault when they pass out, you know. It's because of their Inner Caveman.
Inner Caveman has a very strong survival instinct and encourages young men to survive when under attack. Attack. Like when someone's about to draw blood from him. Them. You know what I mean. Anyway, it usually goes something like this:
IC: What's she doing?
YM: She going to draw a little blood.
IC: This is not a good idea. That thing is a weapon. We are under attack. Stop her. Punch her in the face.
YM: Are you kidding? My parents would kill me if I hit a woman.
IC: Pffft! Fine. Then run away. Run away now. Scream like a schoolgirl if you must, but run now! Now!!
YM: I'm not going to do that. Don't be ridiculous.
IC: You won't punch this needle-wielding hag?
IC: And you refuse to run away?
YM: That's right.
IC: Then...[ominous pause] I am out of here.
My most recent kerthunkee was wheeled down to the walk-in clinic and observed closely while he recovered. Evidently, he assured the nurse taking care of him that he was fine and was okay to drive himself home. As a precaution, she walked him out of the building, taking the long way, to ensure the veracity of his statements. Conveniently, they passed by the lab and let the young man say goodbye to me.
"We're still getting married," he called as he left.
Thank God I still have the dress.