Feeling like crap (AKA uninteresting long complainy post)

              Had the worst blood extraction EVER. I know my veins are so teeny tiny that they can turn a simple blood extraction into a full-blown treasure hunting expedition (beneath my skin, with a very sharp needle). Even the pro-est of the pro med techs are at a loss whenever I'm the patient, which always results in me being poked ~10 times more than the average person whenever I need a blood test. 

              But what I experienced earlier was seriously horrible. See, before the extraction, I gave Kuya Med Tech (KMT for short) a fair warning about my troublesome veins, hoping to allow him the opportunity to steel himself mentally, emotionally, and spiritually for what would be his most difficult blood extraction ever. So he spent what felt like a good 10 minutes searching for my mythical Antecubital Vein (notice the capitals, just like how one would capitalize the equally elusive Loch Ness Monster). It was a really long and seemingly never-ending cycle of tying up one arm, poking at my arm fat, slapping at my arm fat, and then doing the same to the opposite arm. I felt like a fat slab of meat being tenderized to perfection.

             It took around 10 minutes for KMT to gather the courage to poke my left cephalic vein. By then, my lower arm had been tied up for so long that I couldn't feel anything when the needle poked through my skin. Terrific. Once inside, he wiggled the needle around as if it were a magic wand and he was trying to accio vein. No such luck though.

             KMT took a risk on my other arm after that. He (without warning) stuck the needle in, and once it got in deep enough I breathed a sigh of relief - I just knew he had hit gold! Glorious, glorious blood was pouring into the syringe. I breathed happily, thinking that this would all be over soon... Until it stopped. No more blood was coming out of me, and the syringe wasn't even a quarter of the way full. :( Another good 10 minutes was spent trying to relocate that glorious vein

             For the next (and suckiest) part of the saga, please refer to this image of a syringe.

          OKAY, NOW HERE'S WHERE IT REALLY SUCKS. For SOME reason, KMT thought he could coax blood into the syringe by REPEATEDLY PUSHING AND PULLING on the plunger, like it was some kind of... of... PLUNGER. YOU KNOW, OF THE PLUMBING VARIETY. For those unfamiliar with syringes, let me tell you that this motion effectively just pushes the extracted blood, which has begun to clump, back into its source vessel with all the fresh blood. Not good.

           I was really shocked and asked him if he really should be doing that (in a very non-threatening way, of course ["Kuya, diba bawal yan?"]) but he was very nonchalant about it and just said "Ayaw lumabas eh." EH ANO NAMAN KUNG AYAW LUMABAS, PWEDE MO IBALIK ANG DUGONG NAKUHA MO NA!? 

           *Deep inhalation* To make things worse, BUBBLES WERE FORMING IN THE SYRINGE. AND HE WAS INJECTING THEM BACK INTO ME. 

          At this point I really felt like vomiting, probably more out of shock than of pain. There was actually no pain, just pure disbelief that HE WAS KILLING ME IN FRONT OF MY VERY EYES. 

            Okay, okay, I'm exaggerating. He wasn't killing me, as I would find out later. But still!!! My veins are not some kid's birthday party; you can't just go bubble-crazy in them :( 

             I was so shocked that I felt cold to the bones. My hands went numb, my head felt light. KMT just kept on shaking his head and tsking, even fingering the area where the needle met my skin (note: this is a big, bloody no-no). Holy moly, I wanted to faint. Finally he took the needle out and kind of just sat there resignedly. "Wala Ma'am eh," he said. Meanwhile I was feeling like my bones were made of ice and my head was full of helium. I also wanted to get out of there; I know we both did. So I smiled (take note: I still had the decency to be nice to the guy) and said I'd go have a snack and we could try again later. (I had just come from a 2-hour pathology laboratory exam and I hadn't eaten). He dug into his pockets and offered me a menthol candy, worried that I could faint if I left the clinic (plus points to you for that, KMT). But I refused and wanted to leave. 

             Walking out of the clinic, I felt a kind of weakness I had never felt before, and I thought that must be how people felt right before they were about to faint. But before I could faint, I thankfully managed to wobble into a coffee shop. I mumbled to the waitress that I wanted a cookie and an iced tea, and after consuming both, I felt better. 

             So I returned to the clinic determined to leave with two vials of my blood safely tucked away in that laboratory, ready for processing the next day. I was very eager (okay, desperate) to get some results to show Dr. Milicent this Saturday. When I got back, KMT told me that a female med tech (FMT) would be handling me this time, and I was in an even better mood (the previous med techs who had successfully drawn blood from me were females from the same clinic). "Ate, I believe in you," I told her. "You can do it," I told her. Dammit, I was about ready to rub her shoulders and hand her a Gatorade. Ate, kaya mo to. She smiled, and I for the first time that day I was hopeful that we would make it. 

             But nope. She poked me more than five times in my left arm and ended up violating a major sanitation standard along the way. 

              It was already 6:30 by that time, which meant I had spent a full hour of being poked, tied, and slapped. It had been a rough day for all of us and I knew it would be futile to keep on trying. I told them that I'd go do some push-ups or something at home and then come back tomorrow. They nodded, looking relieved but with a hint of dread for the coming day. I smiled, trying to be a good sport, concealing the fact that I was very upset.

              On the way back home, I ran into my classmates Joe and Ian, to whom I separately narrated the events of the day. "You're not going to die naman," Joe (who is a nurse) reassured me when I told him I was afraid of getting an air embolism. 

           I went up to Rap's condo, where he was in the middle of cooking some in-shell scrambled eggs (genius, right?), and I cried. I don't know why, really. I was partially angry at KMT for the crazy plunger thing, and at FMT for the unsanitary thing she did. I was frustrated that I kept encountering this problem every time I needed a blood test (which is every month), and that the solution, as Rap had told me, would involve exercising my arms (which have become quite stiff and creaky again). I was also embarrassed that I was freaking out about this whole thing, when I know that getting stuck with a needle repeatedly isn't such a big deal compared to other people, the people I learn about in Pathology, who have to undergo much worse. I was (am) also upset that my rheumatoid arthritis is back, and it's once again putting a handicap to my level of functioning. I was also embarrassed for panicking in front of Joe and Ian, and most especially for crying in front of Rap, since I hate letting anybody see me be anything but fine. I always thought I was stronger than that. 

            But as Rap said, later in the night when I had calmed down, it's okay to not be fine sometimes. In med school I'm constantly struggling to catch up with my academics, constantly feeling exhausted, constantly feeling angry for feeling exhausted. Constantly fearing failure, fearing that I'm never good enough. Constantly worrying that I'm spending too much money. Constantly feeling bad for not exercising, but also feeling too bad to exercise. 

        Certainly other people have it worse (why the hell am I always adding this caveat to my complaints). But on days like this - just finished a big test, haven't had time to rest and recover from the cumulative exhaustion of everything that has happened since the beginning of the Basic Pathologies module - I feel like I'm constantly not okay. And it's always going to be hard to make myself believe it, but sometimes it's okay to not be okay.