Crossing the Line

I sat in the dark turquoise chair and squeezed the red ball in my hand repeatedly.  "Your veins are just tricky.  Deep and tiny.  Let's try the other arm," the middle aged woman in the scrubs told me.

I cringe inwardly every time a doctor asks for a blood draw.  This time she wanted to do a Vitamin D panel and general health panel because I'd told her about how I'd been in a depression deeper than I'd ever known for the last six months.  She upped my Zoloft dosage and recommended I get outside more. 

Two weeks later I felt better than I had in years.  The house was spotless, the girls were happy and I was singing in the shower again.  Now here I sat at the clinic trying to be chatty and upbeat as I was on my second phlebotomist and the fifth attempt at getting a vein to elicit some blood. 

This one kept slapping my arm.  My youngest came close and watched with big blue eyes as the woman abused her mother for no reason in particular.  I started to wonder if I should ask for the woman who finally got a vein last year while she talked about her love for Vampire Diaries, the irony of which was not lost on me as I tried to curb my grin.  This woman was all business though.  Slap, slap, slap.  She seemed to be enjoying it a little too much. 

The silence loomed and I started to get uncomfortable.  Torture me with needles all you want, just keep up a stream of conversation so things don't get awkward.  I've kept up ridiculous conversations in the past to simply keep the moment from crossing into the inelegant.  Probably overshared things I shouldn't have all in a bid to keep things light. 

Like some salt and pepper haired savior a man in slacks and a dress shirt and tie came walking down the hall towards us.  His stethoscope was slung around his neck and he was in very good physical condition if I might be so bold, and I was feeling pretty bold at the moment.  He smiled and said hello before entering a room with the name Dr. Weir on a placard adjacent to the door. 

The thought came to my mind.  I have thoughts like this all the time, but usually I keep them to myself.  But the silence was stretching on like an unremitting strand of taffy on a mechanical taffy stretching machine.  I cleared my throat.

"Uh.  What kind of sick do you have to be to see that Dr. Weir?" I said apprehensively trying to keep the lecherous tone from my voice.  

The phlebotomist looked me full in the face, trying to determine if I was being funny or just creepy.  I blushed.  She decided to stick to her professionalism and answered, "Any kind of sick."

But I couldn't let it go.  The joke had to play out.  I had already committed to it when I opened my mouth.  "Because he's cute!  I think I'm coming down with something," I finished wanting to cover my face with my hands. 

This time the phlebotomist cracked a small smile.  "Pete's a good man.  In it for the right reasons.  I've worked with a lot of doctors and he's one of the best," she said. 

I  nodded and bit my lip as she slid the needle into my arm for the sixth and final time.  The vein refused to be found and the weary phlebotomist suggested coming back at a different date after hydrating myself properly.  I nodded.  Thanked her for sticking me three more times and made a beeline for the door before that dashing Dr. Weir could exit and have me arrested for sexual harassment.