Drawing Blood by Sherry Stratton

Blood draws have been hard on me my whole life. The medical techs tell me my veins are small. Sometimes they resort to a pediatric needle. And I’ve learned there’s such a thing as a “butterfly needle.” Once, I was turned away at a blood drive because they didn’t have a needle that could accommodate my veins. Another time, after multiple failed jabs, they called in a supervisor—with me lying faint and soaked in sweat. Occasionally, technicians take offense when I warn them about my small veins and tell them it’s best to put me in the recliner, not the upright chair. They think I’m telling them how to do their job. So, I speak carefully, take full responsibility: I’m sorry, I’m a fainter—a wimp. With tiny veins. 

Today, it’s my fourth appointment as a volunteer at the COVID vaccine trial. The visits usually include a COVID test and a cursory physical exam. Sometimes I get a shot. Always, there is a blood draw. We’ve gotten to know each other a bit, the phlebotomist and I, though I don’t know his name. He is quiet, speaks English with an accent. Long ago, he says, he was a medic in the military. I think he is kind. 

Hi, remember me? I’m the sensitive one. Small veins; I need a small needle. 

He nods, always small needles. 

I get tired of trying to hold the fist he tells me to make; a couple arthritic fingers won’t close all the way. He says, I’ll give you my heart, if you promise not to break it, and hands me a squishy red glob, vaguely shaped like a heart. 

Has it happened that someone broke it? I ask. 

Oh, when I was young. You know, when you’re young, that happens. 

My mind had been strictly on the matter at hand. I need a beat—a moment to see how he’d missed my meaning and I’d almost missed his. 

This time, I don’t feel a thing from the needle in the crook of my elbow. He tells me to release my fist and takes the plastic heart from my hand, checking to see that it isn’t broken before setting it aside.

Formerly a technical writer, Sherry Stratton now focuses on the subjects closest to her heart. Her work has appeared in Leaping Clear, Punctuate, Portage Magazine, and elsewhere. Sherry is editor of DuPage Sierran and was copy editor for Fifth Wednesday Journal from 2010 until the magazine’s close in 2018. She lives at the edge of a forest preserve in northeastern Illinois.