A few weeks ago, I get an email at work announcing the hospital’s annual blood drive. As my finger is hovering over the delete button, I stop myself.
Three years ago, on December 4, 2008, I was diagnosed with two clots in my lower left leg (deep vein thrombosis). The course of treatment to keep these clots from dislodging and moving into my lungs (pulmonary embolism) was to start me immediately on blood thinners. This meant that for two weeks, I had to get injections of Lovenox in my stomach while my PT/INR levels balanced out – this basically meant my blood had to be at a stable level of just thin enough not to clot and to help break up the existing clots but not too thin where I would bleed out from a tiny cut. Once my levels were stable, I was able to transition to an oral blood thinner but I still had to go in almost every day for blood draws so they could watch the levels. Since there were so many factors that could change them (diet, medications – including the pain meds I was taking – caffeine, etc.), they had to monitor where they were at so they could adjust my dosage accordingly.
It was fairly complicated but I eventually balanced out and they weaned me off of getting the blood drawn every day. I got on a steady dose of blood thinner and within six months, the clots had broken up and I was completely off the medicine and back to normal, for the most part (there’s a few residual side effects but nothing I can’t live with).
Regardless, before that happened, I was TERRIFIED of needles. I don’t know where the phobia came from but for as long as I can remember, it was like that. It wasn’t the pain, or lack thereof, that bothered. It was the act of puncturing the skin that squicked me out. If I knew I had to get blood drawn or a shot, my anxiety would be through the roof – pale, short of breath, sweaty, ready to faint. It just wasn’t something that I could conquer.
