The needle enters my vein. I turn my head away. This procedure has been performed once a week, at least, for the past year. Yet I still have not found the courage to watch the needle penetrate my flesh.
I have a great deal of difficulty letting go of my blood. Maybe this is because I am a control freak. But I feel very protective of my body and all that dwells within it. So it has been stressful, to say the least, having blood samples taken routinely.
This begs the question, why submit to a practice which feels like an assault? My response is, this is a good question.
Over a year ago, I found tiny red dots on my feet and ankles. While their appearance confused me, I shrugged the phenomenon off as something I would ask my family doctor about next time I paid him a visit. These tiny dots multiplied and climbed up my lower calves. I watched them with curiousity and a vague anxiety.
A couple of months marched by and one morning I awoke with bruises on my forearms - a straight line of dark spots along the inner arm. I could think of nothing I'd done to provoke this physiological manifestation. I made an appointment to see my family doctor the Friday before Heavy Rebel Weekender - a big rock 'n' roll festival that has become my 4th of July tradition.
Heavy Rebel is about the most fun one can pack into a weekend. It is a raucous, loud, jubilant time that comes complete with tossing beer cans at one's favorite bands and incidentally getting pelted in the head a few times in the process. And mud wrasslin'.
The mud pit is open to anyone - male, female, young, old. It is a rambunctious free-for-all in good ol' North Carolina mud. When one goes in, one can expect full body tackles, having one's legs yanked out from under them and lots of cuts and bruises. It's all part of the fun.
I decided on this particular Heavy Rebel weekend to avoid the mud pit. This was difficult as participants from previous years taunted me, attempting to provoke me into the mayhem. I restrained myself with great difficulty thinking it wise to discover the cause of my bruising. In retrospect, this was good thinking on my part. Though I must say, it was impossible to avoid being hit upside the noggin by beer cans when the 7 Shot Screamers played.
On the Monday after Heavy Rebel, I visited my family doctor. He asked questions, examined me, ordered a blood sample and sent me on my way saying he'd be in touch as soon as he found something wrong with me. That afternoon, his nurse called. Trying to restrain the panic in her voice, she left a voicemail asking me to stop by the office as soon as possible so they could get another blood sample. I asked what the problem was and the nurse said that my platelet count was extremely low. They just wanted to make sure they'd gotten an accurate count, she said.
"How low is low?" I asked.
"9,000," she said. "The normal range is 150,000 to 450,000."
"Oh. Good."
I stopped by the next day and more blood was extracted. The nurse called that afternoon and said my platelet count appeared to be within the normal range, but to watch my bruising and to avoid bumping my head.
Right.
In the meanwhile, I began to do my own medical research - never a good idea for a compulsive worrier such as myself. I discovered the function of platelets is to help in the clotting process. Having too few platelets leaves a body susceptible to bleeding more freely. This is usually not to one's advantage.
Upon researching the possible causes of a low platelet count, I ran across the dreaded "leukemia" and "HIV." And that was enough to propel an already active imagination into overdrive.
As worrisome as the initial platelet count had been, I decided to trust the nurse who had told me that my count "appeared to be within the normal range." There must have been a glitch in the system of drawing blood and counting platelets. I could rest assured nothing was seriously wrong with me.
But what about the bruises and the red dots on my legs?
A couple of weeks after my second platelet count, my period started. I had an appointment with a prospective employer in the morning. I felt oddly weak due to excessive blood loss. Driving home from my appointment, I bled through all feminine hygiene products, clothes and seat cusion. It was a bit terrifying to see this much blood rushing out of me. So I called my doctor. He ordered me to proceed to a seperate lab for another blood count. I did so immediately.
The next day, I received a call from my doctor. He was concerned about my low platelet count (9,000) and arranged for me to see a hematologist. I had to wait a week for my appointment, which left plenty of time to elevate my general anxiety level.
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