POZ Community Forums
Main Forums => Pre-HAART Long-Term Survivors => Topic started by: redhotmuslbear on June 06, 2007, 03:04:31 pm
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During my phlebotomy session at NIH this morning, I lost track of--but not consciousness--the amount of blood being extracted from me for monitoring labs and research. My first stop after executing fresh conset forms was the blood bank for an assessment of my tempramental deep veins for apheresis; and without even sticking me, the nurses branded me unfit for another six months to a year, though with the encouragement that losing some fat (it's all aroumd my waist and my ass, I swear!) and adding even more muscle to my arms might help. The EKG, chest ray and physical exam were uneventful, though I need exchange numbers and email with two different guys during various waits. :o Doing oral with the one in the bathroom there just seemed odd, so I passed.
The "career vampires" for the blood draws were even less pleased with me, as they knew that they had to get all of the prescribed blood out of me, and I insisted they take the fool-proof tactic of a pediatric needle in the back of my hand. The unlucky tech started with the 50cc syringe for storage and worked from largest to smallest among the couple dozen glass tubes with a little prayer while swapping successive tubes.
Still, I got to work around lunchtime...oh, joy!....and blurted out the reason for my appointment to an inquiring co-worker. I could tell she was sorry for asking, though within an hour she grasped the notion that I wasn't going to drop dead in the office or spread the disease.
Cheers,
David
P.S. Besides tormeting lab workers, the best part of the visit was just getting onto the NIH campus. Under the guise of security, patients drive through a side entrance to the grounds, have their cars swabbed for explosives, walk through a metal detector (forgetting the guns and ammo hidden in the vehicles) and get a temporary visitor sticker to wear. The mostly British colonial ex-patriate staff of security people were atitter with reading my license plates, disbelieiving one another, then having me repeat the letters to them: NANCBOY. Just wait til I get the plates from my former second car back soon, POOFTER.
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When I lived in Salt Lake City, Utah, Iplayed volleyball with a bunch of guys there. There wwere two guys on the team who were a couple. They tried to get a set of plates for one of their cars that read HOMO6UL, but the motor vehicle dept. shot it down. So they pondered for awhile and soon they were sporting tags on their cars, one said NOFISH and the other one read NOTSTR8. Vanity tags can be sooooo interesting, no?
Capt.Carl