On Art and Fine Medical Conditions

Water Mill by Fran Wolhfelder - I regret that
my experience with the phlebotomist has made
me loath Ms. Wolhfelder so. 

  An uneventful appointment at the hematologist today, with uninteresting medical news and a relatively unpleasant but routine blood draw.  Not terribly painful, but trying to keep my mind off of the needle digging around beneath my skin – searching for that elusive vein without success, stabbing again with similarly unsettling results – by reading an interview with a Desperate New Jersey Housewife who is attempting to limit her two-year-old’s potential for autism by denying him gluten, soy, dairy, chick peas, nuts, hot dogs, and water was furthering my discomfort.  So I stare at the faded Fran Wohlfelder poster on the wall in front of me and am suddenly filled with contempt for the Hamptons and their portraitist.   Why on earth is this dismal painting of the Hamptons hanging in this phlebotomist’s station?  We have poor regional artists here in Illinois – did this come with the frame?  The forms seem to somewhat ooze together, is this someone’s idea of an appropriate invocation for a blood draw? 

No. 5, 1948 - Jackson Pollock
When I design the Cancer Center,
it will be full of appropriate art and
books by Flannery O'Connor. 

Frankly, I’d prefer to see a Jackson Pollock on the wall – if ever I could appreciate the expression of a moment’s action into a set composition it would be in between alertness and terrifying ice cold pass out shakes, while I try to understand why the phlebotomist goes to the trouble of showing me that she is disinfecting her hands and then putting on gloves,  but then touches the drawer pulls and other potentially dirty pedestrian objects in the room…  also, why is she talking to me about the Swamp Man who alleviates opossum problems on television?

Suddenly I am very tired and consider falling asleep.  I would explain as I drift off: “this is not the same as passing out, which I did when I was here three months ago.  I’m just very tired and I don’t want to witness this struggle anymore.  There’s a good vein in my left hand you can use, please wake me up when we’re finished.  Also, the Tootsie Rolls in the candy bowl at the reception counter are quite stale.  Also, a swamp man exterminator television show?  I should just film my dog chasing opossums.”  But I know they would take that the wrong way and probably call  an ambulance or animal protection, as those not acquainted with our familial fainting disorder or our appreciation of dogs' abilities to eradicate varmint are apt to do. 

In this scene of my new reality television show, varmint eradicator
and dog whispering baby share a moment beneath the pines of our north land home.
We speak without drawls and discuss the best new grass to which
to move our cow; it's constantly gaining popularity amongst ...?

I’m reminded of my bone marrow biopsy last November, to rule out all other blood cancers and ensure an accurate diagnosis of Essential thrombocythemia.  “We’re now going to explain to you the process of the biopsy…”  “I’m going to stop you right there,” I tell them, but they insist as I cannot sign the liability waiver until I’ve heard all the unpleasant details.  I lay on the bed, hip exposed, and stomach in knots.   I have found that the doctors at the Cancer Center are supportive, but not overly sympathetic – as I’m sure if they were soft shoulders on which to cry they would constantly have weeping cancer patients using them.  So while I was absolutely sick with nervousness, about the procedure and the implications of the results, battling against my own fight or flight reflex (flight!  always flight!), Dr. Khattak and her nurses kept assuring me that as I had given birth I was far too strong to be acting like such a Desparate New Jersey Housewife. 

Thanks, I guess, but when I gave birth it seemed very natural that my son was going to come out of my body.  I didn’t have the same feeling about the bone that I could vaguely feel being stabbed…

Eventually the whole process filled my mind and I told the assembled party that I was going to pass out, but that I wanted them to finish.  Quite some time later, I opened my eyes feeling refreshed and relieved, as is usually the case following a trip to avoid my own subconscious.  The doctor asked how I wanted to progress – that is we could continue here on the table or I could go under general anesthesia at the hospital downtown.  “You didn’t finish?  That would really have been the better option considering that I was unconscious and wouldn’t have to deal with it.”  “No, actually we cannot continue a procedure on a patient who has lost consciousness.  Didn’t you read your liability release form?” 

I later had a similar desire to just fall asleep while driving home, but my mother’s panicked screams brought me right out of it and I was fine the rest for the rest of the return journey.   In a way, I guess that’s also the expression of a moment’s action set into a set composition… my new contempt for Fran Wohfelder assures me that she could never capture that.