A Rush of Blood to the Hand

There is a new first trimester screening test for Downs Syndrome and Trisomy 18. Tom and I never do any of those tests since we would never abort regardless of the results but we decided to do this test because it includes an ultrasound and we'll take any opportunity to see that our little one is flickering away in there. I started having second thoughts about the test a few weeks ago when I opened the information packet and saw that I would have to pierce my finger and draw blood droplets to be sent away for analysis. Now I'm not a complete sissy when it comes to pain. After all, I'm willingly pregnant, knowing that I'll have to have yet another painful caesarean which will certainly hurt more than a finger prick. The difference is that I won't be climbing up on the table with a big knife to slice myself open. The anesthesiologist will numb me until I feel like I don't have a body and the nurses will put up a tent to protect me from seeing any of the carnage necessary to bring forth my baby. In other words, it's out of my hands. I don't have to hurt myself; I'm paying others who have been educated to do it for me. Not so with this finger prick.

I've been putting it off for weeks even though the envelope stares at me reproachfully each time I pass it on the entertainment unit. The OB brought it up at my appointment yesterday and gently reminded me that time is running out since I'm almost out of the first trimester. Ugh. In a burst of genius, I realized my HMO might not cover the test, thereby giving me a pass from the self-mutilation and a fresh reason for bitter complaining. Score! No dice, though. Damn progressive insurers cover it. Bastards.

Out of options, I ran through all the cliches and decided that I should man up, put on my big girl pants, roll up my sleeves (feel free to insert your favorite trite expression) and get the job done this morning after feeding the kids. (In hindsight, I should have fed myself as well.) I read the directions, scrubbed my hands with warm, soapy water, let my hand dangle for 3x's the recommended 30 seconds to maximize blood flow while opening the gauze pad and alcohol swab with my teeth, closed my eyes and pressed on the lancet with all of my thumb's might.

YEEEEEEEOOOOOOOWCH!!! Motherhumper, that shit HURT! I wiped away the first drop with the sterile gauze as instructed and gave my right pointer a little squeeze to get the blood flowing so I could put 3-5 drops on the mail-in card for the lab testing. Blood went EVERYWHERE, including all over the patient information section of the card and my new shorts. I glopped blood on the proper section and tried to wipe it off the wrong section, all while fighting the vomit rising in my throat and the whooshing in my ears that signals an oncoming faint. It was seriously the tiniest little prick (that's what she said, bwahahaha) and I couldn't get it to stop bleeding! Cold water, pressure, holding it over my head -- still oozing. All I could think about was Will Ferrell in the Talladega Nights outtakes, moaning about losing too much blood. After a few minutes, it slowed to the point that it just made a small red bead after each wipe so now I am bandaged and dealing with the post-traumatic stress. All this for an ultrasound that won't show more than Baby's neck. Add this experience to the YES column for the "Should Christy Get Her Tubes Tied in February?" list.