Is there an ethnic requirement for becoming a phlebotomist?
Maybe it's just my doctor's office or the region where I live, but I swear, every phebotomist I've met in the past few years has been Russian -- or some form of Eastern European, at least. (Excuse me for being unable to distinguish exact heritages from their thick accents.) Now, for the average person, the statement "every phlebotomist I've met" might not hold much bearing, but as someone who gets blood work done several times a year, I've met my fair share of individuals in the bloodletting trade.
The last time I had blood drawn (before this week), I met up with a friend soon afterwards and shared my observation: "Every phlebotomist at my doctor's office seems to be Russian. Why is that?" She gave me a vague explanation involving Transylvania and vampires, but I don't think that's it.
Maybe there's an International University of Phlebotomy tucked down some back alley in Saint Petersburg. Take the first forsaken-looking street past the square, push through the third unmarked door on your left, and enter a palatial hall -- plastered with sterile white tiles, awash with flickering fluorescent lights from overhead, and filled with stifled moans caused by repeated botched needle insertions. "You missed the vein, Svetlana! Pull it out. Try again." Or, "Very good, Yekaterina -- no tears, no fainting! And it looks like the patient's made it through, too..."
I can only imagine.
Or maybe it's an ancient familial trade, passed from mother to daughter, from generation to generation. Long after the men of the house have gone to sleep, the women gather by candlelight and practice binding off tourniquets, sterilizing syringes and swapping out filled vials of blood mid-flow. At first, they nicked unfortunate stray dogs from the streets to use as test subjects. But as instinct expanded to cover which streets were safe after dark and ignorant mutts became harder to come by, they began practicing on themselves, on neighbors, on drunk and unresponsive spouses. "It must have been a hard day at work, my dear. Have another glass of vodka, no, finish the bottle -- I insist."
Wherever this knowledge comes from, it's pure gold. The reassuring smiles, the nimble fingers, the stoic warning -- "Just a small prick!" -- but no pain. And even the most stubborn and sunken veins are coaxed to the surface with a few taps of the finger, so vial after vial fills without trouble.
It's magical. So much better than the first time I needed bloodwork done. I couldn't have been older than nine or ten -- still young enough that being subjected to a needle's pinch is the worst physical and mental torture one can imagine. The nurse, some Americanized jumble of nondescript Caucasian, unfolded my arms towards her as she closely examined both, unsure which arm's vein would bleed the most, as though each was attached to a different and varying source. Finally, she chose one, possibly just out of exasperation, and dove in.
No blood. Out the needle came, and back in it went -- this time a fraction of a centimeter to the left. Still nothing. Once more, out and in -- another location, over to the right. And the next time, desperate and pale from the struggle, she didn't even have the patience to pull the needle out fully. She just wiggled it around in my arm, hoping to hit something (anything, please!) that would bleed for a little while. Finally, she found a vein -- and went right through it ("Oops!") before easing back a bit and tapping blood.
I'm still surprised that it took me a full five to ten minutes before mumbling, "I don't feel well," and passing out into the arms of a doctor who just happened to be walking behind me as I was on my way to the office's reception area. My vision was dark as they pulled me into the nurses' lab and pressed cold compresses against every inch of exposed skin they could find.
After about 45 minutes I was free to go, but for the next few weeks I looked like a junkie who had tapped the same vein a few too many times. (Think "Requiem for a Dream.") My vein looked black underneath the bruised flesh, but the emotional scars went much deeper.
Well, maybe that's a bit melodramatic.
But needless to say, I wasn't prepared to ever not-hate having bloodwork done. But now, I can't say it's half bad. The worst part is probably ripping the adhesive bandage off my arm after leaving the doctor's office. Hell, I can even smile and hold friendly conversation with the phlebotomists as they work. It's become routine -- they hit the mark on the first shot and it never takes more than a minute to fill however many vials they need. I leave the office shortly after and never, ever pass out. Not in the office lobby, not in the parking lot, and certainly (thankfully) not while I'm driving home.
So may the gods bless these phlebotomists of Worcester, Massachusetts -- whatever their ethnicity may be. They can take my blood any day of the week.
