My Morning Quest

How a seemingly minor blood draw can spook the October out of you

Warning: This story, written by me a year ago but being published for the first time, has a few simple descriptions of bodily fluids. If this sort of thing grosses you out and/or you’re eating, maybe skip it for now.

It’s Thursday. I wake up early with a sense of dread. For one thing, I have to panic clean before the cleaning lady comes. But, the more dreadful task I have to complete this morning is going to Quest for my regular blood work.

Some time ago, I was diagnosed with a minor thyroid problem that requires a daily medication. It’s important to check my thyroid levels each time my medication is adjusted to ensure that it is working correctly. Being no stranger to getting blood drawn or to my “friendly” neighborhood Quest, I know I’m in a for a real treat.

I get up, strip the sheets, and start the coffee maker. (Coffee doesn’t count when you’re fasting, right?) Then it’s time to wake the toddler and fight him for his binky. We are in full-fledged binky obsession mode at the moment. We complete the duel, and he angrily storms to his bedroom for the morning diaper change. He should have been found there in the first place but due to a recent bout of separation anxiety, he’s finding himself in my room each morning between 2:00 and 3:00 am.

Wow, what a load. Did the poor thing sleep in this all night? I can’t recall a smell when we made the 2:00 am transfer, so hopefully not. My first nauseating feeling of the day. I know I’m in for plenty more.

After getting the toddler changed and dressed, it’s time to wake his older sister. No easy feat. We fight through it — his jumping on top of her usually helps the process.

We struggle through the rest of the morning routine as usual. The fights with the six-year-old include outfit choices, tooth brush failings, and breakfast spilling. The battles with the toddler are more challenging today. They include hundreds of Q-tips being taken from a drawer and spread on the bathroom tile, a recently found sippy cup with curdled milk (please tell me he didn’t actually drink from it), and general irritability on both ends over the binky separation.

I take the six-year-old to school, running a red light because if I don’t, we won’t make it on time. More nauseating feelings. Then I get to daycare and gladly hand over the toddler. Most days, it’s hard to leave him. Not so much today. Plus, I’m running late. I need to be at Quest by 8:20 sharp. It’s 8:08.

When I made the appointment two weeks ago, I was operating under the diluted view that I could make it there by 8:20. “If I get there and get right in,” I told myself, “I’ll be to work by 9:00.” Again, completely delusional, and scarily so, given that I have been through this rodeo half a dozen times in recent years.

I get back in the car and instead of making my normal mobile coffee order, I head to Quest. At this point, I’m tired, irritable, hungry, but most of all, anxious. More sick feelings in the pit of my empty stomach.

Quest has sent me a text telling me to check in when I get there. When 8:20 rolls around, I’m nearly there—close enough—so I decide to start the check in process. Lord knows it’ll be a long one. To my surprise and delight, evidently after six visits in recent history, Quest’s bots decide that they have enough of your exact same information to spare you the trouble of entering it again. “You’re all set,” the phone tells me. “Come inside and we’ll be with you shortly.” As bad luck would have it, this imaginary computer person would be the most delightful interaction in the whole experience.

“Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. Maybe I’ve been dreading this for no reason,” I tell myself. I enter the parking lot and my optimism fades as I have trouble finding an available space. Parking is not usually a problem here, even when they are so busy that they can’t possibly expect to see all the people lined up for appointments. Why today?

I enter the special version of hell — otherwise known as the laboratory waiting room — prepared to bypass the self check-in computers at the front and have a seat only for a moment before being called to the back.

What a laughable thought.

I look to the left. Completely full of people. I look to the right. Two chairs open. There must be thirty people waiting, each looking more miserable than the last. I make my way to the first chair, but it appears to be filled with some sort of substance, slightly brownish in color. Not even wanting to guess at what it could be and instead feeling grateful that I saw it before sitting down in a suit, I head to the only other available chair.

It’s a good thing I checked in through the phone. The computers are both broken. One is obviously out of order; the screen is blank and flashing. The other, I later learn, is some kind of a sick trick. See, it appears to be working, but when the poor souls who try to use it start entering their information, it scoffs at them and reverts to the original screen. They try again. Finally, the brave, more assertive woman next to me yells to each person, “It’s broke!”

Quest has a great business model. They have completely done away with—probably purposely so—an actual human who meets you at the front. This creates a sort of intended atmosphere of no questions, no help, and by God, no walk ins.

But what happens when the computers are “broke?” I realize as I’m watching this scene from the crowd that someone has had the good sense to rip the usual “check in here” signs off the wall behind the computers, but no one has thought to make a sign saying, “Computers down. Wait here for a person, if we have one.”

Finally, someone comes to the front and starts directing the small crowd to write their names on a paper sheet. Like flies on a piece of fruit, others who are desperate for information quickly make their way to the window. This is their opportunity. Their shot. They can’t let it pass.

By now, it’s 8:45 am. My name appears on a TV screen with an 8:20 appointment time as “being seen shortly.” The woman next to me is one of the desperate folks who needs to speak to someone. She hustles to the counter and tells the employee she’s been waiting since 7:00 am. She “has to get drawn today or…” Cut off. The employee tells her to have a seat. In disbelief, the impatient patient heads back to her seat, loudly declaring how “rude and mean you people are.”

In a strange twist, the employee at the counter actually calls the woman back and lets her finish her sentence. The patient explains that her orders expire today and if she doesn’t get the required blood draw, she will have to redo a three-draw process all over again. The employee is by no means sympathetic to her plight, but she says, in a slightly softer tone, “Ok, have a seat.” Is this an indicator that the patient might get in?

I realize that in all this commotion, I didn’t even notice a poor older gentleman took the seat that was stained with the brownish substance. I feel terrible. “Would I have told him?” I think to myself.

It’s 8:55. Although my name is at the top of the queue list, at least five people have been called back and left without the list changing at all. They must be the sign in sheet people.

Finally, after 9:00, I’m given the green light to enter by a large woman who opens the creaky, filthy door and calls out “Car-ah.” Actually pronounced “Care-ah,” my name is butchered more often than it isn’t. I’ve come to accept all other pronunciations and forms. Sure, whatever. I’ll be Karen if you want me to. Let’s just get this done.

Instead of being directed to an angry phlebotomist in a numbered stall per the usual routine, I’m told, “Wait here. You’re next.” I sit in a little cubby with a phone and some pamphlets. Three others are brought back and told to sit in any available nook or cranny. One of them is the woman who was next to me. Her plea worked. We smile at each other. We are both on the other side.

I watch as all three of them get called before me, despite my being “next” up. By the third one, I finally get the guts to say something. “Excuse me,” I poke my head out, “I was told I was next like three people ago.” The phlebotomist angrily declares to me “She told you. She’s working the queue list. I’m working the sign in sheet.”

I start to realize my mobile check in was a terrible idea. As luck would have it, the sign in sheet phlebotomist is ten times faster than the queue phlebotomist. I get mad at myself, but this anger is irrational. How could I have predicted this?

My phlebotomist, the queue one, hears this entire exchange, which serves to further anger her. She expresses her emotion with an audible scoff. Great. She’s momentarily responsible for shoving a needle in my arm and extracting blood, and I’ve pissed her off because I don’t understand how this make-shift system works.

I overhear her current patient, a woman of approximately seventy years old, tell the phlebotomist that she has diabetes and has been fasting all night and morning and feels queasy. She’s been there over an hour. She has a bar ready to eat when she returns to her car. There is no audible response to this information. No apology, no sympathy, nothing.

The diabetes patient is done. It’s my turn. “Car-ah. Have a seat.” I pop up as eager as a puppy ready to chase a ball. “I need your orders, license, and insurance.” I hand it all over.

She reads me an address I’ve never heard in my life. “Are you asking me something?” I say to her, confused. “Is that your address?” She responds. “No, not even close,” I quip back. She gets more annoyed: “That’s what we have in the system.” I look at “the system.” She’s selected “Kameron Wood.” I’m the next one on the list. First potential bloodwork crisis narrowly avoided.

We get through all the procedurals and it’s time to do the deed. I know it’s irrational, but I’m as anxious as ever. No matter what I try, I can’t kick the blood draw anxiety. The angry phlebotomist doesn’t help the situation.

I decide to try to kill her with kindness. Hell, could I make it any worse? I might actually benefit. I tell her I’m sorry for the mixup on being seen next. She is annoyed but explains that I was her next to be seen, not the next. (I want to tell her at this point that words matter, but I think it best to leave well enough alone.) She then tells me what I’ve already learned — she’s the queue person; the other is the list person. “It’s fine. You didn’t know,” she explains. Wow. I guess I’ve received what I’ve asked for in deciding to apologize for this situation. She is gladly assuming the victim role. Forgiving me for my sins. Perfect.

“Which arm?” she asks. I show her my right arm. As she prepares to draw, I look to the left. This is a ritual I developed some time ago and now do it each time like clockwork. I don’t need to see any of this.

This time, not so much like clockwork, my ritual almost turned the anxiety into full blown vomit. There to the left, about two feet from my face, sat three cups of human pee. As if I had any doubt, they were marked, “URINE.”

Anxiety is now at an all time high for Quest. I tell myself, plead with myself,

“You will not throw up in this chair. You’ve come this far. You cannot do it. Suck it up.”

I close my eyes, take deep breaths, and by a small miracle, I manage to keep myself together long enough for the draw. Potential bloodwork crisis number two avoided.

“You’re done,” she tells me. I pop up with the same level of eagerness, not even caring that she has not yet placed my labels on my blood vials. There still exists great potential for bloodwork crisis number three. I’ll cross that bridge if necessary.

I try to touch the dirty door as little as possible, make my way through the overcrowded waiting room, and bust out to the parking lot. I breathe a heavy sigh of relief.

By the time I make it to work, it’s almost 10 am. I’m now ready to start the day. After having endured what feels like a full day’s work, though, I’m left wondering — should it be this hard?

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Note from Bethany (an Advanced Practice Registered Nurse, or APRN)

Kara’s above descriptive story was written a year or so ago from her perspective as a laboratory patient. It is an arduous journey of what one would hope is a straightforward process — obtain lab draws at the request of her provider. However, it was anything but the experience hoped for. From the eyes of a healthcare provider, it bothers me significantly. Why? It’s simple. As a provider, I order labs routinely for patients. They are a required piece of the process when learning about the health of our patients, planning a procedure, or medication change. It is to ensure safety and stability. Hearing the difficulty that my sister, and so many others, have with this process is hard. And eye-opening. I don’t want any of my patients to have to go through something this difficult in the midst of a health scare. It reminds the provider and reader that there is a lot of work to do in the healthcare system. It reminds us to practice compassion and patience and respect for the plights of others, particularly when often they are in the midst of an extremely stressful time in their lives. Most importantly, it reveals the perspective of the patient. If we all would take a little time to practice curiosity about other people’s viewpoints. Well, wow. What a world we would have…

Speaking of taking the time to think about others’ points of view, Kara submitted this story to Quest in response to one of their routine emails asking for feedback on her experience. She never did hear back.

What is your experience with lab draws? Please tell us yours was not quite so…spooky.

What works well? Do you go to your provider’s office or a general lab business?

Can you get appointments easily / when you need them?

Have you ever passed out when having your blood drawn or seen someone do it? How’d it work out for you?

What would make the process better?

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