First up was blood work. I had scheduled all of my testings very precisely, but the morning of my blood work, I ended up at a 6:30 a.m. appointment with Darcy at her pediatrician for her constant stomach pains. From there, she had to have blood work, so we figured why not a two for one. Unfortunately, I forgot my paperwork, so Darcy did her blood work, and then after I returned home, I grabbed my paperwork and went back because I had to fast, and by now, I was hungry.
I have problematic veins when it comes to drawing blood. I've been told they are tiny. The one thing on me that is tiny, and it has to be my veins. Whatever.
Sometimes it is easy. Most of the time, drawing blood isn't easy, and I'm left with bruised arms. I'm a warrior despite the pricks, the moving around of needles inside my arm, and this time it was all of that. The woman asked me if I'd been drinking water, and then she was sorry because I ranted about my early wake-up running around town morning. Needless to say, when the blood work was discussed at my Life Scan appointment, I was dehydrated. You think?
Before the Life Scan, I could also sign-up for one of three additional testings; a lumbar MRI, a CTA of the coronaries and lungs, or a brain MRI. Since I'm the product of a father who died of a heart attack, that weighs hugely on my mind, and I chose the Coronary Angiogram scan. I've already had a lumbar MRI due to hurting my back after lifting my mother and, really, a scan of my brain? I'm sure my brother would have said we already know there isn't anything up there.
The CTA scan I scheduled five days after the blood work. I had to fast four hours before the appointment, and I had some trepidation after reading about which people shouldn't have the scan because I have PVC's and PAC's and worried I fell into that category. After much research, while my husband made comments about waiting until the last minute, I read this was due to an inaccurate reading. I decided I didn't fit that protocol and then proceeded to worry all night long while my PVC's and PAC's began in earnest.
Luckily, that was a "volunteer" day for me, and I didn't have time to worry. When I arrived at my appointment, I was pretty chill, not to mention hungry. I was called in, told to remove my bra, and then was taken into a large room with a huge machine that looked like the MRI machine where I had my lumbar testing. I hopped up on to the table following the technician's instructions, and he took my blood pressure.
This is another weird issue I have like the blood work. Cuffs are pumped up. Stopped. Pumped again. Stopped. Pumped again until I think I'm going to pass out from all the squeezing. Usually, the machine doesn't read it, or the person attached to the stethoscope can't hear it, and the pumping begins again in earnest. This time a machine took it, and no surprise, it took forever. When it finally registered, it was 107/43. I was kind of pumped, excuse the pun, about that blood pressure, although, after some thought, which included concern that the lower number was awfully low, I decided the technician wasn't the brightest bulb. He hooked me up to an IV because this test required a contrast dye. Yeah, I knew this wouldn't go over very well.
I explained my difficulty, and he decided that he'd go right into the bruised bump where the blood had been drawn five days prior. Before I could argue that bright idea, he was poking me--in the same damn hole. That produced nothing, so he moved the needle around inside my arm several times before giving up and moving to my other arm. I smiled, reminded myself I was not my mother, kept my mouth closed, and prayed this would work on the other arm.
Only it was stopped before the first poke because another technician, a female, arrived. She had multiple questions for the male technician, and then she explained to me this was his first time working with Life Scan patients as if that made any difference. Isn't a machine a machine, whether for Life Scanning or daily scanning? She began hooking me up to a heart monitor as she explained that my pulse rate had to be lower than 80 to do the scan. As I watched my bp numbers on the machine, my pulse rate read 62, and I refrained from rolling my eyes. The more they monitored my jumpy heart, the better. My pulse rate was now at 60, a feat I thought incredible due to all the drama, and the female technician began to wrap the cuff on my arm again before the male technician said he'd done that.
It was decided I was good to go, and the female technician got the IV in with minimal effort. Yay to women, I thought in my head. I had to put both arms over my head, and then they left me alone to run for protection from the rays that would shoot out and attack me. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and began writing my book in my head.
The table I lay upon moved in and out at various times. An automated voice told me to hold my breath at various times, then told me to breathe. At one time, the female technician asked if I was okay, to which I responded, "peachy." Then the male technician told me they were now shooting me with the dye, and I would feel warm all over and think I was peeing my pants. Nothing new, I thought, since menopause.
I felt the warmth but didn't feel the need to pee. I went in and out some more, then was told the next breath would be a long one and that I wouldn't be able to hold it and should slowly let out my air. That got my competitive juices flowing at being told I couldn't do it, and I began to mentally prepare to beat the system. I didn't do it, but I was oh, so close. Then, of course, I wanted to ask if I could try again, but I didn't.
Then it was over. I thought the worst was having my arms over my head. The needle bothered me where my arm lay on the pillow. I was removed from the hook-ups, helped up off the table, and sent on my way with a new bruise to accompany the other in the first arm. The findings will be sent to the Life Scan center. Two tests down, the one big one left to go. I drove off to get some food.
I have problematic veins when it comes to drawing blood. I've been told they are tiny. The one thing on me that is tiny, and it has to be my veins. Whatever.
Sometimes it is easy. Most of the time, drawing blood isn't easy, and I'm left with bruised arms. I'm a warrior despite the pricks, the moving around of needles inside my arm, and this time it was all of that. The woman asked me if I'd been drinking water, and then she was sorry because I ranted about my early wake-up running around town morning. Needless to say, when the blood work was discussed at my Life Scan appointment, I was dehydrated. You think?
Before the Life Scan, I could also sign-up for one of three additional testings; a lumbar MRI, a CTA of the coronaries and lungs, or a brain MRI. Since I'm the product of a father who died of a heart attack, that weighs hugely on my mind, and I chose the Coronary Angiogram scan. I've already had a lumbar MRI due to hurting my back after lifting my mother and, really, a scan of my brain? I'm sure my brother would have said we already know there isn't anything up there.
The CTA scan I scheduled five days after the blood work. I had to fast four hours before the appointment, and I had some trepidation after reading about which people shouldn't have the scan because I have PVC's and PAC's and worried I fell into that category. After much research, while my husband made comments about waiting until the last minute, I read this was due to an inaccurate reading. I decided I didn't fit that protocol and then proceeded to worry all night long while my PVC's and PAC's began in earnest.
Luckily, that was a "volunteer" day for me, and I didn't have time to worry. When I arrived at my appointment, I was pretty chill, not to mention hungry. I was called in, told to remove my bra, and then was taken into a large room with a huge machine that looked like the MRI machine where I had my lumbar testing. I hopped up on to the table following the technician's instructions, and he took my blood pressure.
This is another weird issue I have like the blood work. Cuffs are pumped up. Stopped. Pumped again. Stopped. Pumped again until I think I'm going to pass out from all the squeezing. Usually, the machine doesn't read it, or the person attached to the stethoscope can't hear it, and the pumping begins again in earnest. This time a machine took it, and no surprise, it took forever. When it finally registered, it was 107/43. I was kind of pumped, excuse the pun, about that blood pressure, although, after some thought, which included concern that the lower number was awfully low, I decided the technician wasn't the brightest bulb. He hooked me up to an IV because this test required a contrast dye. Yeah, I knew this wouldn't go over very well.
I explained my difficulty, and he decided that he'd go right into the bruised bump where the blood had been drawn five days prior. Before I could argue that bright idea, he was poking me--in the same damn hole. That produced nothing, so he moved the needle around inside my arm several times before giving up and moving to my other arm. I smiled, reminded myself I was not my mother, kept my mouth closed, and prayed this would work on the other arm.
Only it was stopped before the first poke because another technician, a female, arrived. She had multiple questions for the male technician, and then she explained to me this was his first time working with Life Scan patients as if that made any difference. Isn't a machine a machine, whether for Life Scanning or daily scanning? She began hooking me up to a heart monitor as she explained that my pulse rate had to be lower than 80 to do the scan. As I watched my bp numbers on the machine, my pulse rate read 62, and I refrained from rolling my eyes. The more they monitored my jumpy heart, the better. My pulse rate was now at 60, a feat I thought incredible due to all the drama, and the female technician began to wrap the cuff on my arm again before the male technician said he'd done that.
It was decided I was good to go, and the female technician got the IV in with minimal effort. Yay to women, I thought in my head. I had to put both arms over my head, and then they left me alone to run for protection from the rays that would shoot out and attack me. I closed my eyes, took a breath, and began writing my book in my head.
The table I lay upon moved in and out at various times. An automated voice told me to hold my breath at various times, then told me to breathe. At one time, the female technician asked if I was okay, to which I responded, "peachy." Then the male technician told me they were now shooting me with the dye, and I would feel warm all over and think I was peeing my pants. Nothing new, I thought, since menopause.
I felt the warmth but didn't feel the need to pee. I went in and out some more, then was told the next breath would be a long one and that I wouldn't be able to hold it and should slowly let out my air. That got my competitive juices flowing at being told I couldn't do it, and I began to mentally prepare to beat the system. I didn't do it, but I was oh, so close. Then, of course, I wanted to ask if I could try again, but I didn't.
Then it was over. I thought the worst was having my arms over my head. The needle bothered me where my arm lay on the pillow. I was removed from the hook-ups, helped up off the table, and sent on my way with a new bruise to accompany the other in the first arm. The findings will be sent to the Life Scan center. Two tests down, the one big one left to go. I drove off to get some food.
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