So, on Sunday afternoon this woman who was wearing white polyester pleated pants and who reminded me distinctly of my Aunt Rosie (my Grandmother's sister), leaned over me and said, "okay honey, I have to call it quits. The blood is coming too slowly, we'll never get a whole bag out of you."
That's when I started to cry.
In the middle of the gym. On my back. Staring up at the two rubber bouncy-balls that had gotten caught in the rafters and pipes. One was red and the other one blue.
Part of it was the pain (I still have a bruise), but most of it was the disappointment. I knew what was expected of me. I knew what the finger prick and the invasive questions and the waiting in line was all about. And it was clear that I was not performing up to par. Aunt Rosie explained that sometimes the vein triggers something in the heart and in order to protect itself, it will clot up and stop the blood flow.
How often it seems I've been on the table of a relationship, squeezing my fist and praying for the blood to flow, only to have to pull out the needle. Am I really saving myself from something bad or are my perceptions of safety skewed? Can I turn off this instinct somehow? Or maybe I should stop asking that question and let the vein be. If it clots, it clots. It is what it is.
Designed by Charles Desrosiers sometime between 1898-1901. Note the light coming through the petals... it's translucent/backless enamel called plique à jour!
