I Survived

Well, the needle drama was just that – drama, on my part.  The lab at California Pacific Medical Center opens at 7:00 a.m., but there was no way you’d find me there at that time.  My doctor had said that an appointment wasn’t necessary, so I strolled in around 8:30 a.m. last Thursday.  To my surprise, they were already quite busy.  I turned in my form, answered a few questions, then sat down to wait while listening to music on my Android.  The wait was around half an hour.  When they called my name, the person performing my blood test was a somewhat older Filipino woman.  She needed two vials of blood.  When she showed me the vials, I gasped and said “Those look kind of big!”  I explained that I was deathly afraid of needles, though she was probably wondering about the large tattoo on my inner right wrist.  As I admitted to being extremely nervous, her response was something like “I’m here to do my very best to serve you.”  Somehow that did NOT reassure me in any way.  She told me that she would use a small needle on me and proceeded to get it out.  I didn’t want to see the needle at all and covered my eyes.  She mentioned that my veins are good, so it should be easy going.  Oddly, every time I’ve had a blood test, the practitioner comments on how nice/good my veins are.  Apparently, I’d be an excellent candidate for intravenous drug use – if only I weren’t deathly afraid of needles!!!  Let’s be honest – I barely felt the needle going in and the process seemed to take about 10 seconds.  As she withdrew the needle, I asked “Was that enough blood for both vials or are you going to stick me again?!”  She assured me that she had enough blood.  She wiped off my arm with alcohol (or whatever it is), bandaged me up and admonished me to leave it on at least half an hour, if not more.  Her parting words were “Next time, don’t be so afraid!”  Easy for HER to say!  She’d also asked if I’d like some juice, which I declined.  Are you kidding?  California Pacific Medical Center is within walking distance of that purportedly French boulangerie on Pine Street.  I walked over there with intentions of loading up on sugar to reward myself for such an arduous (!) ordeal.  About 10 minutes after entering the boulangerie, I walked out with a slice of galette des rois, a chocolate chip madeline, a slice of pistachio pound cake and an olive baguette.  No, they wouldn’t give me a doll/charm/kewpie/crown or anything with the galette des rois; explained that I’d have to buy an entire galette for that.  Don’t tempt me!  I went back to the office and scarfed down the slice of galette des rois immediately.  I shared half of the madeline with my boy, A.  He thought it was delicious and asked what it was.  Since he’s having a weight loss contest with one of his roommates, he didn’t feel as guilty about having only half of a madeline.  (He’s not even overweight, but thinks he needs to slim down and tone up.)  The pistachio pound cake survived until the next day, as did the olive baguette.  Loved the pistachio pound cake.  The olive baguette was fine, but pales in comparison to the olive bread that they serve at Campton Place.  Yet the best olive bread I ever had was from a bakery in Venice, Italy.  The olives weren’t sliced or chopped, but whole olives.  I remember taking it back to my room and downing it with fresh pears and some random Italian cheese from a farmer’s market in Padua.  The moral of the story is:  I’m a big baby and will use any excuse to reward myself for good behavior!