Off to see the Bleeders

WARNING: IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH OR CAN'T HANDLE POO TALK

DO NOT READ THIS BLOG. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

I had to get up close & personal this morning with the contents of my bowel in order to obtain a 'stool' sample as requested by my Doctor. All I will say about this (mainly because I promised my cousin Greg I wouldn't talk about my poop anymore) is that I hope like hell I never have to do that again. Fumbling around the toilet bowl with gloves on, with a scooper so small I think it was made for a mouse, trying to catch a little bit of jobbies is definitely not one of my proudest moments.

At some stage this afternoon I have to take said poop sample in to the local Medlab for inspection. It's currently hiding in the pocket of my Dickies back pack because Blake said if he knows where it is in our house he will die.

Imagine having to get out of bed every morning to go to work & inspect people's turds. How depressing!?

My mum is a Bleeder. Vampire (the non sparkly kind). Needle jabber. The proper name is Phlebotomist. She gets to stab people for a living. Some days when I'm slightly angry at the world, I get jealous of her & wish I could stab people with needles too. However blood makes me incredibly squeamish so I would more than likely spend the majority of my working day lying on the floor unconscious or on a chair with my head between my legs breathing in to a paper bag.

I used to be pretty tough when it came to injections & anything involving jabbing needles in to my person. But after a few really bad experiences with blood tests when I moved away, I now fear them. FEAR them. I try to act real tough but on the inside I am kacking my pants & my heart is beating in my chest like a jack hammer.

My mum is the only person in the whole world I will let stick a needle into my arm. Without a fight at least. She has been doing it for 20+ years & is dam good at what she does. She feels veins in people's arms like a blind person reading braille. I'm not joking. My arms are thick & fat. Finding a good vein in my arm is like trying to find a can of coke in the Saharah. Though somehow she does it, every time.

She also knows when I am trying to delay the inevitable so I better get this over & done with before I get a 'mum' lecture. And before Blake divorces me for keeping shit in my bag.

Wish me luck!

Bx