Phobia

You clutch the blood work orders from your gastroenterologist as you wait for the doctor to enter the room. The floor is cleaner than usual, your eyes locked on the sheen of the tiles from the bright rectangular light in the ceiling.

The last time you went for blood work, something strange had happened. You were fine until you sat in the seat, then tears formed and burst from your ducts within an instant. They streamed down your cheeks without control, though you certainly wanted them to stop. The nurse’s eyes widened, and she assured you it wouldn’t hurt. You knew that, and in your head, you told yourself that over and over. Yet when she missed the vein in your left arm you had whined, and the tears didn’t stop until you left the lab.

You do not want to humiliate yourself and act like such a child again.

Your partner had driven you to that last lab appointment and greeted you in the waiting room. They said they had never seen your pupils so dilated before and think the situation started some sort of panic attack.

Your mother said it was all in your head and you had to stop psyching yourself out. She hadn’t been there, but you had called her on the phone afterward. You believe her for two main reasons: one, she has a medical degree, and two, you desperately hope she is right. If it’s all in your head, you can rid yourself of your embarrassing fear by the next appointment. I’ll take every precaution possible, and I’ll be in and out. This time won't be like last time, you think. Right?

You’re yanked from your thoughts by two light knocks on the door.

Your primary care doctor enters the small square room, opening the door wider than usual for her baby bump. She smiles. It’s genuine, unlike most of those you see from fatigued practitioners. You pry your lips open to return it. Her smile fades as her gaze shifts to your hands.

One of your thumbs paces back and forth on the grey counter you sit next to. Why am I such a baby? It’s just a tiny needle, you think. I got a tattoo without a single tear! You stop your thumb by clasping your hands together. Your fingertips turn white.

“Hey, how are we doing?” she asks as she sits onto her blue stool. She scoots back a few extra inches and turns to you.

“I’m alright,” you manage to say.

“What brings you in today?”

You pry your hands open and hand her the paperwork. “I need to get some lab work done.”

She takes the papers and reads, her green eyes shifting left to right. “You know you can just go to LabCorp to get these done? You didn’t have to bring them to me.”

You stare at her short, dark hair, pulled back into a ponytail, to avoid looking into her gaze. “Well—I—I kind of, like, freak out, I guess,” you say. “I don’t know why.” You think about sitting back in the tan chair instead of sitting so erect, but all you do is drop your shoulders slightly. “I just haven’t had good experiences at the other labs, so I wanted to see your lab.”

She nods. “Well, I can certainly arrange that for you.” She turns to her computer and talks herself through the process as she searches for the requested tests in the system.

You wait, and although you have nothing critical to do after the appointment, you combat an urge to rush her. Your body itches to leave as soon as it can.

“Okay, so I’ve set up all the requests in our system and have sent them to the lab,” your doctor says as she swivels around carefully. Her white coat, hanging down behind her, flows with the motion.

You nod, a quick, rigid nod. Your throat is tight and dry. You’d like a drink of water.

"Is there anything else I can help you with before I send you over?"

You suck in a sharp breath. "Oh, I can't—" Your voice cracks and you pause. You're now aware of your heart as it pumps a little harder. "Can we schedule the lab for later?"

She pauses. "Oh, sure thing, honey." Her tone has changed, as if she's a mother pigeon and you're her frail child in a nest made from cigarette butts, straw wrappers, and a few twigs. You could almost see paintings of bubbles and vibrant cartoon fish forming on the plain white walls.

As your doctor turns to the computer, your eyebrows scrunch. The mouse clicks and a box opens on the screen. "What works best for you?" she asks.

"Fridays." Your temples are hot.

"How's this Friday? What time?"

This Friday is only three days away. Your first thought is to push it back a week to give yourself time to prepare. A whole week to prepare for a stupid little needle? you scoff. "That's fine," you force yourself to say. "Later the better."

"Alrighty! I've got you down for Friday at 3:30."

"Sounds good."

After your doctor leads you to the door, you scurry out the building, avoiding eye contact. You look down at your flurrying feet, thinking, relax, damn. There’s an ache at the back of your head from your tightened neck. It's not even happening 'til Friday for Christ's sake. The green tile below your feet changes to concrete, then to asphalt.

You look up to find your car. Once you're behind the wheel, your body locks up. You sit and stare at the dashboard for a few seconds, maybe minutes. Your nails dig into your skin. Although you're not exerting energy, your heart still pounds. You heave a deep breath in through your nose. It leaves your lungs as a heavy sigh. You drop your shoulders and open your folded arms. All you have to do is sit there. It'll be two minutes tops. No crying. In and out.

The day before your lab appointment you begin your caffeine hiatus. Caffeine shrinks veins, and the last thing you want is the phlebotomist missing yours. Another necessary precaution, you think as you stare at your cup of water, wishing it was coffee. You’re not sure you’ll have the energy to make it through work.

You let your responsibilities distract your mind from the appointment throughout the day. You don't want to think about it. You shouldn't think about it. It will just lead to you freaking out over nothing.

As you're looking in the mirror at the end of the day, a memory flashes in your mind. You left the lab with four band-aids, having given out twice. The phlebotomist had missed your small vein the first time.

Your tiny bathroom now feels minuscule, as if there was only enough room for you, the mirror, and your dread. The dread takes up most of the space. A whimper escapes your throat. Pathetic, you think and grip the sink countertop. Why am I like this? The yellow light deepens the shadows of your heavy frown. Quit making a big deal about it. You wrench your fingers off the counter and whip around.

Like a hamster on a wheel, your heart races.

For the six hours leading up to the visit, you drink an entire water bottle every hour. A quarter of the bottle every fifteen minutes, you remind yourself. The hydration should deter another four band-aid incident. You hope that fact will keep your fear at bay so you can compose yourself. It seems to for those six hours and the car ride to your appointment.

Yet as you walk toward the door of the building, you feel it creeping in. There's a stinging in your inner elbows, and you find yourself wanting to cross your arms. Stop it! There's nothing to be afraid of, you think, but your heart disagrees, ramming against your ribcage, anticipating, dreading. You fight the urge in your arms by clenching your fists. The back of your head throbs. In and out, in and out. Sit still, and don't cry. Sit still. Don't cry.

Your partner opens the door for you. "It's okay," they say.

I know.

You inch towards the glass window of the office, your legs so tight it seems like a waddle. You haven't removed your stare from the receptionist, mainly because every movement seems to take triple the energy it should, but you’re also avoiding the intrusive stares of the other patients in the waiting room. "I'm here for a blood draw," you say, voice soft and restrained.

The receptionist looks you up and down. "They'll take you back shortly."

Pajama pants and a sweatshirt keep you warm, but not comfortable. While you wait, your leg bouncing, your partner talks about the pictures on the wall. They’re trying to distract you, which is both soothing and humiliating. You lock your eyes on the frame of the middle image, a flock of birds.

The white door swings open, and a woman calls your name. You spring up as if your legs are a coil, but the tension in your body does not ease. Your arms cross during the action, your fists still clenched. In and out. Don't cry. Two minutes tops.

As you're brought back, your partner walks beside you, petting your shoulder. Your breathing is as rapid as your heart beat.

"We're going to have you sit in one of the rooms instead of the lab, okay?" the woman says.

You saw her lips moving, and you're certain you had understood her in the moment, but you already forgot what she said. You nod. Thoughts pour and crash through your mind like the Niagara Falls, but you’re not sure what they're about. You're angry with yourself for acting so childish, for making this more work than necessary. At the same time, you're trying to relax your muscles. Mostly, however, all you can make out is fear, intense fear.

You hear your partner say something to the phlebotomist as you enter the room. You sit down in the padded chair, but it feels as if it was chiseled from stone. You focus on the white light in the ceiling and roll your sleeves up. Your lips are tight.

The phlebotomist enters, holding the tray with the tubes and the needle to the side in an attempt to keep it out of your view. You see it in your periphery. You can now hear your heart in the veins of your ear canals.

"My, you're so tense it's all the way down to your toes," he says. Braids at the top of his head restrain the tight corkscrews that reach for his shoulders. He pats your ankle. "Try to relax and take deep breaths."

As you alleviate the tension in your body as best you can, your thighs tremble (your toes uncurl too). Stop! you think, but you don't fight it too much. You'd rather focus your energy on preventing your bicep from flexing; you don't want to restrict the blood flow. If you could concentrate on relaxing your arm and controlling the trembles at the same time, you would. The phlebotomist glances at your legs and frowns.

Do not cry, you tell yourself. Your fingers squeeze the side of the chair. It'll be over in two minutes.

Your partner cups their hands around your eyes, like the blinders for a thoroughbred. "I'm here, okay? Just look at me."

You focus on their pupils. It helps a little, gives you something calm to try to focus on instead of the race in your mind; Venipuncture Panic has winning odds 1-5. At least, you think your mind is racing, but you still can’t make out about what. Your brain simultaneously feels like the infield during the Derby and a black hole.

When you hear the cap pop off the needle, tears burst from your eyes. God, I'm being so ridiculous, you think. Your lips are weighed down by your self-hatred, though the frown only adds to your outward childish appearance.

You wish you knew why you acted this way. You wish you knew how to stop it. If only your embarrassment could work with logic to beat the panic. Why can’t I stop crying? Your body stiffens.

The needle punctures your skin. It doesn't hurt, as expected, yet your weeping doesn’t end. "Relax your arm, hun," the phlebotomist says.

"Hey, you gotta breathe," your partner says. They stroke your cheek and take a deep breath.

You hadn't realized you weren't breathing but your restricted lungs confirm such. You try to breathe on your partner’s count. All the while, you’re still trying to dam your tear ducts.

"Yeah, this is a panic response if I've ever seen one," the phlebotomist says.

His voice is distant, drowned out by the thunder of Venipuncture Panic’s hooves, but a small part of you hears him. The acknowledgment of your fear instead of the usual phlebotomist's disdainful coddle is enough to ease the fight against your bawling.

It's been seconds. It felt like hours. You’re too focused on remembering to breathe to pay attention to anything else. Your heartbeat drowns out the other sounds of the room. The smell of disinfectant ceases to exist. The slight sting in your vein numbs. But despite this loss of senses, you're hyper aware of movement: the nanometer change in the needle as the phlebotomist adjusts his grip, the sweat sliding through your hair, and the brief departure of your partner's gaze.

"What will you guys be having for dinner?" the phlebotomist asks. The movement of his lips catches your attention more than the sound of his voice.

Your partner looks at you. From their expression you can tell they’re urging you to respond. If there wasn't a whale on your chest holding its tail up in triumph, like Shamu when she glides on the stage, you would. Your partner answers for you, saying, "Pancakes."

Your lips quiver as you strain to push the whale back into the water. It's a task that would be easier achieved with your whole body, but you don't dare flex your arm. "With turkey bacon," you say between gasps and sobs. Your tears are enough for even the whale to swim in. They run down the sides of your face into your ears. It sounds like you've joined the whale in the ocean.

"Mmm, I love bacon," the phlebotomist says.

The lack of pity in his reaction stirs something within your mind. It seems to have given the racer a mild tranquilizer, but it's hooves still pound against your skull.

A few more painstaking second-hours pass. You think your partner and the phlebotomist continue to talk, but you're not certain. Your gaze is too focused on your partner’s eyes to see their mouth moving, your mind too concentrated on breathing, and your ears are drowning in water.

Only when the phlebotomist removes the needle do your senses, mostly, return. Terror reduces to fright. He applies cotton and a bandage. "All done."

The corners of your lips turn up. After your partner removes their hands, you take as deep a breath as possible, a couple seconds longer than any breath you've taken in the last five minutes. You sit up. Tears still slide down your cheeks.

After slowly slipping off the chair into a stand, you turn to the phlebotomist. “I’m sorry,” you say, wiping under your eye. “Thank you for not missing my vein.” Your voice shakes.

“Don’t apologize!” he says. “This is all part of my job, and I love my job. You can’t help having a phobia.” He smiles, a near replication of his I.D. badge.

You stand there, frozen, with his words ringing in your ears. Phobia… The word clears the darkness in your mind, revealing a dirt track. Venipuncture Panic now runs with reason, kicking up turf, instead of stampeding about a black void. I guess I can’t help it. Your fists unclench.

Your partner holds your hand and guides you out of the room toward the waiting room. You stare at the floor just like your last visit, avoiding the practitioners’ gazes. You know they’re questioning why there are tears soaking an adult's cheeks after a blood draw.

Their thoughts anger you. You want to explain yourself, to tell them that you can’t control it, but you keep your lips sealed, more concerned about leaving the building.

Your partner pushes on the metal sheet for the door's handle. The door creaks as it swings open. You release your grip on your partner’s hand and hold onto your inner elbow, grasping the bandage, as you scutter through the waiting room and down the parking lot.

When you finally get to the car, you slump over onto your partner’s shoulder. You need a few minutes of comforting strokes and assurances to calm your nerves and embarrassment.

Venipuncture Panic crosses the finish line: first place, though there wasn't any competition. Like you, the horse is exhausted yet antsy, chest heaving.

“I wish I wasn’t like this,” you say.

“You can’t help it, love,” they say, still gliding their hand up and down your back. “Trying to fight it is just making you more stressed and tense.”

More tense, you think. A sigh parts your tight lips. You sniffle. It's over, you think. It's okay. You're okay. You can relax now. You blink for what feels like the first time since you were last in the car. There’s no longer a pain in your chest.

“Plus, people can overcome phobias, but it doesn’t happen overnight,” they add.

"That's good," you say.

***

“You may have hypothyroidism,” the endocrinologist says. Her eyes are hazel. “But we’ll have to do some bloodwork to be sure.”

Your breath catches. After collecting yourself, you say, “So, I actually have a phobia of getting my blood drawn.” You can tell the endocrinologist doesn’t believe you from her emotionless countenance as she nods. You shift your gaze to her blonde hair and leave it there. You can’t really blame her. There’s a lot of people that say the word without knowing what it’s like. But you do, and you’ll take the necessary action to make it at least bearable, though you’re not going to trick yourself into believing it will eradicate it. “Could you please print out the tests so I can take them to my primary and get them done there?”

For a brief moment, there’s uneasy silence between the two of you. "Sure, I can print those out for you since you've got a problem with needles," she says.

You hold in a sigh. Irritation, not fear, fuels your pounding heart. “Great.” Although you do appreciate that she's printing the request for you, you wish you had the cogency to tell her a phobia isn't the same as “having a problem with,” psyching out, being childish, and everything else you’ve heard.

Phobia by Erin Wedemeyer

Originally published in The 2023 Writer's Block Anthology