This is the face of a girl who had no idea that FIVE EFFING VIALS OF BLOOD were about to be savagely extracted from her body.
And by “savagely,” I mean “gently”.
Via tiny butterfly needle.
By the gentlest, sweetest phlebotomist who had really, really good lashes—
but really, all that mattered to me at the moment of extraction was that MY BLOOD
THEY WERE TAKING IT
FROM MY BODY
BY WAY OF NEEDLE
WITH A NEEDLE
FROM MY BODY
OH MY GOD
Before that, though, life was totally rad.
did y’all know you get gift bags at the baby doctor?!
That dashing husband of mine & I get all settled into the exam room to start our appointment, and our nurse (Jennifer) hands me this giant bag full of coupons, prenatal vitamin samples, magazines and a giant tome about pregnancy, starring THE least-excited pregnancy diagram woman of all time.
Seriously, homegirl is just standing there like, no big deal, I’m growing the entire digestive system and brains of an entire other human being inside me, whatever
IT’S THE MIRACLE OF LIFE, YO
Our appointment kicked off with the usual health Q&A (do I smoke, have I ever, how about drugs, what about drinking, god you’re boring what do you DO even), and once that’s all filled in, Jennifer asks if I have any questions for her.
HI JENNIFER I AM QUESTIONING THE MOTIVES OF EVERY HERBAL TEA IN MY HOUSE
ALSO WHAT DO I DO ABOUT ALLERGIES
ARE THERE SNACKS NEARBY
Part of my new gift bag included a handy magnetic list of “here are some drugs that probably won’t give your kid three heads if you take them during pregnancy, so Jennifer fished that out for me and did a quick run-down of the contents.
“Pretty much, anything that has a ‘D’ on it, you need to avoid,” she said. “Avoid the ‘D.’“
And, because we are exceptionally mature adults, husband and I both replied, “Too late,” without skipping a beat.
Clearly, we are definitely ready to raise another human to be a responsible member of society & not make dick jokes at a doctor’s appointment.
AND THEN CAME TIME FOR THE BLOODS.
“We’re just going to need about five vials today,” Jennifer cheerily informed me as we headed into the lab.
You know, just.
The aforementioned phlebotomist is waiting to meet us, lashes on freaking POINT, and I’m death-gripping husband’s arm like I’m going to be kidnapped if he moves more than three inches away from me.
I go through the usual drill—hi, I’m Ashley, needles really actually make me panic like I might die, so please let me know when they’re happening so I can pretend they’re not here—and assume my position in the Chair of Death.
Which is probably a perfectly nice chair; it’s got an arm-resty thing, it’s cushioned, it’s clean.
BUT IT’S ALSO HOLDING ME HOSTAGE SO.
I feel the cold of an alcohol-soaked cotton ball run across the inner bend of my arm, and immediately, ALL THE PANICS.
“Breathe, baby, you’re doing great.”
Oh, hey, husband. Glad you’re here with me. You’re going to be so rad to have around when we’re actually ready to do that “birth” thing this winter.
I feel the needle go in, and then comes the part where I have to not think about the fact there’s a needle in my arm, sucking out blood, for approximately five vials’ worth of time.
Y’all, that’s a long time.
“You’re almost done, love; you’re doing such a good job!”
I’m such a badass, you guys. Five vials and look at me go. I’m basically an expert.
The needle comes out.
The band-aid goes on.
I pass right the eff out.
When I open my eyes, I see a flip-flop laying forlornly on the floor below me and the realization hits me that, oh yay, I just blacked out.
WHAT A BADASS SO MANY TAH-DAHS
There’s a glass of ice water hovering a few inches from my face; an ice pack being held on my chest; Jennifer holding my legs out in front of me; and husband full-on smirking at me from above, still holding my hand.
“You looked elegant when it happened,” he promises.