For over 30 years I believed it was my deeply hidden veins below my whale-like blubber skin which made drawing blood from me the bitch that it was.  The digging, the bruising, the breaking off of needles, nurses calling for back-ups and think-tanks to discuss and prod me like I was some sort of green creature found in the midst of a mysterious crop circle.  It gave me a complex, and definitely shielded me from any future risk of heroin addiction or any other drug taken intravenously.

I thought I had fat skin, or so a nurse not-so-delicately told my 12 year old self, her defence for her blood-getting incompetence.  When faced with the prospect of a needle I would dig deep within myself to find the strength and silent courage needed to keep my tough-girl and unhurt-able-girl façade in place.  I learned to take deep breaths at the right time and smile and laugh to distract myself from the pain of a needle missing my vein over and over and over only for the ordeal to be repeated in the other arm, in another vein, in another place until they were finally able to squeak out enough blood for a needed test.  There was a couple year period where I was needing blood work done on a weekly basis.  Thursdays were a bad day for my hiding veins, I don‘t blame them for hiding tho, not after what they’d go through.

I spent this past Monday and Tuesday in the ER.  I electrocuted myself at work.  A typical Paige thing to do.  I’ve been electrocuted several times,  twice with 220 volts.  This time it was a mix of 220, water, and tin grounding.  This was the first time I sought medical attention.  It was a horrible experience, one of which details I may share later.  But I realized this morning as I was picking off the remaining tape goo left on my arm from the intravenous needle and other needle-band-aid covers stationed randomly along vein-lines, is that there was no bruising, and there was not a single nurse who had needed to dig or even try a second time.  I had even pre-apologized for my horrible veins and relayed with almost scripted dialogue having heard so many times, to not even bother with the right arm, and warning how deep my veins were.  Each nurse responded so unexpectedly with almost quizzical looks telling me my veins were fine and big, three went straight to the hand, -I have old-man vein-hands, only not as soft or translucently white or wrinkly, but still, very, very, veiny.

And then I realized as I was looking at the barely visible pokes throughout my arms and hands, that it was never me and my deeply hidden veins and fat-skin arms, but the nurses and blood-getters, and that of course, rural Alberta is probably not getting the best of the best in needloligists.  And just as my math, sciences, social studies courses were all taught by my phys-ed teachers, perhaps the people hired to get my blood were in fact just hospital receptionists, or on their stage..oops french word for job training, can't think of the english one (good sign for my French, scary sign for my English!).  And I (to horrify my language arts teacher who doubled or actually tripled as school principle, computer science teacher and once as a french teacher, by starting my third sentence with an and), in reflecting on this, am disappointed in the loud truth that the majority of my self-deprecating manner is from me having been socialized to believe that adults positioned or occupying a vocation of some sort are experts in their field and therefor must be right and respected and not challenged or countered when criticizing me.  *breathe* -long sentence-   I have been the fall guy for countless inexperienced professionals.  It's never their inability to perform their job, to efficiently take blood without causing unnecessary damage, but the other person, and their veins being too deep.  How easy is it for an adult to blame an unassuming and trusting child rather than apologize and accept the fact they suck at what they do, or are simply unqualified for a job in an area no one wants to fill.

At 34, and countless "fat-skinned" criticisms of sorts believed later, I have finally started questioning adults, finally being slow to trust and allowing time for respect to grow and be earned instead of freely given, no matter what position of authority or esteem is filled.  It is very difficult for me to allow myself to challenge the person blaming me for somehow shining back to them a mirror of their short-comings.  I am realizing much too late in life that human nature is so different from person to person and there are those who have no problem blaming others for their mistakes, no problem damaging others to save their face and reputation, that people/adults are capable of lying so easily and unblinkingly to the eyes of even those they call their friends, let alone strangers.  I'm still quick to believe the criticisms forced my way, but I'm at least starting to pause and think about where and who they are coming from and take a moment to decide if they are indeed correct or bull*&%t like my fat-skinned arms.