by Psykhe Azarraga
In the lab again. It’s always like this. The med tech ties the tourniquet, tells me to make a fist, taps around, then frowns. This time, I offered my left arm first—out of habit.
For over a decade, my right arm was strictly off-limits. It was the dialysis arm. No BP, no IV, no extractions. Sacred ground. So now, even though the access has long been closed, my body still remembers.
Left first, always. She tied the tourniquet, tapped and massaged the area gently. A thin bluish line appeared under the skin—like a whisper of a vein. She squinted, tilted her head, and asked: “Let’s try the other arm, Ma’am?”
So, I stretched out my right arm. The veins there still bulge, but they don’t look strong anymore. They looked tired. Like overused elastic bands—stretched too many times until they’ve gone soggy.
Funny how these veins behave. When I don’t need anything—IV, blood test, nothing—they’re front and center. Loud and proud.
But the moment they’re needed? They vanish. Hide. Play dead. They like to play when they’re supposed to behave—and show off when no one’s asking. Inarte a.
She glanced at my right arm and asked: “Have you donated blood before, Ma’am?”
My brain: Blood? What—? For a split second, I was confused. Then I remembered. Oh. The bulging veins.
“No,” I replied. “I used to do dialysis on this arm. But now it’s ok—the access has been closed.”
She gave a small, understanding nod, but seemed unsure. Apologetic, even. After a few seconds of silent judgment from the veins, she gave a tiny smile and said: “Let’s go back to the left arm na lang, Ma’am.”
In my mind, I was chuckling. This always feels like a guessing game. And she didn’t know she was playing.
In the next cubicle, a baby started wailing. “Di-di… no… N-nooo!”
“Isn’t it funny how even when babies cry, they still sound cute?” I said, being the marites that I am.
She laughed. “Yes, Ma’am. Pero pag adult na, iba na ang dating no?”
We shared a quick laugh. We returned to my left arm. She tied the tourniquet again, asked me to make a fist. Tap… tap… while whispering to the vein like it was a stubborn child: “Please give me some. Please be generous…”
Then she inserted the needle with the vacutainer adapter attached—the whole setup looking like a mini blood vacuum system. She didn’t need to pull anything. Just plugged the first vial in… but nothing came out. She pulled the plunger a little—still nothing. Then she adjusted the needle slightly, moving it just a bit deeper.
“Yes!” she said, with a tiny breath of triumph.
“Haay. Medyo laliman lang pala.”
I could see the relief on her face.
“I need four vials, Ma’am. Ok lang po?”
I nodded, smiling behind my mask.
“No problem.”
One by one, she attached the vials. Each one filled up like magic. That’s how they do it now. The system is called a vacutainer—a clever little invention made up of three parts: a double-ended needle, a plastic holder (called an adapter), and a set of vacuum-sealed vials that collect blood automatically.
And for people like me—who bruise easily and have hard-to-manage veins—this system is such a gift.
There’s minimal movement inside the vein, and no need to poke again if they need multiple vials for testing. Just switch the tubes, and the rest is quiet, clean, and kind.
“Masakit po ba, Ma’am?” she asked.
“It’s ok.”
Vial number four. Done.
“Ok na po tayo, Ma’am. Hinga ng malalim…”
She gently pulled the needle out and pressed a plaster on the spot.
“Congratulations!” I said.
She smiled. And quietly, I thought—You passed the challenge today. And so did I.
