If I’m any judge of youth fashion (hint: I’m totally not) the painfully young nurse who was responsible for taking my blood yesterday at the rural health clinic I attend might be a baby goth. Her hair was a blacker black than nature provides, her scrubs were a matching black, she wore big black eyeglasses, and close inspection (she had to get all up in my personal space to take my blood) revealed more empty piercing holes in her face than I could easily count.

I’m what’s known as a “hard stick” (my vein walls are springy and tend to roll away from the needle) and she was on her third try. I don’t care; my personal best (worst) is eight dry holes before a successful blood draw. But she has a kindly heart, and she does care. “I don’t want to hurt you!” she wailed, as she stabbed tentatively at the vein.

I felt bad for the young lady. She’s very kind and was being painfully nice. I wanted to put her at ease, but I am a big ol’ greying gruff white dude who, in the context she has encountered me, probably looks to her like just another MAGA asshole like her grandpa. There are barriers of propriety and professionalism between us, and we’ve got almost nothing in common. All I can do is be as calm and reassuring as possible. If only my too-smart mouth would get the memo…

“It’s all right,” I said as soothingly as I know how. “You know, some people even do this for fun.”

There was no hesitation in her response. She had indeed been aware. With considerable fervor: “Yes, but I’m not one of them!”

Luckily, at that moment her needle struck home. Blood for the blood labs!

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