Many people who know me are unaware that I have a degree in
Medical Technology. It’s not something
that comes up very often, having spent more than twenty-five years in a
creative services group and in a variety of jobs that included writing, systems
support, and management. It’s a fun environment, one that I’m lucky to be part
of. And honestly, my departure from science was really more of an escape than a
career development choice.
During the last year of my training at the University of
Illinois Medical Center, I spent six weeks in a local hospital as a lab intern.
Within that period we were required to go on morning rounds with the phlebotomy
team (blood drawing) for three days. They started at 5 am, pre-dawn, and as a
result a few of them laughingly referred to themselves as vampires.
I am neither a morning person nor a fan of patient contact. The
combination made me extremely nervous. Practicing my new craft on a bench
covered with test tubes and glassware allowed for mistakes that were easily
remedied and without witnesses. To wake up a patient, a stranger, and stick a
needle in their arm for perhaps the third time ever was a recipe for anxiety. I
told my phlebotomy trainer that I’d prefer to hang out and just watch and that I
would never work in the role I was about to experience. She shrugged and
agreed.
My mother, Marge Larson, spent time in hospitals with
increasing frequency before her death from Lupus forty years ago this week (Feb
21). My internship occurred just months later. Being thrust back into that
setting was a vivid reminder of recent loss and sorrow. It may have been
therapeutic in the long run, but it wrung my emotions like a dishrag at the
time.
On day one, we headed up to the Oncology unit in our white
lab coats with a plastic carryall full of stoppered tubes of various colors,
needles, rubber tourniquets, gauze, and bandaids. We woke a number of patients
from their sleep. It’s an awkward experience, waking a stranger in a darkened
room, an invasion of privacy temporarily considered normal for the duration of
the hospital stay. If we had a paper requisition, we were compelled to arrive
back in the lab with one or more tubes of blood for testing that morning.
Doctors, nurses, and patients were counting on us.
I don’t recall the names or faces of the first few “draws”
that day. But patient four will stick with me forever. Her name was Marge
Larson. When I saw her name I had one of those Alfred Hitchcock moments known
as the “dolly zoom” – moving forward while zooming out. It’s a dizzying effect
you’ve no doubt seen in Vertigo, Jaws, and other films. My partner saw me
blanche and asked if I was ok. I nodded and got a grip. It was just too soon.
But Marge 2 was the sweetest little lady, unusually
receptive to our visit at the crack of dawn. Perhaps her cancer had taken her
to a place where every living moment was a joy and an opportunity to engage
with those around her. At some point I told her that my mother’s name was Marge
Larson. I left out the part about her demise. She asked me what my name was.
“Vic,” I said.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “My son always wanted to be named
Victor!”
Now, I’ve never been particularly fond of my name, but it
has significance throughout several generations in my family. I always thought
a more dynamic, all-American name would have served better in combination with
my last name. Jake. Duke. You know, something that sounds more like a
decathlete than a robot.
“Really? What’s your son’s name?” I asked.
“Lance,” she said, smiling.
“Lance Larson!” I blurted. “Tell him that’s a cool name!”
We continued with a bit of small talk, finished labeling
tubes and packing up for the next stop, and then went on our way. I don’t know
what happened to Marge 2 or her son. It was a short relationship with a long-lasting impact. And it was definitely the high point of my phlebotomy rotation.
We said goodbye, left the Oncology unit, and headed down to the fifth floor, the
psych ward.
😎
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