Vampire Insurance

Alright amigos, today I was going to tell you all about my fancy new home-improvement project. You know, the one that I am miraculously and shockingly still not sick of, despite having spent all weekend baking like a brick-oven pizza in the summer heat so that I could cover my legs and some of the furniture in oil paint and mosquito kisses.

Instead, today I was beset by a calamity of such a staggeringly large consequence, both mentally and physically, that it wiped my mind squeaky clean of any other possible ramblings. Today I had to face my worst fear, in my own home, with Lawyer Boy holding my hand, and the cat shrieking nearby like a drunken banshee.

Today a woman came to my house to steal my blood. WITH HER FANGS.

Okay, fine. She was a nurse, it was for life insurance, and she used a handy-dandy disposable needle -the darling of the medical profession- which I can only assume was for efficiency, since biting me on the arm is not exactly a sure thing. Mostly because I squirm. But seriously, having blood taken is one of my worst fears: You can give me a shot, poke my eyes, and dig to China using all manner of tools, but do not try to stick things into my veins. I don't care if it hurts or not. I have a phenomenal pain tolerance, but my tolerance for things, metal things, violating my sacrosanct tubular parts is low, because I get all worked up thinking of holes being poked up in my insides. And then I get whiny, testy, frantic, and desperate.

LB had given me fair warning that the nurse was coming to steal my fluids, which gave me ample time to get myself fully worked into a lather over the procedure. By four o'clock this afternoon, fellow office-dwellers wandering by my bat cave had a front-row view of a harrowed Grace, showing a bit too much of the whites of my eyes and pulling out my own hair, strand by frantic strand. I was going to die. I was just going to straight-up die.

By the time I got home, I was so nervous that my fingernails had turned blue and my extremities were the texture and temperature of raw oysters. I paced the floor like a rabid dog awaiting the arrival of the vampiress. I envisioned the evening devolving into a scene like something from The Shining, wherein the nurse, wielding an intravenous line like a garden hose, chased a hospital-gown-clad me through the neighborhood, while I shrieked "you'll nevah take me aliiiiive!" and tried to find a mature boxwood to hide behind. The hospital gown got involved in my nightmare because clothing that made a centerpiece of my crack is the only thing that could have made this scenario worse. The neighbors would be horrified at my immaturity and pasty rear. We would have to move.

I was marginally pacified when the nurse arrived, curls falling across her forehead and a VCU Research Science Division nametag pinned to her fairy-tale printed scrubs. "Live happily ever after!" they cheerfully advised me. At that point, I would have been happy just to live ever after, period. Fortunately, my inner psychopath had not overshadowed my manners and I offered her brownies, scones, and something to drink. She politely declined, screwing my chances of bribing her into taking the cat's blood instead of mine. Do you think Meow Mix is alarmingly high in cholesterol?

In order to suss out my chances for survival, I questioned her very honestly. "Monique," I said calmly. "I am not good at giving blood. Are you really, really good at taking blood?"

Monique looked at me and smiled. "I've worked in pediatrics for fourteen years."

"Thank God!" I exclaimed. "You're used to my people!"

In order to spare her from extended periods of time spent in the company of the more extreme reaches of my personality, I suggested that we kick off the festivities with a little bloodletting. Surprisingly, she agreed, which meant I was suddenly face-to-face with my arch-nemesis, hollow needles. I took a seat at my dining room table, usually the site of festive dinners and celebratory toasts. What if I died in this chair? LB would never again be able to host a dinner party at this table. I gave her my arm, having agreed to let her stick the wee (she promised it was wee!) needle wherever she found the "juiciest" vein. I grasped LB's hands, preparing to transfer the pain to his willing self, and looked away from my victimized arm.

"OW! Ow, Grace! STOP!" LB shrieked, his hands trapped in my death-grip. "She hasn't even stuck you yet!" He pulled one of his hands back to reveal red half-moons etched into his flesh by my fingernails. The price of my love is steep.

He was still gently harassing me for making him the victim when Monique stuck me. When she told me that she was done, I didn't believe her. She couldn't be done. Nothing had hurt. I hadn't felt a jab, hadn't felt an intravenous vacuum stealing my personal blood. "Here," she said, putting a cotton ball into my free hand. "Hold that right there in your elbow," she instructed, pressing my fingers to the minute red dot in my skin.

"Monique?" I asked quiveringly.

"Yes?" she replied, efficiently packing my personal blood samples into the box with my paperwork.

"I love you," I confessed, so relieved that I had survived unscathed that, had she asked me right at that moment to bear her children, I would have agreed in a heartbeat.

As long as it didn't involve giving blood.