Yesterday, I had to see the hematologist. For some reason, my brain keeps trying to say the "blood doctor" is the herpetologist. That's a snake scientist and I know that.
I would blame "pregnancy brain" for the slip but honestly I have been known to do things like that even without the assistance of extra hormones, inadequate sleep, and a dancing baby wriggling inside while I am trying to think.
For the record, it's not exactly the gestational diabetes that sent me to visit the, uh, blood doctor. About a month ago--actually, at the same time they ran my 1 hour blood glucose test that ultimately sent me down the Voodoo Doll path--they also ran an antibody scan because I am Rh negative (B- blood type) and wanted to make sure I wasn't "fighting" the baby's blood, and did a CBC (complete blood count) to see how things were going in Pinky on a cellular level.
Things weren't going so well. My hemoglobin count (indicating iron) was low. I was started the next day on an iron supplement. My white blood cell count was high--indicating...well, that's why I ended up at the blood doctor. Because usually it indicates infection. But I wasn't sick. After testing and retesting and running some other, uh, tests, my counts weren't changing. My OB/GYN said the gestational diabetes might be playing a role, but if that were "all," every woman with GD would have similar levels, and they don't. So I was sent to the hematologist and wasn't given an appointment until yesterday.
In I went, and wrote out my health history, and I was called back to a room where they weighed me and took my vitals.
Then a lady came in and said, "Which finger?" Heh. Seriously, no preamble, no explanation, not even a hello. Just, "Which finger?"
"For what?" I asked.
"We need to get a blood sample."
I was surprised, because this Voodoo Doll has gotten quite a bit of blood drawn in the last 7 months, and never have they asked for a finger. They want veins. The gold mine.
Then again, what else would they want a finger for? Fingerprints? Finger sandwiches? Finger puppets?
I shrugged. "Look, I have gestational diabetes. I prick myself four times a day. Pick a finger, any finger, it'll work."
She picked my middle finger. So I gave it to her.
I have no idea what she used to skewer my fingertip, but it was no quickprick autolancet. Then she set about squashing it into a tube for a few minutes, then smeared my finger all over a few slides. I probably should have stopped watching at this point.
Next, an RNP came in to get a more detailed health history. This took longer than it should have because (a) my health history is less straightforward than it should be and (b) I am not sure she was listening very well. Fortunately, I watched what she wrote and she didn't write anything down until she'd gotten it straightened out in her head.
She also had the results from my blood tests. The tests they just poked my finger for ten minutes earlier. I was impressed!
Less than impressive were all the H's and L's. Seriously. For the roughly 20 or so levels they checked, about half either were marked with an H (too high) or an L (too low.) Honestly, I was reading it upside down, and we didn't go over most of them, so I don't even know all of the "failures" in my blood.
The worst part? My WBC's were even higher than the last, oh, three times they'd been checked (which had been holding steady up until then, even if they were holding steady in an elevated range.) And no, my iron wasn't any higher. All my RBC levels were low. So I'm paying extra for that iron supplement that my insurance sees no need to cover because of why again?
The RNP left with my health history for the doctor to review, and the doctor came in a bit later. Honestly, I am not sure why they asked for my health history when I got there, because the RNP hadn't read it. And I'm not sure why the RNP asked for my health history later, because the doctor hadn't read that, either.
Still, we discussed my pregnancy, my blood levels, and he gave me his diagnosis: NO CLUE!
Well, that's one I'm used to.
He said that the way my white blood cells broke down, it was unlikely to be a leukemia or lymphoma, which I already knew from my own OB/GYN. But he said it could be a chronic myeloma of some sort, but doubted it, since that usually hit people in their 60's. That should have comforted me more, but I've been called a "medical mystery" more often than I'd like, and have often defied the categories of what should be happening based on my demographics. (Such as having a failed gallbladder at 28, when that usually strikes older women and heavier women, or having heart attacks--induced by a virus--at 30.)
But he also said it could be stress-induced. Me? Stressed? I've never heard such a thing! (Is the sarcasm translating to text?) Mostly, he said he didn't know and we'd (a) run more tests (YIPPEE!) and (b) follow up with me in two weeks, when the tests would all be back.
The good news though? He determined that, due to my lack of external symptoms and 98.6 temp, I'm not contagious to anyone, which was a relief.
And so he was done with me. But I wasn't done for the day. Nope. I got sent down to the lab because--you guessed it--they want more blood. Apparently the finger assault was just the opening salvo, and my veins would, in fact, be needed.
I opened the door to the lab and did a double-take. I have been a little addlebrained lately but I was sure I hadn’t left the building and was not already sneaking off to get some sugar free fro yo. But the décor could have convinced me otherwise. The last time I had seen so much lime green plastic was at Yogurtmania, where I have two stamps towards a free treat.
I was quickly escorted back to a cubicle and placed in the padded throne. I watched as the phlebotomist counted out the vials she’d need me to fill, based on all the different tests the hematologist ordered.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four (this one was bigger than the others).
Five (another whopper).
Six.
She stuck labels on each and then grabbed three MORE vials. Fortunately she just wanted me to squeeze those so I’d pop a vein. What, no squeezie toy?
She found her vein easy enough and I wisely began examining every other object in the cubicle while she stabbed me and began filling up all six vials.
Amazingly, I wasn’t lightheaded when I walked out a few minutes later—considering my low hemoglobin levels, I probably should have been—and was done being a Voodoo Doll for the day.
Or at least until my post-dinner prick.
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