Not just any kind. A medical one. Or more precisely, a disease one. The classic waiting-room contest — where patients entertain each other by competing over who has the rarest, grossest, or most alarming condition.
Since the event took place at the Wednesday 8 a.m. blood test, the stakes weren’t exactly high. The woman behind me, not much older than I was, started off:
“I die when they poke me,” she murmured half under her breath. “I almost didn’t come.”
Several people nodded sympathetically.
“I always faint,” countered the woman in front of me, maybe in her sixties.
That stirred the crowd.
“Well, yeah,” joined in a lively, healthy-looking man. “The whole world spins when they take my blood, whoa!”
But the first round went to the quiet, doll-faced girl leaning against the wall halfway down the line.
“They’ve never taken blood from me before,” she whispered.
The queue gasped as one.
“What?”
“How come?”
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe you just don’t remember?”
The shocked questions came pouring in. The girl lowered her eyes, shaking her head gently with a shy smile.
“Never… so,” she lifted her gaze, “I’m terrified.”
Men, women, grannies, and grandpas listened, breath held, to her dramatic confession, then clapped their hands in agreement: without a doubt, she’d won that round.
The first line ended at a small counter, where you had to hand in your sample and collect your test tubes — then join the second line. There were a few chairs too, but only the quick ones got them. If someone with a cane slid off, tough luck — they should’ve moved those clumsy little legs faster.
Right by the counter, a group of four or five got into a spontaneous debate. Was an ID required along with the health insurance card or not? The truly daring competed over what documents they’d been asked for before. One woman claimed they’d only asked her name.
Sure. Who’d believe that? Especially not the ones who always get asked for everything! The dizzy young one almost gave up and went home, but the “just-my-name” woman convinced her to stay.
Then our pretty girl reappeared, apparently missing the spotlight.
“Oh God, four tubes,” she moaned dramatically — and, just in case the hard-of-hearing missed it, she raised four fingers in front of her face.
The crowd groaned in collective horror.
In another reality, the pretty, maybe twenty-year-old girl might have felt embarrassed when the nurse behind the counter slid her stool sample—sitting proudly in its transparent little container—right to the edge of the counter, where everyone could get a perfect view of the smug little lump inside. But our heroine, who until that moment had kept her “final product” hidden from the world in a dark green plastic bag, simply basked in the light—and in the attention. It was, after all, the first time in her life she’d ever had her blood drawn. How thrilling!
At the counter — to the relief of some and the disappointment of others — they only asked for names this time. They also instructed everyone to place their urine-filled tubes and the stool cup on the corner of the counter, so for one glorious moment, all could admire each other’s contributions.
In the second line, waiting for the blood draw, the adrenaline reached new heights. Someone warned the fainting lady to alert the nurses in advance.
“Oh,” she waved her hand proudly, “they all know me here. They only ever take my blood in bed.”
The others nodded with forced smiles, silently cursing her ancestors. Of course she got to lie down on a comfy bed, while they sat on those cold, hard plastic chairs!
The pretty girl — much to her dismay — finished without fainting or any other drama. Even the “bed-only” woman walked away ashamed.
Then it was my turn. I sat down. Across the table sat the “I-die-if-they-poke-me” woman, grinning at me like a rival contestant. I nodded respectfully — my only special skill was having impossible veins.
Also, I was starving.
But not a single vein wanted to show itself.
Not even on the other arm. The nurse crouched down beside me. Then the other came over too, leaving the “I-die-if-they-poke-me” woman behind—she hadn’t even managed to start with her yet. She knelt as well.
Finally, they called over the woman from the counter. She joined them too, lowering herself beside the others.
The one who had jabbed deep asked, “Does it hurt?”
“A lot,” I admitted — because it truly did. “But it’s fine. Do what you have to do.”
I walked out with my head held high, past the silent, awe-struck crowd. I knew that someday, if there were ever another contest like this, I could top them all. After all — it takes three people kneeling before me to get my blood drawn.