brownout
Guess what everybody! I nearly fainted again. I had been so long since the last time this happened, it was rather a surprise for it to occur now—especially after so many years accumulated getting blood drawn for an HIV test (required for my PrEP prescription) four times a year. For the most part, even though I have been careful not to look at either the needle or the blood vials all along, I've just gotten used to it getting to be routine.
The working theory, though, is that yesterday two things set the experience apart. First of all, I got two different shots yesterday, one for an injection and one for withdrawal, in the same arm. I'm not sure how that could logically make a big difference, but it remains one of the key things that made yesterday different.
My doctor had encouraged me to get the HPV vaccine, so that was part of my visit to Virginia Mason yesterday. And I decided to do that first. I still checked in on the first floor of Buck Pavilion, but then I had to take the elevator up to the 5th floor, cross the skywalk across the street to Lindeman Pavilion, then go down the elevator again to the first floor, to the "Injection Room." I nearly got lost down there, too, because I went walking down the empty hall from the elevator bank only to realize a couple of minutes later the Injection Room had been right behind me in the other direction, right there by the elevators.
The lobby there looked very familiar. Was this where they had taken me when they took me in a wheelchair across the street over the skywalk when I got labyrinthitis in 2012? Let's check my records! Indeed, it was.
I only saw three people the whole time I was in there yesterday. Given social distancing guidelines still in place, that was hardly surprising. One woman was waiting in the lobby and left shortly after I arrived; I had to ring a bell to get assistance at the front desk. As I waited to be taken back, I thought about how in all probability hospitals will keep requiring that we wear masks in their facilities for a lot longer than they become optional everywhere else. Then, the guy who was to give me my shot took me back to a room.
It was all pretty quick. Although I wasn't fond of the way he started the process: "This will definitely make your arm sore." Oh, goody! I was so afraid the injection itself would be painful, like the second COVID vaccine shot had been. It wasn't really, though. I still hyperventilated and the guy had to tell me, calmly, to take in deep breaths. otherwise, though, it was over in a matter of seconds, and I was left with the tiniest circular band-aid on my left upper arm, just under the shoulder.
That was not where the near-blackout happened, though; the injection was fine. And I have two more of those to go: it's a series of three shots. I had thought they were each a month apart, but the guy who gave me the shot said I needed to come back in two months for the second shot, then another four months after that for the third one. How the hell do they figure out these sorts of specifics to know what's most effective, anyway? He said I can actually come later than those stretches of time and it'll be fine, but I can't come back sooner. I still need to mark my calendar for those next shots.
It was when I was getting my blood drawn when the trouble started. From Lindeman Pavilion, I went up the elevator back to the fifth floor, back across the skywalk into Buck Pavilion, then up one more floor to 6 for the lab. An interesting new protocol: when I check in and fill out a piece of paper, it asks for my legal name, "chosen name," and preferred pronouns, in addition to the usual things like which doctor sent the lab order, etc. I thought this was very cool.
Every once in a while in these instances I consider choosing "they / them," but I never do. If I had been born 20 years later than I was, I almost certainly would have openly stated I "identified" as nonbinary. And I kind of have, in a way, all along, but as it is I have zero interest in going through a similar arc of bullshit to when I came out, and again have to spend time explaining it and correcting people. I still think of myself basically as a "girly man," so "he/him" is fine. Besides, I saw "any pronouns" written on a TikTok bio not long ago, and I cannot tell you how much I love that as a concept: whatever you go with, I'll go with too. In fact, only as I write this does it occur to me that I could have written "any" as my preferred pronouns on the form. I wish I had thought of this yesterday, and hopefully I will again the next time a scenario like that come s up.
Anyway, I spent much more time in the hospital than I quite anticipated, mostly because of a few minutes waiting in the waiting area of the lab, and then having to wait until my nearly passing out passed. A young Black woman was the one who took me back to a chair and took my blood, and when she asked my birthday (April 30) she said, "Oh my birthday's April 27!" I said, "Probably nowhere near 1976, I'm guessing." She said no, but didn't specify her birth year. I bet she was born in the late nineties. Ugh!
I did tell her I just needed not to see the needle or the blood, and she said, "Okay." Something odd occurred during the withdrawal process, though; the needle going in wasn't too bad. But then, there was an odd sensation of pressure and near-pain in the injection site (in the same arm, but half an arm away from the vaccine injection site: the needle here went into the inside of my elbow). This seems to have been what triggered it. I don't know if she moved the needle in some weird way or what. I should talk to Danielle and see if she has any theories.
This is the first instance, though, I can think of in which the passing out—or nearly passing out—was not triggered by the sight of something (whether directly or just in my mind's eye; the August 2015 incident happened after hearing a graphic description on NPR of someone's arm getting sliced open by broken window glass). I was not imagining anything at all when this happened, and only felt what I felt. And then I started going pale and feeling nauseous and like my eyesight was starting to go.
"Something's happening," I said, and the young woman who had taken my blood had to find someone else there, presumably a superior to some degree, to help her deal with it. The young woman was young enough that I'm assuming she hasn't dealt with this very many times yet—although the supervisor (or whatever her title was) who came over, a white woman with blonde hair, seemed quite young as well. I suppose she could have been in her early thirties.
She asked more than once if I wanted some juice, and at first I declined. I need to rethink that as my instinctive first reaction, because after she asked me again and I accepted, just a couple sips of apple juice had an immediately positive effect. Next time, note to self: just take the juice at once.
Before that, I nearly asked to be taken to the nearby cot so I could lie down. I was honestly somewhat surprised neither of these women even suggested it; when I nearly fainted at the sight of blood vials in early 2015 (the previous incident before the NPR incident), they immediately took me over to a reclinable chair. Instead, the Black woman simply held me (gently) and my shoulder to make sure I didn't slump over, and only let go of me after asking I was good. And, maybe a minute or two after having the juice, I was indeed much better.
And, that was that. They made sure I was okay, and I waited to stand up until I was sure I could. Shobhit actually tried to call me from his work while I was there, and I had to ignore the call. And then once I left, I went on with the rest of my errands: cycling to the Central Library to return some CDs; then on to the office to swap out paperwork; then back home again by shortly after 6 p.m. Shobhit was on a Braeburn Condos board call and I read a library e-book until he was done, before we watched the series finale of Pose. And then I came back to the bedroom to watch the pilot episode of the new Netflix series Sweet Tooth.
I keep wondering if getting two shots so close together had anything to do with almost passing out. I suspect not, actually. I think I just had an immediate reaction to that weird, almost painful sensation that occurred while the blood was being drawn. Can you imagine if I had actually looked at it? I probably would have dropped right then and there.
[older passing out posts]
[posted 12:39 pm]