In the life of a diabetic, blood draws are fairly common. I can remember being a little girl in my pediatric endo's office waiting for the inevitable butterfly needle after the appointment. My mom and I claimed that the nurses in the hospital were always rougher than the ones in my normal physician's office. It seemed like those quarterly blood draws hurt more and more every time.

But I was always used to them. Needles never have been my problem. Maybe it's because before I even begin to remember things, I can remember diabetes. Needles and those blood draws are so common to me that I know no other way. But even though I'm not scared of needles or opposed to the routine draw, I still hate the way it all happens now.

For the past year or so, I've been struggling with my veins. The ones in the crease of my elbow don't want to cooperate when it comes time for the usual draw....at least not for the rudest of nurses. It takes a gentle hand, often several tries, before my blood pours into the vials. Blame it on years of those same draws or just poor circulation, getting blood drawn lately isn't quite as nice as it used to be.

Now every time I leave the office, my arm begins to throb. Often bruising while the lab technician is still taking blood. My arm takes over a week to recover, morphing from shades of deep purple to blue to green to yellow until it fades only to be brought back a few months later.

Sometimes it makes me wish that I could do it all myself. Last Friday's appointment made that even clearer to me. As I sat down at the laboratory stall, the lab tech walked up shouting to fellow techs something about her ex-husband blaming their divorce on her family. She never greeted me, never asked how I was or if I minded giving her several vials of my blood. She simply looked at me as if I was imposing on her conversation. How dare I interrupt her day to have blood drawn for the third time this year?!?

As if the lack of conversation wasn't enough, I watched her dig the needle into my elbow three or four times before finally striking the vein correctly. And it wasn't the kind of digging where she'd take the needle all the way out and try again. This was one jab then several twists and turns until my arm cooperated. No wonder my arm hurt.

After the torture was over (wouldn't I make a great spy or something?), I left feeling annoyed, alone, and angry. I've worked both sides of this whole ordeal. I spent two years working in medical billing, dealing with people who wanted their charts faster than they could request them, who dodged collection calls because they couldn't afford their own health care, and a multitude of other patient issues. I understand patients can be aggravating, to say the least. But I've also spent sixteen years as a chronic care patient...in and out of those hospital rooms, giving more vials of blood than I could even count, and dealing with the kindest and the rudest medical professionals in all of Texas.

Yet I still believe that going into health care should require a certain level of empathy and patience. Sitting someone down to jab a needle into their arm warrants a polite "Hello" or "Do needles bother you?" or even a smile in their direction. Lab techs, nurses, and even doctors don't deserve to treat the patient as if they are an inconvenience, a bother, or guinea pigs for the latest experiment. Patients are people too. We hurt, we cringe, we cry.

Most importantly, we pay. I spend thousands of dollars every year on health care services, not to mention the thousands more that my insurance company gets billed for. I'm a paying customer, above all else. So when you can't see me as a patient and remember that I'm sitting in that chair alone and maybe even a little scared or upset, just remember that your paycheck only gets cashed because of me.

And please stop using my arm as your needle play ground.