My name is Laura Del and I have a little thing known as Crohn's Disease. It suck to say the very least, but I cope by doing YouTube, Writing, and posting the occasional blog about my experience. 

So welcome to my website. I hope you enjoy your stay. 

I know I’m late, and I’m not sorry!

I know I’m late, and I’m not sorry!

Here’s the deal. It’s been over a year since I’ve written anything, so this may be filled with errors and just not great grammar, but honestly, I don’t care. I have something to say…

Yes, I know I’m late, and I’m not sorry.

Not anymore.

As a chronically ill person, I hate having only a fifteen-minute window in order to get to a doctor’s appointment. That is not a proper amount of time. Especially when you have anxiety over the thing that runs your life. Being ill. An anxiety that was started because of a botched iron infusion, which I’m completely allergic to now. Awesome, considering I’m anemic and we need iron to live. What can I say? I’m a fucking vampire. That’s my life.

My dad made a joke at my last appointment that they should think about making blood that you can drink like a vampire… but I digress.

Lately, I’ve been very tired and all around just not feeling well because of the anemia, so it takes me a while to get out of bed and get ready. On the days that I don’t have a doctor’s appointment, which are far and few between, I sleep in until around 3pm. Why? Because my anxiety won’t let me go to bed until 5am. I’m not kidding. When I don’t feel well, my anxiety goes into overdrive and I literally have panic attacks about every five minutes.

This is just the set up for a truly awful story that if you don’t like medical stuff or have medical anxiety (Hi! How are ya?) you should probably turn away now.

Still here?

Okay. Let’s begin, shall we?

So for the past month now, I’ve been late to some of my appointments. Not all of them. Just some. One of which happened to be an annual with my Gyno.

Quick side story: I walk in around 2:45, the appointment was at 2:30. They took their sweet time calling my name and were then upset that it was almost 3:00 when I went up to the window. I was told, “You’re just gonna have to wait. You were late.” Yes, you heard that right, and yes, she did have an attitude. I waited about twenty more minutes after that to go back, all because they wouldn’t give me my depo shot that I need in order to not bleed out of my vagina and become more anemic than I already am. Yeah, they were holding my health hostage and they wanted me to show up on time? Bitch, please.

Back to the main story…

I set up an appointment to get a blood transfusion. I need the blood. The blood needs me. We need each other. What can I say? Love as old as time. Only the problem is, I have shit veins. The worst. Where my veins are is massive amounts of scar tissue, due to all of the abuse on my body from medical professional. Yes, I said abuse. No, I’m not taking that word back. Sorry, not sorry.

Abuse aside, I have really crappy veins. That’s just the way I was born. Therefore, when I go to infusions or transfusions, it takes numerous amounts of nurses to find any sort of blood tube in my body. Needless to say, I’m a hard stick. I don’t pride myself on that, I freaking hate it. Of course, every time I say something, I get nurses rolling their eyes laughing at me. Until they stick me and my vein goes bye-bye. Hardy har har! Jokes on them.

Anyway, on this particular day, I was late, the week’s events went as follows:

I walk into the hospital, I have to get my blood work so they can type and cross me. You know, the usual medical jargon. Two hours later, I’m out without a stick in me. Why? Because I needed to be admitted into the hospital and no one knew how to do that. I walked to the ER, back to the lab, in order to walk back to the ER, wait forty-five-minutes for someone to admit me, all the while telling people what they needed to do. Then to go all the way back to the lab, TWICE, and to be told after hours that they couldn’t do anything for me because there was no way I was admitted. No blood taken, no stick, nothing but a piece of paper and a promise of tomorrow. Only to find out the next day that it’s not ideal to have the blood work done twenty-four hours before a blood transfusion, so they don’t know if I can actually do it. Did I mention I got told off for the receptionist calling me three times? I mean, I got the message the first time and I love being treated like a convict. It was all good.

Finally, they tell me I have to get my blood taken, and to be at the hospital at 10am instead of 8:30 the next day. “Okay,” I say, and take my time getting to the hospital. I go to admissions; I’m already admitted… waste of my fucking time later… I’m in the room getting blood work. All done!

The next day, I’m back at the hospital around 10:30am. My dad went to go get coffee and there was traffic. Big whoop! Wanna fight about it?

We get to the hospital and they have nothing done. No cross typing, no typing… they don’t even know where my blood went. Say the fuck what? Well, it was a good thing I was late, right? It gave them a little more time to screw things up.

When I go back to get the transfusion, with my dad in toe, they have someone with an ultrasound look for a vein. I already know, this shit isn’t good. Been here twice before and the vein gods only smiled on me once. The odds are not in my favor. The nurse with the ultrasound machine sees good ole faithful in my wrist and promptly tries to get a big needle in my tiny vein. She blows it, and not in the fun way. She takes her suck machine and looks in my upper arm, and I can almost visibly see her lick her lips. The problem? The vein she found is so deep that she wants to put a fucking PICC line in it. I promptly had a panic attack. A PICC line is a medical procedure where they have to put a large catheter into your vein all the way to your heart. Why the hell do I want blood pumped directly into my heart?

So I had a panic attack about it.

She nearly flipped out on me because I moved my arm. At this point, she was trying to pin my arm down against my will, and that probably added to the whole, I’m having a panic attack thing.

This is when the screaming at me of, “What’s wrong?” happens. I can’t even think, let alone verbalize what’s wrong. Give me a fucking minute, Nurse Crazy.

Flash forward to me calming down and telling her that I’d rather not do that if we can find a vein the old fashioned way. She sighs an “okay” and gets her stupid wand and goes where the person went the day before to get my blood. It looks good, real good. Success! We found our big vein. Until the nurse with the cart comes over. The dreaded phlebotomist cart. Meaning that they have to take more blood, and the only vein availed is the vein that won’t send me spiraling into a full-blown anxiety attack. She tries to see if they can do a finger stick and it’s a no go. My dad calls it and promptly freaks the fuck out on the lot of them. Rightfully so. We were there for all of twenty minutes and I had learned that they lost my blood, couldn’t find my cross-matching and that I most certainly had antibodies from the biologic I take for my Crohn’s, so they didn’t even know if they could get my match. Also, they wanted to do a PICC in a vein that I knew wouldn’t last the procedure, which took an hour.

So, yeah… Papa Del called that shit.

After the, “you’re not doing this to my daughter,” and me explaining for the tenth time about what happened two days prior, they decide it would be best for me to come back. Then Nurse Idiot with the machine says this, “Well, I have to go. I have a young man who’s waiting to be discharged. SOMEBODY was an hour late.”

Bitch, what?

Bitch, where?

Bitch, no!

I was thirty minutes late, and you didn’t have anything ready for me. You lost my blood, tried to put a PICC line in me, and pretended like you didn’t screw up. How in the hell is this my fault?

I walked out of that appointment feeling fucking violated. I have been poked, prodded, told that they can’t help me, poked and prodded some more, and then to be fucking chastised like I’m two for being late... Fuck you!

They have got to be kidding, right? I’m sorry, but if you’re on that much of a tight schedule than don’t book the goddamn appointments. What is wrong with this picture? All over the fact that I didn’t make it within the fifteen minutes that you deem appropriate?

Do you know how often I’ve sat in doctor’s offices for hours because they’re running behind? A lot. Let me tell you.

What is the difference between that and me being a little late?

I have an actual problem. I’m anemic. I’m immunosuppressed. I am chronically motherfucking ill!

Yeah, I said it!

How dare you treat me like shit. How dare you lessen my humanity because I’m late.

So here’s what I have to say…

Get off your high horse and do your job. Period. Don’t chastise me for being sick when you screwed up. If I’m late, I’m late. See me or don’t. Make me another appointment. I don’t care. I will continue to do what I can to be there on time, but from now on, I get there when I get there.

Yeah, I know I’m late. And no, I’m not sorry.