More than Blood - by Oluwadamilola Adesina

Anything that makes a person see their own blood must be worth it—whether it is a fight, menstrual flow, a medical procedure, or even a blood covenant. Blood consists of two components: liquid and solid. But to the average person, blood is simply a red liquid that keeps them alive and is therefore very important. The practice of blood collection, phlebotomy, must therefore be learned well by those who do it.Aunty Funke in my teaching hospital is the official vampire. She remains the best phlebotomist I know. As a 300-level Medical Laboratory Science student on clinical posting, watching her dexterity as she collected blood from diverse age groups and the most difficult veins with almost 100 per cent success left me in awe.Starting out in 300 level was difficult for me. No doubt, I was good in theory. With a CGPA of about 4.3, one would think practicals would come easily. They did not. The most difficult skill for me was blood collection—the one time a medical laboratory scientist gets to interact directly with patients.There, in the phlebotomy room, I met patients whose faces carried varying degrees of tension. Their doctors had sent most to run a series of tests. Before they could face their diagnosis, they first had to face their fear of needles—trypanophobia. One day, my supervisor pulled out a chair and asked me to attend to the next patient. He tried to appear confident in my abilities by looking away, though I knew he was still paying attention. The patient had a prominent vein that practically announced itself. Yet fear gripped my fingers as I prepared to insert the needle.My own blood pressure was probably higher than the patient's. I remembered the code of ethics: do no harm. To this terrified patient, my act of care could easily become an act of harm if I failed to get blood flow into the vacutainer.Then, lo and behold, the gracious red liquid flowed in.Success.But I wasn't lucky all the time.It soon became obvious that I was not the best at this. Oyinda, my classmate, could bleed almost anybody. So could Abeke. My mediocre phlebotomy skills did not bother me for long because I could get blood on the first attempt about seventy percent of the time—or so I thought.Then I got my first job. Nothing exposes you quite like being the sole phlebotomist, with no senior colleague to run to. Some patients were easy, some difficult. Some left you with small victories; others made you feel your first-class degree was a fraud. So I began my quest to master this thing. This mountain had to be climbed to its peak. I dug into textbooks to better understand the anatomy of human veins. I watched videos on difficult draws and things that could go wrong. Consequently, I developed a habit: whenever I met someone, I found myself staring at their arms.What if this person sat in my chair tomorrow and I had to bleed them?Phlebotomy woke with me and slept with me.I realised that blood collection could be one of the earliest steps in a patient's health care, and it became apparent that I had been handed a responsibility not only to collect blood but also to care for the patient.When Baby Johnson, a neonate, needs a bilirubin test so the doctors can treat his jaundice, I gently separate him from his mother and loved ones. There is no need for them to suffer twice. While he cries and I pierce his tiny hand with a 22-gauge needle, I sing softly:"Baby shark, doo doo doo doo doo doo..."“This is to make you well, champ”When Aisha, a sweet five-year-old girl, faints in school and needs a full blood count, I reassure her. I ask her to name the animals on the wall while she holds her father's hand. Before she knows it, the sample is already in the tube.Mrs Smith is twenty-four weeks pregnant and has come for antenatal investigations. She is tired and stressed. Before anything else, I tell her she belongs to one of the bravest groups of people in the world and that her baby is lucky to have her.Then there is Nifemi, an SS2 student who comes in weak and pale. Her school uniform reminds me of when I was sick as a teenager. I ask her about her favourite subject while I collect the sample. She barely notices the needle.Even at 3 a.m., a troublesome patient walks into the hospital requesting STI investigations. The night is cold and quiet. I smile and tell her, "I'm here for you."My MD’s patient arrives next, speaking grandly about how I must not prick him more than once if I value my job and reputation. I smile, take his arm gently, find a vein on the back of his hand, and ask him to hold still. A few moments later, we were both satisfied.Bless the hearts of Mama Felicia and all the other geriatric patients. Their skin must be handled with as much care as their stories.Then there is Kunle, the young man with sickle cell disease. One look at him and our eyes met. He considered me pretty, and it was love at first sight. His blood in my hands was very precious, and so was the trust he placed in my gentle touch. There was the obnoxious man who thought it appropriate to tell me he would "press my breasts" if I missed his vein. In that moment, professionalism wrestled briefly with irritation. The vein was found, the sample was collected, and I hoped the experience taught him a lesson about how to speak to women.<img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/ChatGPT_Image_Jul_19_2026_02_40_38_PM.png"/>Then there are the countless faces whose names I no longer remember but whose fears I do. The children who cried before they even saw the needle. The men who insisted they were not afraid and then looked away. The women who apologised for being nervous. The patients who thanked me afterwards as though I had done something extraordinary.When I was a 300-level student, I thought phlebotomy was about finding veins and collecting blood. Years later, I know it is about trust. For a few moments, a stranger sits across from me and allows me to cause a little pain in the hope of helping them get better. That trust is a privilege.Phlebotomy is the brief moment when I meet patients before their blood follows me into the laboratory. It reminds me that beyond every sample number is a person with fears, hopes, stories, and people waiting for them at home.I am still not as good as Aunty Funke. She remains the official vampire and the standard by which I measure excellence.But these days, when a difficult vein presents itself, and a younger scientist hesitates beside me, I smile. My hands are steadier now. My eyes know where to look. My patients leave with one less fear than they arrived with.If I have ever said that I hate my job, this part of it has always been the exception.

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