There I was, curled up like a shrimp on the cold floor of the Masonic Center of Colorado Springs.

Not for an afternoon siesta, but because someone had dared siphon my blood for lab work. It wasn’t the first time I’d passed out during a blood draw, and it wouldn’t be the last, like the day I passed out while lying on an exam table and having my blood taken. Who knew you could faint while lying down?

Glossophobia – a fear of public speaking? Nay, not me. Arachnophobia – the fear of spiders? Nope. Agoraphobia – a fear of leaving the house? Nein, Fräulein.

But trypanophobia? The debilitating fear of getting my blood drawn? Ding, ding, ding. Step right up, we have a winner in the Great Phobia Giveaway.

And it’s odd, because I’m OK with other needles. Getting numbed at the dentist is doable. Tetanus shots and the COVID-19 vaccine are OK, too. There was, however, one flu shot that didn’t agree with me. One minute I’m standing at the registrar’s window paying the bill, and the next I’m lying on the floor.

Part of my trypanophobia, in my estimation, is the idea of having my life force drained out of me. If it’s going to happen, couldn’t I at least be turned into a sparkly vampire with superpowers? Alas, no.

However, spoiler alert: I’m thrilled to report I think I’ve finally reframed and befriended my phobia. It started in the fall, when my new doctor ordered blood work. I hadn’t done any since the health fair floor incident, which was also when Barack Obama was president, so I was past due.

I began cobbling together a makeshift plan. Step one: pep talks and stern discussions with myself about the importance of detecting underlying issues that I wouldn’t know about until they were the death of me. And that’s a ghost-writing gig I don’t want.

Step two: making the appointment as early as possible, as I do not like fasting, Sam-I-Am. Step three: Sour Patch Kids. I planned to pop a sugar bomb just as the needle pricked my pure, innocent vein, and the sour shock would distract me. But then I worried the sugar would skyrocket something in my blood, mess up the tests, and force me to do them all over again. Sour Patch Kids, nixed.

Step four: wearing earbuds and watching “Gilmore Girls,” my comfort food TV watch, while they sucked me dry. And that was still sort of the plan until I showed up at the clinic and was escorted into an exam room by a funny, kind, young guy who was totally amenable when I asked to lie down and compassionate when I told him I had a long, terrible history with blood.

As he tied a tourniquet and prepared to steal my soul, I peppered him with questions about his life goals and relationships. Honestly, I’m impressed he could focus well enough to get the job done. He was wonderfully chatty, telling me he was starting as a phlebotomist on his way toward becoming a nurse. He’ll be a stellar RN someday.

The draw went smashingly, way better than expected, and I skipped down the stairwell and out into the November morning.

However, there was one tiny hiccup. When the receptionist told me there were two different orders for blood work, I foolishly asked how many extra vials of life force the second one would require. And when she said four to five, I almost said hello to my maker with nary a needle jab.

So I decided to do it in two rounds, which might have been foolish, but one order for blood was all I could muster in the moment. I went back a few weeks later to a different clinic (big mistake), where a markedly different sort of phlebotomist, who didn’t say anything to me other than my name and “All done,” sacrificed my platelets on the altar of good health. At least she was well-skilled at what she did, and I do hope she finds a job she actually likes someday. Possibly not one that involves customer service.

It was reading the lab results that solidly helped me reframe my phobia. All those fascinating numbers and values and learning what’s high, low, normal and abnormal made me feel like a mad scientist, hungry to know more about the fleshy animal I call home.

Dare I say I have slayed my scariest dragon? Fingers crossed. I do know I no longer feel the intense dread and heart palpitations at the idea of filling vials with my sacred ruby juice. And that’s a good thing, as I have to retest my B12 in three months.