How to keep going

It’s 3 am. The phlebotomist shuffles in and smiles apologetically, says “They want bloods for the morning, any good veins?” I smile back weakly: “No worries, it’s hard to sleep anyway.” Always compliant, always the good patient, always the friendly face simmering with rage. Rancorous on the inside, blooming on the outside.

Any good veins? They stuck me up so much I don’t think I have any left.

“Try the right arm here,” I say.

He holds it on the pillow, straight down. The phlebotomists are always the softest. The well-worn angels in human casing. He picks up his needle attached to a plastic wire.

Attempts. Attempts. Attempts.

Sticks me, nothing comes.

Sticks me, no veins.

Sticks meat, no blood.

Right arm to the left and back again, travelling the motorway of my metrics.

“You’re dry as a whistle, do you generally not have good veins?”

There’s nothing general about the situation we’re in here, buddy.

“Not right now,” I say.

His apology becomes a full-bodied one. He looks down at my foot and back to my fear-stricken face.

“We’re gonna have to try your foot,” he says.

“Can they not wait till the morning.”

“They need the bloods for tomorrow.”

I nod solemnly, close my eyes, and let my head fall back on the pillow. I lick my lips. My mouth is dry. I take a sip of water from the pink cup next to the pink jug on the side table. I check my phone, 317 am.

He meets my feet at the end of the bed and sticks my foot. Three, four times before he finally finds a vein. It’s swollen, black and blue. The blood trickles out into the tube. 123456. It's slow. It hurts. He smiles and makes conversation. I ask him about his Apple watch. I know his mouth is moving but I can’t make out the meaning. I’m too high from the fentanyl drip.

I ask him how he deals with the night shifts. He says it's peaceful. I ask him how long it takes to become a phlebotomist, I’ve been surveying everyone’s jobs. It’s become clear to me I have to find a new life for this new body. Any vocation is up for grabs. I’m releasing any dreams I had, fading into each passing blood draw. Only six weeks, he says. Not too bad, I think.

He checks my hospital band and compares it with the labels on the tube. “Wouldn’t want any mixups!” he says cheerily. I’d love the wrong bloods to come back. Give me someone else’s numbers. What’s their job, how long does it take to train?

And he's gone. I'm left alone, the lights of Roosevelt Island blinking back at me. The pulsating city taunting me. Three more hours till rounds.

We keep going because we don’t remember the pain. Memories like this become stories to tell. The focus on them blurs. The change keeps coming. We stay alive because we have to.

With love,

Nora x