Some Great Veins

"Wow! You have great veins!" As if I haven't heard this every time they tighten the tourniquet; as if this is supposed to make me feel good about the fact that they are pilfering 9 vials of blood. Am I supposed to say thank you? I swear, the phlebotomists see me coming and draw straws to see who is going to get me. "If only everyone could have such great veins as this!" If only I wasn't the only one in the waiting room who can't qualify for the early bird special.

I look around at the others in the room. Most are old enough to be my grandparents. They stare at me like I am some sort of oddity, asking with their eyes, why are you here? I feel their pity like a wet blanket surrounding me and it is suffocating. The receptionist, who always calls my honey or sweetie, taps her fake nails on the counter and smiles a sympathetic smile at me. I straighten in my seat and try to watch the medical TV that is blaring in the corner. Why can't they just put on something mindless like Golden Girls or The Price is Right? Instead, we all pretend to be really interested in what happens when you crack your knuckles and how to prevent osteoarthritis.

I stare at my hands, wondering what I ever did to make them rebel against me. I cross and uncross my legs trying fruitlessly to find a comfortable spot. Soon I will be called back for more poking and prodding. The technician will mix my concoction and affix my needle. I've done this enough, why do I still get nervous? I make eye contact with a small woman who is so riddled with arthritis that she is nearly folded in half, her knotty hands clutching a leopard-print cane. She squints her eyes in an ancient smile and says, "We can still wear necklaces." I notice she has three on, one with a bright blue pendant. "And bracelets," I tell her, showing her my two.

"Susan!" It's my turn. As I cross the room, all of the wise eyes follow me, noticing my all-too-familiar gait. Down the narrow, bright hallway I am led. I take my seat among the infusion elders, saying my hellos to the other regulars. Most have been there for hours and are sleeping or talking softly to their neighbors. Our large rolling chairs form a neat half-circle so that we are all facing one another, the fluid-filled bags hanging like ornaments on cold metal Christmas trees. The technician comes over to take my vitals and get me started. She wraps the blue smelly rubber around my bicep and I see her face light up. "Oh my, you have such great veins!" I just smile and say thank you.