The Blood Draw

In the air, in the space
With the badly upholstered chairs, and the sitting old women and wizened men,
Was this screaming
That came to your awareness in intervals
Sounding like a muffled "Oh no," "I can't."
But more like "uh nuh."
What was interesting, at first, was how disinterested people remained
As it screamed through a dull gray morning
In the Quest blood lab.
I walked up to turn in my paper
To get my blood taken and the billing right, called by the girl with this entire
Set of nails dipped in jewels and bad scenic reminders up to the desk.
I'd already signed in and sat down.
That's the drill, as I know it.
A particularly pained wail let escape into the room, just then, full of dark worried thoughts.
I was sent to the inner hallway to sit in one of four chairs, moved along,
between a four hundred pound woman with an ankle bracelet, and a man that spoke no English.
I'd heard the woman tell a friend in the other room her difficult, painful story
Of faxes each month to confirm her disease, worker's disability, serious immune dis-orders with names she didn't know, couldn't pronounce, couldn't share.
They had tried to talk over the screaming, friends from somewhere, trying to catch up on each other's lives.
Both were uncomfortable, ill, older, alone, finding things hard.
One told the other, then they traded places and listened,
Commiserating.
Then it was my turn to go in for the second wait, and I missed how this large woman got in the hallway ahead of me,
Must have had her named called.
While I was distracted by trying to see who kept screaming.
Or rather, trying to not look wondering if it was Tourette's or just something very bad.
One of the Filipino ladies drawing blood said "Marta?"
And in came this shrieking unhappy, discombobulated
woman, going for her bloodwork,
Half in pajamas, half dressed in a poorly tucked simple cotton shirt,
with a girl on a cell-phone as her keeper.
This was not a first time for Martha.
This was not a first time for me either.
It would seem Martha has lost a little bit more than I have.
But she wanted, and asked for "chips."
I can't eat them anymore, she still can apparently, and think of the can of soda
That cell-phone girl promises from "the liquor store" on their ride
Back to her "program."
That bugged me, couldn't she enjoy something nicer?
But, thoughts aren't heard.
"Martha's" yelling cycles every few seconds
A rhythm filling these bloodless halls
That all day long take tube after tube from broken strangers
While a scream rents the air this morning
Making it alive with feeling
In a deafening vacuum.
I stuck my arm out
While the guy made five or six jokes too many about closing his eyes.
Thought about why my veins are hard to dig out, when once it was easier.
Wondered if I really have given blood this many times-
Thousands of little tubes looking at my system.
One day it'll all be on a computer so someone else can sit in this same dirt seat
Saying "This is my 678th draw."
I just guess, knowing that my number is very high.
Martha was led out with a technician telling her she'd get "ice creams."
She failed to listen to the phone gal telling her to do another test on her,
So she had to do the CVC a second time for Martha
On a last minute notice from the desk gal,
I thought about Martha-
Who was, despite all the fear she was communicating to them, in vain
Unbelievably compliant.
They only yelled at her, there was no quieter talk, saying her treat was coming.
It seemed hard for these folks to really speak to Martha, to explain what was happening.
In part because they didn't think anyone was there to talk to really.
That was more painful to me than the needle in my arm.
I think she would respond well to it.
And I drifted into a place I have to go as the needle gouges around in my arm.
Then the five vials got filled,
I was walking through the waiting area
Looking at these broken bodies, waiting,
Opening the big glass doors
And then into the chill air leaving the lab behind.



i'm tired

of the negative smirking stranger
that crawls through my thoughts
raining down
his empty criticism
from such an empty chair
if you want to talk
try something
that isn't destroying
someone that cared for you
petty boy
hop on the fast lane bus
and enjoy the view
nothing escapes realization
nothing