hour. Most of the time it only took fifteen minutes, but in my head it took forever.
Forever was okay. As long as I’m able to do this, as long as my body permits it, I could do this forever.
I lifted my head up, eyeing Lorraine, the older nurse who's in charge here, giving her a smile. She was carrying a small carton of orange juice. Last time she gave me a cranberry flavored drink. It tasted like shit, but it seemed to make her happy when I drank it, so I did.
“Here’s your treat for the day, young man.”
“What? Are you sure? You promised me champagne the last time," I joked, holding back a laugh. "This is unacceptable. You should treat your regular clients better than this."
She let out a laugh, Bob and the older lady, also a blood donor, who kept sneaking glances at me and was now reading a magazine, joined her in laughter.
Bob, walking towards the machine that held a bunch of medical equipment, stated, “You’re a regular alright. Next time we’ll make sure to stock champagne for you.”
I nodded my head, smirking. “Yeah, yeah…promises, promises.”
Promises held no water, no value for a lot of people. But it did for me, heavily. Before my sister, was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, Aunt Margie and I had gone to many ER visits because she had had these weird, huge bruises on her knees, elbows, and legs, without anyone laying a hand on her. March tenth, the day that our parents died from a boating accident, was the day I believed there was no God. No God would be cruel enough to leave two good kids orphaned and alone in this world. January twelfth, the day that Bee, after a doctor had diagnosed her with osteosarcoma, was accepted for a research trial, was the day I believed there was a God again. No God would have been cruel enough to take my sister, the only link I had to my parents, my heritage, from me.
Bee? She's the strongest person, the most resilient woman I know. Even when she had to go through the rigorous chemo, the bacterial infection that scarred her for life, the endless IV sticks - she still managed to comfort me, tell me that she was okay, despite the many tears she had shed down her little face. She's had many blood transfusions from strangers I've never met; strangers who had no clue just how much my sister meant to me. So as soon as I turned eighteen, the day after her birthday, I went to the nearest blood donation center, and no matter what city I'm in, I made a visit every two months. What was a bag or two or three of blood? My body replenished it every month or so, according to one of the nurses I had talked to before.
One time, a middle-aged guy, told me, "You know, a lot of men are scared of needles." He was also donating blood at UConn's visiting Red Cross Blood Donation van.
I shrugged my shoulders at him. "Yeah, I guess."
Needles? Sure they hurt when they prick your skin. But scared? Scared is when you see your sister become as frail as a friggin' plastic doll that you can't even hug her because she'd bruise or her bones might break. Scared is when you receive the news that your aunt, the person who took you in after your parents' accident, had gotten into a head-on collision with a drunk driver. So yeah, needles? There's no reason to be scared of them.
Now, if I had to be honest, one thing that I'd probably shudder and get scared at is if a doctor stuck a finger or two up my ass on one of those health check-ups that Bee said a guy should get. Shit. I hope my ass would no longer have the nerves to feel it if I ever needed that exam or I'll just run out of the fucking room.
“Almost done,” Bob said, checking the bag of blood hanging on a small pole, the liquid so precious, so vital to life.
“Cool. How was your vacation, man?” I questioned. Last time I came in, he had mentioned that he was going on a trip to Puerto Vallarta with his wife and two daughters.
His brown eyes smiled as he started telling me about his trip – how they enjoyed traditional
Forever was okay. As long as I’m able to do this, as long as my body permits it, I could do this forever.
I lifted my head up, eyeing Lorraine, the older nurse who's in charge here, giving her a smile. She was carrying a small carton of orange juice. Last time she gave me a cranberry flavored drink. It tasted like shit, but it seemed to make her happy when I drank it, so I did.
“Here’s your treat for the day, young man.”
“What? Are you sure? You promised me champagne the last time," I joked, holding back a laugh. "This is unacceptable. You should treat your regular clients better than this."
She let out a laugh, Bob and the older lady, also a blood donor, who kept sneaking glances at me and was now reading a magazine, joined her in laughter.
Bob, walking towards the machine that held a bunch of medical equipment, stated, “You’re a regular alright. Next time we’ll make sure to stock champagne for you.”
I nodded my head, smirking. “Yeah, yeah…promises, promises.”
Promises held no water, no value for a lot of people. But it did for me, heavily. Before my sister, was diagnosed with osteosarcoma, Aunt Margie and I had gone to many ER visits because she had had these weird, huge bruises on her knees, elbows, and legs, without anyone laying a hand on her. March tenth, the day that our parents died from a boating accident, was the day I believed there was no God. No God would be cruel enough to leave two good kids orphaned and alone in this world. January twelfth, the day that Bee, after a doctor had diagnosed her with osteosarcoma, was accepted for a research trial, was the day I believed there was a God again. No God would have been cruel enough to take my sister, the only link I had to my parents, my heritage, from me.
Bee? She's the strongest person, the most resilient woman I know. Even when she had to go through the rigorous chemo, the bacterial infection that scarred her for life, the endless IV sticks - she still managed to comfort me, tell me that she was okay, despite the many tears she had shed down her little face. She's had many blood transfusions from strangers I've never met; strangers who had no clue just how much my sister meant to me. So as soon as I turned eighteen, the day after her birthday, I went to the nearest blood donation center, and no matter what city I'm in, I made a visit every two months. What was a bag or two or three of blood? My body replenished it every month or so, according to one of the nurses I had talked to before.
One time, a middle-aged guy, told me, "You know, a lot of men are scared of needles." He was also donating blood at UConn's visiting Red Cross Blood Donation van.
I shrugged my shoulders at him. "Yeah, I guess."
Needles? Sure they hurt when they prick your skin. But scared? Scared is when you see your sister become as frail as a friggin' plastic doll that you can't even hug her because she'd bruise or her bones might break. Scared is when you receive the news that your aunt, the person who took you in after your parents' accident, had gotten into a head-on collision with a drunk driver. So yeah, needles? There's no reason to be scared of them.
Now, if I had to be honest, one thing that I'd probably shudder and get scared at is if a doctor stuck a finger or two up my ass on one of those health check-ups that Bee said a guy should get. Shit. I hope my ass would no longer have the nerves to feel it if I ever needed that exam or I'll just run out of the fucking room.
“Almost done,” Bob said, checking the bag of blood hanging on a small pole, the liquid so precious, so vital to life.
“Cool. How was your vacation, man?” I questioned. Last time I came in, he had mentioned that he was going on a trip to Puerto Vallarta with his wife and two daughters.
His brown eyes smiled as he started telling me about his trip – how they enjoyed traditional
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