It’s a strange time in hospitals— between 4:30 and 6:30 a.m. Mostly, it’s sleeping. Except for the soft shuffling of several dozen figures moving room to room, baskets in hand. Vials. Needles. Tape. The blood collectors.
Some of them have adopted the habits of the Vampire Bat. Not the scary, hairy, flapping kind— but the kind that crawls silently, nips between the toes, and gently licks the blood as it flows. You never know they’re there.
I know they’re there.
I feel the soft hands gently uncurling my fingers. I feel the faint prick, the draw, vial after vial pulled from my arm. It’s a little game we play: They try not to wake me. And I pretend they succeeded. It’s been a few days. I’m still in ICU. I might get a room today. I might be sent home. Someone’s talking. Someone’s making the argument.
But it’s not me, and it’s not the doctors I’ve spoken to. That’s fine. Lives are in the balance. The sick must be healed. I just wanted to know where to lay my head. By hospital standards, I’ve proven myself. I’ve given many gifts of urine. I’ve successfully completed the sacred rite of Number Two. What more could they want from me? Apparently, I have to shuffle the hallways, string together short walks with my gown flapping in the breeze. Okay, sounds fair. But what about the other blockages? More stents?
Or what?
