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03-23-11

I sit in the chair. Relieved a little bit to be off my wobbly knees. Hands are shaking more than usual. Two chairs over another man is stretched all the way back with his feet lifted up. Needle taped down to his wrist, my eyes trace the clear plastic tube curling above him to the bag as it slowly drips. Drips. Drips the hazy liquid medicine into his veins. Realizing I haven’t in quite some time, I take in a deep breath and turn away. The young nurse asks me how tall I am and how much I weigh. Checking my blood pressure it’s a little high. I tell her that I’m nervous. She turns away from me and mumbles something I don’t hear. A drawer slides open in the desk in front of her. She removes a pair of protective gloves and slides them over her hands. She opens a small refrigerator and takes the bag of medicine off of the middle shelf. My last name is clearly printed in capital letters on the side. She squeezes the bag a few times and then shakes it roughly. The sloshing of the medicine wakes the man resting on the chair. He looks over at me and smiles. I smile back nervously. “Your first time huh?” He says. “Yeah. How about you?” “This is number 37.” I don’t know what else to ask him other than the obvious, “Is it helping you feel better?” “It doesn’t make me feel better. But I don’t feel worse anymore.” Strangely this calms me down a little bit. Turning around the nurse walks back across the room towards me. She lifts my right arm and places a blue sheet between my skin and the armrest of the chair. To find a vein she starts tapping the skin just below my thumb. I guess one pops up or however phlebotomists find them. The alcohol sheet is cold as she rubs the spot. I turn my head away and suck in a tight hiss of air when the needle pinches in. She only sticks once and finds the spot. Tape comes out and her hands move quickly. The locking mechanisms are all twisted into place. More tape holds the tube to my arm. The plastic leads upward as she stretches it taught through the timing machine and closes the door. Once it’s latched, she connects the end of the tube to a bag half full of clear liquid at the top of the I.V. pole next to my chair. The buttons beep and squeal when she presses in the sequence of number or letters to start the process. I can’t see on that side of the machine so I don’t know what it is. She flicks the top of the tube two or three times with her middle finger and the fluid begins to drip down out of the bag. “Here we go.” I say. “No.” She looks at me. “This is just water. The medicine comes next.” My ear buds are uncomfortable, but the music helps. Balmorhea live bootleg recording “Live at Sint-Elisabethkerk”. I picture myself swelling and drifting along with the mournful notes of the cello as it echoes throughout the hall. The piano calls out bright yet soft. Then the low sound of drums from far off in a large hall deep and bouldering. I feel a spreading warmth filling my hand. The nurse has switched bags and medicine has finally begun to enter my bloodstream. All the fear and panic of the past few months has led up to this moment. I force myself to breath. I keep my eyes open to bare witness to the milky fluid easing through the hole in my wrist into my body. Will I have a bad reaction? Will this cure me or kill me? Will I see my boys step off the school bus this afternoon and make them their snack? Will I kiss my wife when she gets home from work tonight? Will I pick up the dog’s turds in a plastic bag when she craps in the neighbors yard tomorrow? Will I finish working on the song my friends sent me a few weeks ago? Will I live? Will I die? I watch as the second hand of the clock slows down. No itching. No hives. I don’t feel cold. I don’t feel hot. A slight uncomfortable burning sensation passes through the center of my chest and then it’s gone. Is that it? Was I terrified of this? It’s two hours later. The nurse takes down the empty plastic bag and quickly removes the needle from my wrist. A cotton ball is taped to the spot to soak up any remaining blood. I ask if we’re done and she tells me to stay seated for a little while longer so she can keep an eye on me. A wheelchair comes through the door. The occupant is green and sweaty. He wears shorts and has long stringy black hairs all over his legs. He leans far forward almost touching his forehead to his legs. I don’t think he’s able to hold himself upright. His wife pushes behind him. She’s very tall and thin. Long, grey hair hanging straight down the center of her back. She looks at me and smiles. It’s a kind smile. A genuine gesture that says, “I know how you feel. We’ve been here for a long, long time.” Her husband cannot get out of the wheelchair on his own. The wife locks the wheels and lifts his frail body over to the chair. She asks if he has a wedgie and adjusts his shorts like a mother would for her little boy. On the tables directly to the right of each chair they have a silver bell. They put them there in case the patient is having a bad reaction to the medicine. Not being able to speak or call for help, it’s easier to slam your arm down and ring the bell to call for help. The man starts hitting the bell over and over and over and over. The nurse comes running in and stops in the doorway. “Harvey, are you messing with me again?” The man grunts and what sounds like it used to be a laugh comes out from his immobile lips. The wife pats his leg and laughs, “Naughty boy!” I blink and it’s me in the chair next to me. Melissa is patting my leg saying, “Naughty boy!” My heart races in fear at the vision. I am seeing the future. My future. Melissa’s future. I don’t want this future. Please let this medicine work. Please let this not be written in stone. I don’t want that to be me. I don’t want this for Melissa. Later that night as we stand in the kitchen I tell her the story. I tell her I don’t want this for her. I love her and she doesn’t deserve this life. She takes hold of both of my hands. Looking me straight in the eye she stops me. “I choose you. I choose us.” Today I feel good. I woke up and for the first time in over a year I do not feel nauseous. I’m still dizzy, but I’m okay. My hands don’t hurt as bad. My balance is better. I have more energy. I literally feel younger. Even Melissa notices. I have been positive today. When the fuck does that happen? I don’t know if it’s psychosomatic or if the medicine is actually doing something. Either way, I’ll take it.

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