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“You aren’t taking seventeen vials of blood from me today, are you?” I joke. That’s happened before. I nearly fell flat on the floor when it was over.
He laughs. “No, not today, sorry.”
“Thank God,” I mumble.
“I’ll call you with the results,” he reminds me before leaving.
My mom picks up her bag and the three of us head out to the lab across the building.
There’s a line of people waiting, so I get in the back of the line while Harlow and our mom try to find a place to sit.
As per usual, the line moves at a snail’s pace. Hospitals are severely understaffed. It’s ridiculous.nbsp;
By the time it’s my turn, the lady working the front looks ready to cry.
I smile pleasantly at her and try to, hopefully, brighten her day a little. I get irritated having to wait, but I also realize it’s usually not the staff’s fault. But that’s not always the case.
Once she has my information entered into the system I’m instructed to wait my turn again.
I sit down between my mom and sister, who are both occupied on their phones. I choose to read my book while I wait. Reading, for me, always passes the time way faster.
Of course, I’ve reached one of the best parts when my name is called. It always happens, without fail.
Slipping my bookmark into my book, I stand and follow the lady back to the small closed off room with the lone gray chair and loads of vials for blood.
She consults her paperwork and begins printing off the labels and sticking them on the vials.nbsp;
When she finishes with that she gets everything ready to stick me, tying a tourniquet around my arm and disinfecting the area.
“This is going to hurt a bit,” she warns.
“Trust me, I’m a pro at this.”
I look away as she sticks me. It’s not that I’ll pass out if I see the needle go in, but I don’t like to see it.
I hear the telltale popping of the vials going in and out. It always makes me cringe. I think it’s one of the worst sounds in the world.
She finishes up and sticks a Band-Aid on my arm.nbsp;
“You can head out the way you came,” she says, gathering up my blood and placing it in a holder.
I make my way through the hallway back out into the waiting lobby.
“I’m done,” I announce.
“We’re done? Ready to go?” Mom asks.
“Yep, all done.”
“Thank God, I’m starving,” Harlow says, rubbing her stomach dramatica
lly.
“I guess you should’ve thought about that before you overslept,” my mom grumbles, heading for the exit.
nbsp;It takes us a little while to get back to the parking garage—since it was near the transplant center and we ended up at the lab but, finally, we reach the car.
“What do you girls want to eat?” she asks, starting the car.
