One shot

    Three, four, five, six, seve… I release the breath I have been holding. I can do this. I stare at the pale forearm of the young girl in front of me. No matter how many times I do this, it never gets any easier. 

    “What’s your favorite color Clair?” Clair, the sixteen year old girl in front of me, who is so brave. I can tell that she is scared, but she is keeping her calm. She is accomplishing this mostly by talking about her boyfriend and how frustrated she is that he thinks he shouldn’t have to ask her to the dance because they are dating. She wants the classic memory of a cute promposal or whatever she called it. I would rather listen to her talk about pretty much anything else; it has been about ten years since I have even thought about my own high school experience and the memories aren't particularly fond ones. 

    “Blue,” she says, momentarily distracted from her tirade. She makes the mistake of looking over at my table and she starts to resemble a key lime pie— her face turning pale and slightly green. 

    “Don’t look,” I urge her. I wrap a red tourniquet tight around her lower bicep. I don’t have blue, but maybe when I tape her up at the end I can give her blue tape. 

“Clair, could you squeeze this for me?” I hand her a stress ball shaped like a smiling orange. She squeezes it, and it’s stupid, smug expression gets all messed up, at the same time her basilic vein starts to pop.

I’m stalling. I know I am. You would think six years of school to get my masters in nursing and then these last five years actually working as a nurse, I could have overcome this, but no. No, I still hate it. It’s natural, most people, even if they aren’t really afraid, don’t relish the thought of a sharp object piercing their skin no matter how well intentioned it might be. Most people, most people definitely don’t relish it. There's nothing appealing or addictive about needles. Not for most people. I pick up the sixteen gauge needle and start to hold my breath again. 

One, two, three, four… I really shouldn’t hold my breath. Probably not good for the patient, or in this case Clair. Sometimes it helps if I humanize them. Then maybe I can prioritize their needs over my own inner struggle. I position the tip of the needle at her vein and as I start to press it through her skin I shut my eyes. 

Wow that was stupid of me, but it’s done, it’s in. The red blood is flowing out of her arm, through a tube, and into a donation bag. I really hope she didn’t see me shut my eyes, but when I look at her she isn't even looking at me or the enormous needle sticking out of her arm. She is waving with her other arm at a boy with dark hair and a book waiting in line to have his iron tested. 

“Okay it is going to be about ten minutes, then we will get  you all patched up and you can be on your way. Make sure you take a cookie and some juice on your way out. We wouldn’t want you fainting on us. I’m going to go help someone else but I’ll be back to take the needle out soon. Are you going to be okay?” My voice sounds totally normal. Not like I had been on the verge of panicking. Not like I had been totally unsafe by sticking her with my eyes closed. Not like I was going to have to go over to the next kid and do this all over again.

“Oh yea I’m totally good!” 

“Then I’ll see you in a few minutes then.” 

I get up from my stool at her side and walk over to the next cot, there’s a boy who honestly looks like he might be on steroids, sitting there waiting for me to come . These draw his blood. Kids are crazy. When I was in high school, there was no way I would have signed up for the school blood drive but here all these good Samaritans. Cheeks flushed and arms waiting. These kids are real heroes. People always say that nurses are heroes. We show up every day. We take care of sick patients. We risk getting sick to try and help others. And I really do believe many of my coworkers are heroes. People who sign up for blood drives though? Especially kids? I admire them. They face their fears and let complete strangers stick them with needles in order to have the chance to help someone else. I like that about humanity. The willingness to self sacrifice. Most humans have a little hero in them.

After finishing up with this boy, I think his name was Zach, I go back to Clair. Her donation bag is just about full at this point and I need to get her patched up and out of here. 

“How are you feeling Clair?”

“I’m okay, a little bored.”

“Well, I think you are all done, so you should be able to go back to class.” I pull the needle out of her arm and immediately press a wad of gauze in its place in order to staunch the flow of blood. 

“Blue right?” I say holding up a roll of navy blue medical tape.

“Yes please.” She smiles. 

I wrap the tape around her arm in the shape of a figure eight so that it puts pressure on the tender part of her elbow without restricting mobility. 

“Make sure to eat those cookies okay?”

“Yes mam.” 

“You’re good to go.” 

She springs up from the cot and bounces straight past the food table right over to the boy she waved at earlier, who now, after passing his iron test, was in the process of donating blood.

The rest of my day passes much the same. The blood drive seems to go on forever but I pass it in counts of eight. At long last, the final student leaves and we pack up. This part is tedious but all I can think about is getting home. 

Finally, I am in my car driving down the winding street, through the trees, back to my house. It’s nothing fancy, just a small three bedroom house. One that probably couldn’t be picked out of a lineup of the other houses in the neighborhood. Totally unremarkable. I pull into the garage and put my car in park. Once inside I pause, I know I should head upstairs, I should take off my scrubs, get in the shower and rest for a while. That is what I should do. I turn towards the stairs but I don’t go up. Instead I open a door and head down. Down into the basement. It’s cold down here. I never did get around to finishing it like I always said I would. I should turn around, go back upstairs. I don’t. I walk as if against my will over to the storage shelf that has all of my holiday decorations. I pull out a box marked Easter and move a garland of twin carrots out of the way. Underneath is an unmarked cardboard box. I pull it out almost against my will, and walk with it across the room to where I have a reclining chair. I pull the stack of blankets I have stored on it off and sit down. I sit there for a while, the box unopened on my lap. Some days I put it back, some days I’m strong enough. Apparently not today. I open the box. 

Inside is a set of syringes. All about four ounces, set with 25 gauge needles, filled with a yellow liquid. I prepped these last time. I told myself I would just finish these and then I would be done. I know this is a lie. I have another box in the Halloween decorations that’s full of stolen hospital supplies, full rubber capped bottle and more syringes. The sight of the needles makes my body freeze but my heart races. I don’t want to do this. I want to be good. I want to be the hero in my own story. I have lost control of my actions. My hand moves without me telling it to. It grabs one of the syringes and removes it from the box. I set the box and the rest of its contents on the ground. I then reach down and remove my shoe and sock. I remove the cap from the syringe and press the plunger until I see one bead of precious drug drip from the end. I might be stupid for doing this, but I wasn’t completly stupid, this waisted drop was worth making sure I didn’t accidentally inject myself with an air bubble. 

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight… I hold my breath and stick the needle in the soft point between my big toe and my second toe. I press the plunger. I feel the burn spread through my body starting at the injection site. Heroin burns. In my last moment of lucidity before the drug takes me I think: I’m no hero.