Her appointment was for seven thirty a.m. Gladys fluffed her hair and applied her Burt’s
Bees to her overly dry lips. Gladys
checked the clock and knew she had twenty minutes. Her appointment was only five minutes away
but if Gladys was anything she was punctual.
She firmly believed if you were on time you were late. She drove up to the Laboratory and noticed
there were several other cars in the lot.
Walking up to the building she realized there was a line already
stacking up in front of the still dark doors.
She took her place in the que and waited for the lights to come on and
the door to open.
A
light in the back illuminated the front office and a young woman dressed in
scrubs made her way through the building turning on lights and adjusting the
temperature until she finally made her way to the front and unlocked the
door. Now honestly, Gladys had never
seen so many people in a hurry to get into a building to pee in a cup or be
pricked with big silver needles with blood-sucking vials on the other end. Yet, here were a group of overly anxious men
and women fighting to be first in line.
They
all signed in the sheet to solidify their place in line to be poked, pricked or
drained and then fought for seats nearest the space heater and positioned
optimally to watch the morning news.
They waited as the weather showed less rain and more sun, they waited as
the white toothed, too tanned anchor talked about the lastest crisis, they waited
as the voices in the back ebbed and flowed and the smell of coffee brewing
wafted through the ducts and into the waiting room. They waited.
Finally,
after twenty minutes or so a young fresh-faced woman opened the door and called
for the first victim. “Pat Robinson?”
she paused “Pat Robinson?” The room was
silent each of the patients looking from one to the other. No Pat Robinson spoke up. Perhaps it was trypanophobia or perhaps Pat
was hearing impaired but no Pat Robinson claimed the spot. She stood looking at the room then looked at
her paper and called the name again. An
elderly man spoke “my doctor’s name is Pat Robinson, but I don’t think he’s
here.” The young woman looked at her
paper again and went back behind the door.
A few minutes later she returned “Mr. Warren Jones?” The elderly man raised his hand, leaned
heavily on his cane and stood up “Called the wrong name, did ya” he asked. Sheepishly she led him back to the chamber of
blood and torture. A few minutes later
he exits, rubbing his arm and rolled his eyes in way of saying “Oh boy!”. The young woman again appeared in the doorway
and called “Estelle Grossman?” silence again befell the room each patron
looking at the other asking “Estelle?”
Yet again, no Estelle. She
disappeared and resurfaced “Ruby Grossman?” To which a woman stood and followed
the phlebotomist back.
None
of this was assuaging Gladys’ anxiety; yet she sat reading her book and
listening to the ambient conversation around her. “Well that doesn’t bode well” said Mr. Red
Jacket. “No, not at all” replied Mrs.
Fuzzy Scarf. “I hope she doesn’t mess
up my urine sample with someone else. I
can’t imagine having them call me and tell me I’m pregnant at my age” said the
octogenarian with the purple hat. “I wish
they would hurry, I need my morning tea” said Mr. Grumpy.
Tea? Oh, my GAWD!
Gladys panicked. TEA!!! She had made herself a cup of hot lemon water
before she left the house, had she remembered to turn off the tea kettle? She went through her morning in her
mind. Making the bed, drinking her first
cup of hot water, then taking her little dog outside, gathering up dirty dishes
and straightening up. Had she turned off
the stove? Had she actually drunk her
second cup of hot water? Now her heart
was in her throat. What if she had left
the stove alight? How much time did she
have before the kettle would be dry. She
did the mental math in her head. She
left and seven-twenty, they had waited outside and inside, it was now eight
fifteen, the kettle had been full. She
took that and divided it by the number of people who had signed in before her
subtracted the amount of time she had to drive home, check the stove and drive
back subtracted three and divided by four.
Could she make it? It was
possible
.
In a
panic, heart racing and head pounding Gladys jumped from her seat just as the
young woman once again appeared in the doorway and announced the next winner. Mrs.
Fuzzy Scarf rose slowly from her perch and headed to the back. Gladys lunged for the door and hit the
parking lot pavement in a smooth jog, okay maybe not so much smooth, more of a
spastic lurch. She jumped in her car and
drove like a mad woman over the bridge and through town. She stopped at the only traffic signal that
stood between her and what she was convinced was her house on fire, the guilty tea
kettle whistling its happy tune in the middle of yellow and blue flames. Just as she reached the signal it switched
from amber to red.
She sat at the light panic now oozing from
every fiber in her being, convinced that she had burned down the house and her
little dog was trapped inside. She could
see it now, the fire department already there, nothing left but a charred shell
of a house. She makes her way to the
fire men shaking their heads holding a half-melted tea kettle. She hears a bark and there is her little dog
in the arms of a fire-fighter. “Is this
your dog ma’am” He asks. Make-belief
Gladys reaches for him and the fire-fighter says “He is a true hero! He ran down to the fire house and led us back
here. We are going to give him a medal.”
A horn
honks and Gladys is pulled from her horror story in her mind and races on
through the morning drizzle and traffic.
She slides to a stop in front of the little cottage and runs
inside. There on the couch lies her
little dog asleep not even realizing he is in mortal danger. She runs to the kitchen where there on the
stove sits a cold and un-whistling kettle.
With a
sigh of relief, she realizes the tragedy was all in her head and she, with a
much lighter heart, kisses her furry companion goodbye and heads back to the
laboratory. She sails through traffic
with ease, no lights to impede her progress.
“I am going to make it” she tells herself as she slides into a parking slot
by the front door. She storms up the steps and into the waiting room just as
the young woman appears in the door and calls “Gladys McGunthry? Gladys?”
“I’m
Gladys McGuilicutty” she states breathlessly.
The
young woman looks at her paper and motions for her to come to the back.
Gladys sits in the chair as the young woman pulls on a
pair of pink rubber gloves and lines up vials on a tray. “Hi, my name is Bella Swan and I am a student
at VSU and I will be your phlebotomist.
Is it okay if I draw your blood?”
Gladys put her arm on the table “sure you have to learn
somehow, right? Did you say your name is
Bella? Bella Swan? Like in the novel?”
The young woman struggled into her gloves, tied a piece
of rubber around Gladys’ arm and nodded “yeah, I get that a lot. Now I need to take about 10 vials of blood so
this might take a bit.” She started
feeling around for a vein. She searched
and searched. She squinted and palpitated
then she smiled and excused herself.
An older more seasoned woman came into the room. They whispered conspiratorially then moved
toward Gladys, whose arm was now numb.
“Always remove the tourniquet[BL1] before
leaving the patient” she admonished. She
released the pressure from the arm and felt along the inside of Gladys’ elbow. Then
she searched the other arm, wrapped the tourniquet around the other bicep and
stuck a needle in a big pulsing vein.
She drew blood quickly and adeptly until each of the ten vials was
complete. She picked up the order and
looked it over once again “oh, wait, I need two more vials. Is that okay?” The young woman stood behind her watching as
Gladys nodded affirmative.
Finally, all the vials were filled and the doctor’s order
complete. Gladys tried to stand but with
the panic of a burned out house and melted tea kettle and the twelve vials of
blood found herself a bit light headed.
She sat back with a thud. “I
think I may have stood too quickly” she sighed.
The older woman patted her shoulder “would you like a cup
of strong tea with some sugar?”
The vision of the whistling tea kettle came to mind;
Gladys responded quickly “No, thank you!
I will grab a cup of coffee on my way home”.
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