“Good morning, time to draw your blood.” she says in a weary voice. Its 6 A.M., and I just fell asleep an hour ago.
I roll forward in my hospital bed and moan, taking my sweet time to sit up. She tightens the tourniquet across my arm, and I start to fuss and fidget. The butterfly needle inches closer to my skin and I pull away, turning my head to the other side.
“Why do they always torture me?” I mutter under my breath.
“I don’t like this any more than you do.” she replies kindly.
I stop whining, sit still as statue, and smile. I remember the countless nights as a busy intern drawing blood at three in the morning, only to have patients yell and curse at me.
She places the gauze and tape on my arm and gets ready to leave. When I say “thank you” to her, I mean it with all my heart.