Overdrawn
“You
ever given blood before?”
She
asked as I walked in the door.
She
grabbed my arm, inflicting pain,
And
said, “C’mon, let’s see that vein!”
I
said to Ms. Vampire, R.N.,
“It’s
sure nice seeing you again,
But
could you let me be a minute?
That’s
just my sleeve—my arm is in it!”
Her
next attack was from an arsenal
Of
questions that were way too personal.
"Have
you ever visited the Congo?
Played
on someone else's bongo?
Ever
EVER shared a needle?
Dressed
up like a lady beetle?
Ever
traded sex for money?
(And-why-do-you-think-that's-so-funny?!)
"Have
you had any trouble swallowing?
Experiences
like the following:
Daytime
chills, or cold night sweats
(Aside
from rooting for the Mets)?
Unexplainable
weight loss?
Pickled
beets with chocolate sauce?
Tattoos,
or a blood transfusion?
Questions
that are an intrusion?"
She
finally stopped her long barrage;
And
left me to her entourage.
I
pondered blood bank etiquette
While
waiting for my turn…iquet.
Should
I say, if they hear a thud
It’s
just I faint at sight of blood?
Or
warn them, when they prick my ear,
That
wad of gum’s been there all year?
My
musings, though, were broken off
By
someone's loud, important cough.
The
chamber light began to darken,
It
seemed as if to bid me hearken;
I
looked up just in time to see
The
specter standing over me
And
feared right then for limb and life--
Count
Dracula's bloodletting wife!
She
sat me down and felt my wrist
And
said, that sanguine masochist,
Her
eyes a-swim in joyful tears,
"Your
pulse is music to my ears."
And
then she shoved in that thermometer
To
gag and almost make me a vomit, or,
Worse—knowing
that I can't reply—
To
ask me questions ending "why?"
She
gathered stats without relenting,
My
body all the while tormenting.
Her
manner seemed to me quite rough:
She
gave me a blood pressure cuff,
And,
speaking sphygmomanometrically,
Saw
mine was high and clapped with glee.
"Now,
why is that so good?" I asked her.
"It
makes your blood flow out much faster!"
By
this time I was quite delirious;
Her
bearing turned a bit more serious.
"You'll
never feel a twinge or pang,"
She
said, and sharpened up her fang.
She
pricked, and 'fore I shouted "Yipe!",
She
said, "To see if you're my type,"
And
then, as if to ease my mind,
"B
negative--my favorite kind!"
She
led me to the altar cot,
Where
sacrifices bleed a lot.
I
saw the tubes--half-inch diameters;
She
murmured, "This is NOT for amateurs."
And
hooked me up and took a stroll
To
torture another helpless soul
Whose
skin was looking rather pallid,
And
muscles like last week's tossed salad.
When
she returned she squeezed my hand—
I
thought I saw the Promised Land—
I
asked her, "Will it be much longer?"
And
felt her grip grow even stronger.
"You
seem to be the rugged sort;
I
think I'll take another quart."
I
think that I shall not go back
Again
to visit Mrs. Drac.
—Anemi-A. Mouse
© 2000