Ebola Part 3

I had to take some time to write this one.

You know how some days, you feel like your emotions are really close to the surface? Something traumatic, or dramatic, happened yesterday, or earlier in the week, but you held everything in check, but you feel the tears, or the fury, just hovering there on the periphery of your vision.

Today was like that. I've been keenly worried about my littlest sister all week. She had a heart ablation procedure scheduled for Tuesday, where they were hoping to fix the arrhythmia and elevated heart-rate problems she's been having. She's so young.

I am completely kicking butt on the commute this morning. Traffic is light, the drive is smoove (yes, I know that's a silly way to spell 'smooth' but it just felt smoover than smoother this morning, you know?). I actually am getting to the NIH fast enough that I start to worry. My appointment is for when they open, right at 7am. And I'm on track to get there before 6:45. I might have to park my own car!

No worries. Even with my early arrival, the guys that run the valet service are already there. And the Vaccine Research Center ladies are also already at work. This week, my nurse shoos me on down to phlebotomy first for the blood draw. I peek inside my bag o' vials; Eek! There are a whole fistful of 10 ml tubes! I'd thought since it was just a two-week follow-up, that it's be a small blood draw, 40, maybe 50 ml worth. They're taking at least twice that much today. Well, they warned me when I started that being a volunteer, I allow NIH to use my blood for other research projects, too, so...filled with righteous justification, I head towards the snack cart.

D'oh! It is not open before 7am. But I get right in to have my vein tapped. I happen to have the same phlebotomist that drew my blood at my intake appointment two months ago. Have you noticed that the older the nurse or phlebotomist, the easier the blood draw? OK, maybe the rest of you haven't had your blood drawn repeatedly over the course of months by a dozen different people. Sometimes, it feels like a sharp jab into the crook of your elbow. Sometimes, it feels like a slight poke. The better the phlebotomist, the slighter the poke. Mine today, at phlebotomy station number four, is a magician. I read the comics she has strategically posted on her cubicle wall in the direction away from where the blood is drawn, and feel something akin to a brush stroke, a pinch at the crook of my elbow. It is always a pleasure to work with a professional, even if their profession involves stabbing needles into you.

Four ounces lighter, I go back to the snack cart, which by now is in place. If I sounded annoyed earlier when it wasn't there, I wasn't, honest. I mean, it's staffed by a sweet old lady volunteer, so how irritated can you really be that it wasn't there at 6:55am?

There is a child, a little boy I think (it's hard to tell because the child has no hair, and is dreadfully thin) sitting by his Momma eating an iced pastry from the cart. He has his mask pulled down to his chin (like the one's your Dentist wears? You know, really sick patients wear them to add a small barrier to their weak immune systems?). And he laughs at something his Momma whispers in his ear. Unless you've lived with someone who is terminally ill with cancer, and whose hair has all fallen out from the devastating treatments, "laughing" is probably not an activity you imagine. He looked gleeful in that moment, and it stunned me. A sick little boy laughing sounds *exactly* like a healthy little boy laughing.

The sadness, hovering on the periphery, rushes in, and I start crying. I wonder if my little sister had any snacks before or after her ablation. I try to be subtle as a I pick up a napkin to dab my cheeks before leaving with my banana and juice (orange, 2 cartons). As I walk back out of the lobby, I sneak another glance at the the smiling little boy before turning the corner back towards the elevators.

I know we live in a mortal world, and so all of us die, and I think of my sister again.

Please, God, please let them live through this.

And I have to stop and sit down a moment to let a sob escape me. The hospital, this early, is pretty quiet, so I'm thankfully alone. No one is walking by who would have to politely ignore me so I could grieve in peace. After a few moments, the overwhelming grief passes, I take a deep breath, and go back upstairs.

My blood pressure is better this week, 130 over 80. I don't tell the nurse I have a crying headache; maybe that helps blood pressure. I'm on my way to work in no time. The sun is just rising, promising a bright new day.

I hope, in my heart, it is a good one for us all.