Lab Rat

I sat in the cold air of my roomy accord, sipping cranberry juice, because I knew I was going to pee in a cup. I didn’t know if cranberry juice made you more inclined to pee, but I hoped so. I knew the antioxidants were good for you anyway. I sipped away, finished the IZZE bottle, placing it back in my dusty cup holder that sometimes became dislodged, and let Death Cab’s depressing lyrics dip into my eardrums. I had been listening to the same album for the last week. I didn’t even like them anymore, associating them with a time in my life where I was not in control, unhappy, depressed-- freshman year of college. Why was I listening to them? Let alone, on repeat? The time on the clock read 6:38. I was 22 minutes early.

I glanced around the parking lot. It seemed rather full, but seemingly with cars that had been sitting all day, new Volkswagens, Acuras, and other nice luxury vehicles, especially in comparison with my dented-in-desperate-need-of-a-paint-job-or-at-least-a-friggin’-washing, ’93 Honda. Doctors’ cars, nurses’ cars. Harumph. Oh what fun this will be. It was now 6:40. No one was there to walk up with me. The first arrival, that was me.

I got out of the car, coat and scarf making my venture out of the car less than graceful. I reached across the seat, grabbed my purse that really operates as a throw-everything-in-it bag, and with a certain confidence, slammed the door. I opened the trunk, hoisting out my suitcase. Red, my favorite color. I struggled with it across the parking lot, the cold night taking us on, and ended up under the blue awning, the one I mentally noted on my tour of the facilities, so I would know where the clinic would open its doors to me, post daylight hours. I clamored up the steps, trying to figure out where the call box was, to buzz me in. As I found it, it was behind me, the door blazed open, almost hitting me, a young black male nurse, apologizing, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there, here, I was just getting the door for you, come on in. Great way to start your stay, Erica.

They took my bag and the fluorescent lighting took over. As it would for the next three days. Every acne scar, new pimple, and freckle on my face evident. The faded color of my hair looking brassier than ever. I favor amber lighting. Candles. You know, romantic. This, anything but, worse than the lighting in dressing rooms, every fat crinkle, “wobbly bit” magnified. They went through my bag, confiscating my cinnamon after coffee gum, placing it in a plastic baggie, I guess to emphasize the crime-like nature of my absently bringing it in. I am interrogated. Sex, Caffeine, Drugs, Alcohol… No, No, No, No. I followed the calendar, I say. I sign on the instructed line, being sure to write the date with the two slashes and the six numbers. Everyone writes the dates the same. Even with our looping, slanting, or straight, varying signatures, all the dates must be the same. They tie an arm band around my wrist, a blue somewhere between Carolina and cobalt. I am number 11, ERG. The nurse that was obviously delirious told me, you got the lucky number. She kept writing stuff on the form and scratching it out. The girl next to her said she was messing up; you should have waited for me. I did not know whether to trust her about luck.

I am directed to pee in a cup. The plastic guys are all lined up, like it was prom night, just waiting to get lucky, with a sign in front, DO NOT TOUCH. She hands me the cup, make sure I wash my hands. I did not have much pee in me. I looked at her when I pushed over the cup, not wanting to touch it, with a meek, sorry look. Don’t forget your time sheet. No, I would not. She had purple gloves. All of the nurses had such fun uniforms, various prints, a rainbow of color. My favorite was the lady all in deep royal purple, her scrubs, her scrunchie, even her big-oversized-pocket-cardigan. She was not staying late today, theyd hafta find someone else. Her eyes were fierce, but tired from work. I walk around aimlessly, lost, forgetting what they showed me on the tour, all the hallways looking the same, until someone yells at me. Halts me mid-step. I am looking for my bed, I say. Check in that room. She is black, and round, with lots of hair. You see your number? No. Is it on one of the beds? No. Are you sure? Yes. I am looked at as though I am one of those yippy “dogs” going through paper training who has just pooed on the floor, not on the paper. She gets up. Comes over, opens another door, oh, you must be in here. Flips the light on. Dismal, a bright fluorescent prison, the bunk beds all lined up in a row. Black, shiny, all bought in a military surplus store. They squeaked.

I made my bed, the whitewhite paper sheets on top of flimsy mattress, opened my suitcase, plug in the cell phone charger and lap top, connections to the outside world. I smile, seeing sheer luck had left me with an electrical outlet. Not all of the beds had outlets. I pulled my pillow out, fluffing it, placing it on the bed, making a home, hang my coat and scarf on the edge of the bunk bed, for flair. I sit; wait for other people to arrive. They do. Two older black girls, one shorter with thin arms and legs but a round middle, an apple with small, sagging breasts. The other one taller but bigger with large breasts. A cantaloupe? Everything about her was large. She had on a big pink marshmallow sweater, and is extremely talkative. She is a big pink marshmallow woman, sidekick to the marshmallow man in Ghostbusters. They have homemade, brighter-than- life-colored blankets. I look at my gray wool one; am envious. They have much better flair. The shorter one makes both beds; she has on a hot pink, fuzzy, hoodie. She talks kind of funny, but in a very endearing way. It is fast-ish, but more like all her words are just one word. I smile at the two of them, letting them talk, not paying very much to what they are saying. If I did pay attention, I remember none of it, mostly because it was frivolous chit-chat. Oh, Pink Marshmallow commented on the how well the other made beds. I nevvvah make my bed. If I made dis bed, tomorrow Ida wakes up wid nooo sheets, sleepin’ on da mattress. I still do not know their names, though I read them on the sheet of paper identifying whose bed was which. Marshmallow’s skin was so smooth, her eyes quite lovely. They were also large decorated by neatly plucked, arched eyebrows. My head hurt so badly. I asked them if they had headaches? Said I worked at Starbucks, and my addiction was killing me now. They smiled. Nah. Butdern, I hategivingupsodas. It picksmeupinde aftanoon.

Susan came in. I knew her name after reading the sign, and hearing it from all of the nurses. She was seasoned. Oh Susan knows where that is, she knows what to do, how you doin’, Susan, girl, how about that last study? She sluffed about when she walked. Her face was friendly. Kind of mushed together, her eyes right into her cheeks. She had short red-ish hair that mopped about in swirls on her head, matted. One of her arms hung limp, one hand tiny, and she propped her horse print covered luggage against the bed that sat next to mine. I wondered if she was from the Midwest. I lay on the bed, surfing the internet, waiting for them to serve snack, go through orientation. There were only twelve of us, so all of the nurses were fairly lax. The delirious nurse went through orientation, to help each other out, we were all in this together, to remember to not throw our numbered red cups away, to drink plenty of water, lights out at eleven, our predose in the morning, remember we were all in this together, just follow the rules, how many of us had done this before?, oh, a lot more are new than I thought, let’s help each other out, just ask Susan, she knows all the rules. Oh she was delirious, and repetitive. And now, so am I.

We had snack, and the same male nurse that almost bludgeoned me on my way into the building was now grabbing a bun, putting steak and cheese on it, want onions?, smiling the whole time. He liked me, I could tell. I smiled back, said no, thank you. Why, jokingly, I bet you could eat three of these. I said, oh yeah. You don’t even know. I had been first in line, others were trickling in. Just pick out whatever chips and drink you want. We filed into the dining room, the TV on, though I couldn’t tell you what was playing. We had all assembled. There were 8 men. 4 girls. Most of the men looked college age. All were black, ‘cept one, middle aged white dude with flannel, face like a thinner Mr. Rogers, a cleft in his nose, I didn’t know you could have those there, hair combed over. We finished our snacks. I went into the TV room. Susan was watching Patch Adams on TV. I watched some of it, my head pounding. I began holding it a lot. Running my fingers in a circular motion against my scalp, realizing my fingers were probably making my fine, soft hair look greasy. I didn’t care.

I climbed in bed at about 10:20, not able to take it anymore, though lights were out at 11. I fell asleep, but kept waking up, waiting for the headache to dull again so I could go back to sleep. Maybe this was the beginning of my affair with clinics, but of a different sort. Maybe this headache was a sign of insanity; that I should check into an asylum somewhere. We should all check in. We all were freaks anyway. There was fastonewordbutmultiplewords girl, seasoned Susan with her little hand, the middle aged black man with the silk pajamas, slippers, son, and velvety robe, and… me. 3:06 am said the military clock on the wall, the same digital clock, with its tangerine numbers, in every room. I was on the verge of tears. I knew I could not cry. Damn Starbucks. Damn caffeine. Damn stupid bed. I wanted my boy. He was a man, but I always called them boys if they had my heart, to make it cute. To hold me, tell me it was going to be okay, to tell him to massage me, until the headache came out. I focused. I couldn’t leave the study. I needed the money. I crawled out of bed. Grabbed my provided white towel, opened door. The fluorescent light of the hallway was numbing. That’s right, walk towards the light. A defunct Dorothy seeing all the color of Oz, feeling like I was in an out of body experience. I took of all my clothes, the showers all lined in a row. Picked one. Turned the water on, all the way to the left. Waited, brain piercing, for the water to become piping hot. I stood under that water for a while, lifting myself on my tippy toes so the pulsating head of the shower would have the most powerful effect, rolling my hands through my scalp, working out the pain. Closed my eyes, waiting for the piercing to hush, my brain to become numb. It kind of did.

I dried off, sort of, my head still hurting with every drop removed, just not as bad. Put all my clothes back on, back in bed, 3:36am, I fell asleep with a better head at four. At 5:13am, the door opened, light flooding in, Ladies, Time to Get Up, Vitals in the Rec Room, Get a Move On. This nurse was not as lax, talked with a lot more authority. I got up, brushed my teeth. The second to get my vitals done. I texted the boy, it was very early. I hoped it did not wake him, but made him smile when he woke up. He had texted me after lights out, after I had already fallen into migraine land. I had breakfast. The eggs were rubbery, had to eat 100 percent, hashbrowns mushy, a full pint of milk, English muffins dry, had a hard time swallowing it all down. Dose. Take the pill, drink all the water; shine the flashlight in my mouth. Indian? man makes idle chit chat with me, Have I seen you before? You look familiar, oh, you did a study in the old building, why did it take so long for you to come back? Work and school, fair enough, graduating, eh? What are you going to do?

I don’t know. But I know I have to stay awake for the next four hours, blood drawn at 21 after the hour, every hour for the next 18 hours, and I am not too happy. Seasoned Susan is smart, she has brought movies. She puts in Freedomland, I read. The movie is pretty racially clichéd. Somewhere in the middle, I am stuck, and the nurse thinks I am nice, polite. A good bleeder. She puts in In Her Shoes, the latest Cameron Diaz finding-herself-in-the-world flick, and I read less, watch more, am agitated that we have lunch, and cannot find the remote to watch the end of the movie. I finish the book. Am stuck. And the day continues. I sit on patterned linoleum, have long conversations with the boy; am tired. All this idle chit chat, people I do not know, and I am nothing more than a lab rat. And so it goes, stick stick stick. I don’t know any of these people, don’t really want to, but here I am, confined with them, stick, stick, stick, our veins sharing common pain.

Tonight, my third night, our twelve group study invaded, three other studies, groups of forty, maybe more, all an assortment like ours. All the more reason to fade into the background. I like all these people, like staring at a range of beautiful wild flowers. They would make a very nice bouquet. But I don't know any of them, haven't picked them, stuck my nose down deep, breathing them in.