My first aspirate was lying on my side.
The doctor anesthesized a spot on the
right side of the small of my back.
He pushed a needle into my bones
and I gritted my teeth against the pain.
Afterward, he put a pressure bandage
on the site of the wound,
telling me to lay flat on my back.
This was the thing about the early days:
my blood was not clotting.
Over and over again that was the most dangerous thing.
The bandage was soaked red in an hour.
A different doctor checked the bandage,
replaced it,
and suggested that I put my hand
underneath my back, lay on it,
to create more pressure.
I tried it, but my hand fell asleep,
and the bandage was red again, anyway,
several hours later.
And here is the funny part about all of this:
I had brought my books with me,
in case I felt like studying while I was in the hospital.
(i didn't know that i was going to be leaving lancaster,
that i had been to my last classes there)
After my bandage had been replaced
for the second time,
I took Henry IV from the desk near my bed,
a small soft book,
but suddenly hard underneath my back.
What I laughed about later,
with my English major stepmom,
was that this was probably
the best use I'd ever have for Shakespeare.
That for all his writing skill,
and for all his "tangled webs we weave,"
the thing that he did the best
was to keep my blood inside of me.
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