Brave New World, Infusions, and Vitameatavegamin

Blood moves through my body looking for an escape. Every month it finds one and it’s even more gruesome than the month before. It’s a friggin’ crime scene. Every. Month. That’s just how we do. It’s how we’ve always done, Moira and I. It hadn’t really ever hit me that I had a blood problem. It should have, but it didn’t. I mean, I knew, but I didn’t really know, you know?

Moving about the earth, day in and day out lifeless, pale, in search of an energy boost—I was more like Dracula than I’d realized. Not only had I felt lonely, misunderstood, clogged, and unsettled but I really was able to feel the blood in people, boiling beneath their skin’s surface. And I wanted what they had—health, vibrance, vitality. I’d never considered myself a vampire but that’s exactly what I felt like—on the hunt and suddenly envious of everyone around me with verve on their side. Just what had I done, in this life or a previous one, to inherit this blood-draining illness? Was a spiteful Yahweh still wagging his finger at me from his celestial throne? Eh, maybe.

Either way, it was time to confront this bloodthirsty beast. I’d ignored it for too long. I made an appointment with my doctor. She took my blood, the very blood I needed, and called me a few days later, suggesting iron infusions because my hemoglobin was at a very low eight.

“Jeez. Okay,” I said.

We started iron infusion treatments, with five infusions scheduled at a local hospital, seventy-two hours apart. They lasted for two and a half weeks. I got poked, I got iron, I got breakfast, I got pampered. It was like a fucked up spa situation taking place in some parallel, sci-fi universe. It was all very Brave New World...

Needle Pokin’ and Blood Explodin’

“Subject needs twenty-five units of Venifor infused over a two-hour period.”

Can’t you just give me the Soma and be done with it? I thought, sitting in The Chair.

“I found a good vein. It’s bubbling from the surface,” said the entity in white scrubs while poking the vein in my forearm. 

I looked down. All my veins were sky blue, just waiting to become brown and heavily-laden with the holiest of holy metals, ferrum. The Scrub Creature wrapped a teal, plastic tourniquet around my upper arm, tied it tight, and poked at my puffy, desirable vein once more. Then, the creature in white unwrapped a flimsy, plastic bag and pulled out a needle with a long, flexible tube.

“I feel the need to tell you that I have my monthly; I’m bleeding heavily today. It’s gushing out. Does that mean the infusions may be for naught?” I asked.

“Here comes the pinch,” Scrub Creature said, ignoring me and jamming the needled flexi-hose into my bright, blue vein. 

I watched the vein explode and squirt blood. Scrub Creature rolled back in its wheeled chair as my blood, the very lifeblood I suffered a shortage from, ran down my arm and backslid out of the plastic tube. It was resistant; my body rebelled.

“Whoop! Whoop!” The creature said, dabbing away all the recalcitrant blood I knew I housed ages ago. “Sorry about that!”

Well, there goes more blood. Just take it. Take it all, I thought. May you have better luck with it than me. I smiled at Scrub Creature, shrugged, and said, “It happens.” 

Once I’d been successfully connected to hoses containing the brown, liquid sludge that was certain to bring my levels up to snuff, I sat silently, watching it rush into my bloodstream. Hmph. I must be starved for this shit.

Beepin’ Yellow Balls

 “Would you like breakfast?” Scrub Creature asked, bringing over a paper of listed food items for me to peruse.

I looked it over. Hospital-style blueberry muffins. Let’s see if those look the way I hope they will.

“Venifor subject would like a purple-spotted carb-cake,” Scrub Creature said into a black communication device. 

While waiting for my muffins, I leaned forward to fish a book from my bag. That’s when the god-awful beeping started. I quickly sat up, panicked, and looked around the room for the Scrub Creature. It came, pushed several buttons on an electronic pump placed beside me, then scampered off to shuffle papers on its desk. 

My purple-spotted carb-cakes arrived. Instead of the plump, lightly-grilled, blueberry muffin with thick purple berries protruding from all sides and gorgeous, oversized sugar crystals glistening from the top of the muffin—folding itself over the muffin paper—I got two, yellowish-white muffin balls. No purple spots to be seen. 

I really am in a fucked up spa; one that doesn’t know what a blueberry muffin looks like. “Thank you.” I smiled graciously accepting my sci-fi, yellow muffin balls.

As I stared at these tiny muffin balls, I couldn’t help but wonder if what I really needed was Vitameatavegamin. That shit had 23% alcohol.

Someone go get Lucy, please.