Treatment Day

The first thing you notice is the taste. It enters your nose and settles on your tongue like a bad memory made of bleach, metal, and despair. You try to swallow it down as you take your seat, but it only gets worse.

The blue recliners are cold and hard. The blanket they give you is scratchy, and the pillow is flat, but they will have to do.

The nurse comes by to prep you with saline and heparin. Her face is kind, but her eyes have seen too much suffering. She knows how much it hurts.

You ask her to inject the drugs slowly, but it doesn't help. You gag anyway.

She tries to draw blood, but the blood doesn't leave your body, so she twists you and turns you upside down before they can get enough- like vampires draining you of what strength you have left.

When they're through, you burrow into the blanket and try to get the taste out of your mouth as you await your sentence.

When the tests return, another nurse approaches with two bags of clear fluid that he attaches to a pole. "Try and relax," he says, knowing that you never could.

His hands are gentle, but the needle is still sharp when it enters your chest, and the room turns colder than before.

Now, the fun begins.

You gag and sputter on the air around you as the medicinal taste grows stronger. You eat handfuls of Jolly Ranchers and Lemon Heads to combat the taste, but they barely make a dent, and you'll never be able to eat them again.

Your stomach tightens and rolls with every beep of the machine, and your bladder fills up every half hour. Walking is almost impossible as you wheel the pole around with you and try to avoid all the tubes as you try to relieve yourself. It's not easy.

Fatigue sets in and your very bones begin to ache. You long to sleep, but sleep never comes, so you long for death- anything to make the agony stop. Your mind wanders through every horrible scenario as your eyes unfocus, making it impossible to concentrate on anything around you, and you get stuck in this endless loop of despair.

Then, finally, the machine beeps loudly, signaling your release, and you feel relieved. The nurse returns, but she does not pull the needle from your chest. Instead, she plugs you into a portable machine and gives you a stylish fanny pack to carry it in. It is not ideal, but at least you get to go home.

At home, you rely on others to keep you alive. The television is your best friend because you aren't able to focus on anything else. There's a glass of milk next to you because everything, even water, makes you sick, and eating solid food is out of the question.

At least your recliner is more comfortable, your blankets are softer, and you can cry from exhaustion without judgment.

After three days, your fanny pack beeps. You get a ride to the facility because you're too weak to drive yourself, and you find another blue recliner to wait in. The same faces greet you, and you know it's because no one else is strong enough to do this job.

They're heroes.

A nurse comes by eventually and unhooks you from the fanny pack. She flushes you out with more saline, and you almost vomit. Saline is almost worse than the treatment now, and you know you'll never get used to the sensation.

She pulls the needle from your chest and releases you, but not before saying the words that you constantly dread:

"See you again next week."