And That Was The Day I Changed Myself.

Chapter 2: My Morning Needle.

My Morning Needle.

I ENTER THE KITCHEN, put my book bag on the floor next to the kitchen island, and stand next to my mom. My warm clothing is such a drastic contrast to my mom’s light clothing of a tank top, and jean shorts, that if a stranger were peaking in, he wouldn’t know if it was a summer or fall chilly day. In case you’re wondering, it’s June.

My mom is a naturally nervous woman, and I watch as she frantically gets two vials out of the refrigerator. One is a water substance, and the other is a powder. She places them on the counter where a needle is lined up, along with two rubbing alcohol packages, and a piece of rubber. She puts a hole into the top of the powder vial, and pours the contents of the water vial into it. I watch as her thin arms shake the powder vial to mix it with the water. Done shaking, she places it on the counter, and takes a jittering sip from her coffee mug.

“Here,” she says nodding to it. I slide the vial, needle, and piece of rubber across the counter, and sit in a bar stool across from my mom. I pull my left sleeve up, and grab the rubber, place it underneath my arm, make a loose knot with my right hand, and pull it tight with my teeth and fingers. 

To save myself embarrassment of having my teachers tie the rubber for me in front of my classmates, I learned to tie the rubber myself a year ago, and now at 11 years old, I’m a pro. I quietly slip into the bathroom at school when it’s time for my medicine. I’ve tried to explain to kids at school that they can’t catch hemophilia from me, but they still think I’m some type of freak that can bleed to death at any moment. Not to mention the jokes that I’m shooting up drugs when I have to inject myself. That makes me angry sometimes.

I really don’t need this routine every morning with my mom. I mean, I’ve been doing this all by myself at school for a whole year, so I’m capable of doing the medicine myself, but it makes her feel better to prepare the medicine for me–so I let her.

I take the alcohol swab, and clean the inside of my arm with it. I remove the needle from the wrapping, and stick the needle into the vial to retrieve the medicine. I inject myself. My mom watches like a hawk. It’s a quick process, really.

My mom goes to the refrigerator, and marks off todays date on the calendar which has all different marker colors of my doctor appointments, hospital stays, bleeds, and medicine intake. I untie my arm and place the rubber on the counter. I take the alcohol cotton swab and apply pressure. I see no bleeding and pull down my sleeve. My mom takes the rubber, and places it in the drawer behind her, and I toss the needle and alcohol swab in the trash. I grab my book bag and place it over my shoulder. I can feel my mom looking me up and down.

“You got the right socks on,” she asks suspiciously. “The long wool ones? I don’t want any rocks or splinters cutting you.”

Ugh! I feel myself getting totally impatient. I don’t want to be lectured this morning. I know how to protect myself with clothing, really.

“See,” I say, and stick my left leg out. I pull my pant leg up, and expose the correctsock before dropping my pant leg.

“Come her, let me cut that off,” she says, turning her bony back to me and grabbing a pair of red scissors from a drawer. She’s referring to a hospital bracelet on my right wrist. I’ve been in the hospital the past two days. I kicked the side of my bed in the dark, tore off a toenail, and got a bad bleed.

I stand in front of my mom as she slowly and over cautiously maneuvers the scissors between my skin and the bracelet. I squirm.

“Mom, hurry up!”  I startle her. She is wide eyed.

“Don’t you move!” She directs. She mumbles to herself “Lord be with me, be with me please.” I stand stiff as my mom’s shaky hand finally fits the scissors between my skin and the bracelet. She pauses, and CUTS. She slams the scissors on the counter. I throw the bracelet in the trash.