Free Bleeder by Shelby Smoak Page A

finger joints.
     
    “Wow,” the phlebotomist remarks. “You’ve got great veins. It’s not often I see a set like that. Like mountain chains.”
     
    “I guess if you’re going to be a hemophiliac, you should come with good veins.”
     
    She laughs lightly as she lines up small purple-, red-, blue-, and orange-topped tubes. After the blood collection, the tubes are spun and the blood tabulated, and today I wonder what the numbers will say. I wonder how my decision to stop AZT will affect that count.
     
    The phlebotomist swipes my arm with the alcohol swab, feels her finger along a vein in my forearm.
     
    “Please don’t bruise it,” I say, as she slips her silver-tip needle into me. “I need all the good veins I can get.” Often, the oversized needles the doctors use leave my veins blown and complicate my home treatment. Blood flows into the clear tubing and into the test vials. I watch it; the nurse watches it; the tubes fill.
     
    When I am done, I meet Mom in the lobby. She rode up with me from New London, where I’m staying over the summer break. She wanted to be a mother today, she had said the night before, and she wanted to visit the doctor with me, like she used to do, she added. I did not object.
     
    “All done?” she asks with her general cheerfulness.
     
    “Yep.”
     
    Through the long white corridor as we return to the hemophilia clinic, I tell Mom about stopping AZT. She shakes her head in concern and disappointment.
     
    “I don’t understand. You just quit it?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “And Dr. Trum thought it was best?”
     
    “I’m telling him today.”
     
    “Oh, Son,” she says. “Oh, Son, no.”
     
    We keep walking.
     
    While we wait in the clinic, we toss magazine pages by and pass the timein silence. Here, in People , everyone looks so happy. In my lap lies a pile of endless smiles.
     
    “Shelby Smoak,” a nurse calls.
     
    “That’s me,” I answer while rising to be ushered to my examination room.
     
    And later when Dr. Trum enters, my mom blurts out that I’ve stopped taking AZT.
     
    “He just told me this morning,” she says as I swing my legs over the table’s side. “Even his father doesn’t yet know. I can’t believe he’s done this without telling us.” She looks at me. “I can’t believe you’ve done this and put yourself at such danger while leaving us all in the dark, especially Dr. Trum. He’s the specialist here.”
     
    Dr. Trum joins in: “You should really thoroughly consider what you’ve done. Of course, as your doctor, I’ll support your decision and treat you as best as I can, but without taking AZT our options are limited. I just want you to understand that this isn’t like stopping Tylenol.”
     
    “If it’s the nausea,” Mom says, “Dr. Trum says he can give you something for it.”
     
    “Yes. We can treat the side effects.”
     
    “No,” I say, with a confused conviction that I stand by. “There’s the cramps, my inability to eat, the headaches, the throwing up . . . My decision is made. I can’t go back on it. I felt far too lousy those last months, and I can’t imagine it will get any better.”
     
    “But, Son,” Mom says. “This is . . . This is . . .” She tries to maintain composure, but trembles and grabs a tissue from her purse and dabs her eyes to catch the tears while Dr. Trum rustles his papers.
     
    “Please, please, stay in touch with me and this clinic,” he says, addressing me. He frowns. “We need to work together on this. We’re here to help you. Always remember that.”
     
    Mom blows her nose.
     
    When Dr. Trum finishes his examination and before we are sent on our way, he once again expresses his grave concern about my decision. The room quiets, as there is nothing more to say.
     
    Outside, the wind blows an April downpour upon us as Mom and I hurry to the parking deck. We are soaked, and as I shake the rain loose from my hair, Mom begins again:
     
    “What if you get sick now? What