His Blood Was Mine

His Blood Was Mine

“Get a med student,” someone said. The chief looked at me with restrained optimism as she nominated me to convert this alleged miscreant to an obedient, trusting patient. Be careful, “This one’s got AIDS.”

While I contemplated which heroic maneuvers of interpersonal savvy might elicit my desired effect, a nurse helped me gather a hazmat bag brimming with supplies: a tourniquet, ethanol wipes, needles, tubes, stickers, gauze, and bandages.

The stench of rotting flesh cloaked me as I entered the room, and like an unbathed woodsman ready for the first hunt of the season, I was thankful for the camouflage. I considered that our patient might be nothing more than a lifeless carcass, surely not a belligerent being.

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