it.
The problem is, it takes more energy every time.
And right now it’s harder than usual to shrug off the loss and start over because this time it isn’t just about me. This time it’s about Dylan and the trip. It’s about us, and our chance to do something amazing together.
Money, I can do without. Dylan’s happiness, I cannot.
I check my phone again. Two hours and forty-two minutes to go before texting him again. I’ll make it casual.
Hey! Coming over tonight?
Something like that. Two hours, forty-one minutes.
It’s a relief when they finally call my name, even though I know this is going to hurt.
“Good luck,” Dougie says as I stand up. He yawns as I walk by, and as he stretches, his shirt rides up and I catch a glimpse of more of his tattoos. I definitely don’t like the tale they tell.
The nurse doesn’t look at me. Not as I follow her down the hallway and into the procedure room, and not as she hands me a paper gown and tells me to put it on so it opens in the front.
The doctor who comes in doesn’t look at me, either. Not as he pushes aside the paper gown, not as he swabs my thigh with brown antiseptic, and not as he injects a local anesthetic. Definitely not as he uses small, sharp scissors to cut out a tiny chunk of muscle. “You’ll need to come back to have the stitches removed,” he says to my tissue sample as he walks out of the room. I’ve seen more of his bald spot than I have of his face.
“You’re welcome,” I call out before the door closes, a little loud, a little snarky.
He freezes, then turns and edges, wide-eyed, back into the room, like he’s surprised to learn that I can speak. “Oh,” he says. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.” Obligation fulfilled, he skitters out again.
The nurse shoves a manila envelope at me and then walks out behind the doctor.
I shuffle through the packet quickly. Wound-care instructions, extra bandages, a list of possible signs of infection.
Nothing about getting paid.
“Wait a minute!” I push through the door and chase after the nurse. “Where’s the money?”
“Money?” She looks blank.
I want to shake her.
Like I let you butcher me for free, you stupid cow?
“Cash. Compensation. Cashier’s check. Whatever. You know, the
money
?”
“Oh. We had to change our terms recently, and now we don’t pay until you’ve completed all the steps. Too many subjects were dropping out before the last phase, and then we couldn’t use them in the data set. So now we don’t pay until after the final follow-up visit.”
I shove my hair back with both hands, tell myself to take a deep breath. “Final visit?” I ask through gritted teeth. “And when is that?”
She sighs and keeps walking, so that I have to trot after her to keep up. “It’s all in the paperwork we gave you.”
Fuck.
The paperwork that lies in jagged strips of five- and seven-syllable phrases. “I, um, I think I might have lost that page. Can you check your records or something, let me know when I can come back?”
The nurse looks at me like I don’t deserve to be using up the air on her planet. “I don’t have that information,” she says in a bitchy, clipped voice. “You’ll have to call the study coordinator’s office next week. She’s on vacation until Monday.”
I shred my fingernails against the flesh of my palms and look away so she can’t see how she’s getting to me. “Can I please have her phone number?” I say as I blink hard. And then before she can even say it: “I know it was in the paperwork you gave me. But can you give me another copy? Please?”
I keep looking away so I don’t have to watch her roll her eyes at me as she huffs her disgust and slaps a new consent-form packet onto the counter. “You’re welcome,” she says in a snarky echo of my own voice.
I spin around and storm off, which is not the smartest idea in the world since it makes my stitches feel like they’re tearing through my skin. I’m still numb from the
The problem is, it takes more energy every time.
And right now it’s harder than usual to shrug off the loss and start over because this time it isn’t just about me. This time it’s about Dylan and the trip. It’s about us, and our chance to do something amazing together.
Money, I can do without. Dylan’s happiness, I cannot.
I check my phone again. Two hours and forty-two minutes to go before texting him again. I’ll make it casual.
Hey! Coming over tonight?
Something like that. Two hours, forty-one minutes.
It’s a relief when they finally call my name, even though I know this is going to hurt.
“Good luck,” Dougie says as I stand up. He yawns as I walk by, and as he stretches, his shirt rides up and I catch a glimpse of more of his tattoos. I definitely don’t like the tale they tell.
The nurse doesn’t look at me. Not as I follow her down the hallway and into the procedure room, and not as she hands me a paper gown and tells me to put it on so it opens in the front.
The doctor who comes in doesn’t look at me, either. Not as he pushes aside the paper gown, not as he swabs my thigh with brown antiseptic, and not as he injects a local anesthetic. Definitely not as he uses small, sharp scissors to cut out a tiny chunk of muscle. “You’ll need to come back to have the stitches removed,” he says to my tissue sample as he walks out of the room. I’ve seen more of his bald spot than I have of his face.
“You’re welcome,” I call out before the door closes, a little loud, a little snarky.
He freezes, then turns and edges, wide-eyed, back into the room, like he’s surprised to learn that I can speak. “Oh,” he says. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.” Obligation fulfilled, he skitters out again.
The nurse shoves a manila envelope at me and then walks out behind the doctor.
I shuffle through the packet quickly. Wound-care instructions, extra bandages, a list of possible signs of infection.
Nothing about getting paid.
“Wait a minute!” I push through the door and chase after the nurse. “Where’s the money?”
“Money?” She looks blank.
I want to shake her.
Like I let you butcher me for free, you stupid cow?
“Cash. Compensation. Cashier’s check. Whatever. You know, the
money
?”
“Oh. We had to change our terms recently, and now we don’t pay until you’ve completed all the steps. Too many subjects were dropping out before the last phase, and then we couldn’t use them in the data set. So now we don’t pay until after the final follow-up visit.”
I shove my hair back with both hands, tell myself to take a deep breath. “Final visit?” I ask through gritted teeth. “And when is that?”
She sighs and keeps walking, so that I have to trot after her to keep up. “It’s all in the paperwork we gave you.”
Fuck.
The paperwork that lies in jagged strips of five- and seven-syllable phrases. “I, um, I think I might have lost that page. Can you check your records or something, let me know when I can come back?”
The nurse looks at me like I don’t deserve to be using up the air on her planet. “I don’t have that information,” she says in a bitchy, clipped voice. “You’ll have to call the study coordinator’s office next week. She’s on vacation until Monday.”
I shred my fingernails against the flesh of my palms and look away so she can’t see how she’s getting to me. “Can I please have her phone number?” I say as I blink hard. And then before she can even say it: “I know it was in the paperwork you gave me. But can you give me another copy? Please?”
I keep looking away so I don’t have to watch her roll her eyes at me as she huffs her disgust and slaps a new consent-form packet onto the counter. “You’re welcome,” she says in a snarky echo of my own voice.
I spin around and storm off, which is not the smartest idea in the world since it makes my stitches feel like they’re tearing through my skin. I’m still numb from the
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