The sliding doors automatically open, and I step into the lobby. The smell of sickness and antiseptic fill my nostrils, and I nod to the Candy Striper volunteers at the front desk. They recognize me now. I walk down the hall to the laboratory, then up to the receptionist. "Oh...you again." They recognize me now. I nod, fake a smile, and say, "Needles are my life!" I shrug and go find a seat to wait my turn. It's just me and one other woman in the waiting room. The lab closes in less than a half hour; I hurried here right after work. The woman is at least six months pregnant, happily reading a pregnancy magazine. For a second, I hate her. Then, in the next second, I am jealous of her. Two seconds later, I am filled to the brim with emotion--actual  happiness--for her. "You must be so excited," I think to myself. "What a blessing--look at the human curled up right there inside of you."

I look away. She probably thinks, "Why is this woman staring at me?" I look down at my feet, blinking away the tears. I listen for my name, and it is finally called. The actual blood draws are also routine now. I barely wince. I watch the whole time--don't need to look away as the needle punctures my skin. I don't get light-headed anymore. I don't have that luxury. I need to go and get these tests done alone, sometimes several days a week, and I've had to build up my tolerance. Wham, bam. It's done. Time to go.

I walk out toward the front of the lab and the ladies wave good-bye. "How sad is it that most of them know my name?" I think to myself. I walk down the hallway and back toward the teenage Candy Stripers. They have textbooks open in front of them, but they're not doing their homework. They whisper and giggle. They look so young to me. "Did I look that young at sixteen?" I wonder. The young girls nod, and I think back to that time in my life. I must look so old to those girls. Thirty this year. I'm one of the women I never thought I'd be--nearly 30, the antithesis of sexy, fertile youth in my uniform of different colors. I long for their red and white stripes--so fresh, so cheerful. My uniform is made up of black and blue--bruises line the inside of my arms. I keep them covered, put my head down, and fight back the tears again as the sliding doors automatically open for me to leave.