Five Quarts: A Personal and Natural History of Blood by Bill Hayes Read Free Book Online

David Banner into the green behemoth was ignited by overpowering emotion. (“Don’t make me angry,” actor Bill Bixby would say, more warning than threat; “you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”) Muscles bulged, pants ripped, the shirt shredded, but the Hulk’s transformation was never complete till he smashed through a wall or two.
    In my case, my energy imploded. Thoughts raced, getting nowhere. I’d latch on to one and it was irrational.
I should suck out the HIV at the injection site, but how do I get my mouth to my hip? I should down a mouthful of Steve’s AIDS drugs,
I told myself next.
Wouldn’t that stomp out the infection?
At some point my mind had ground down to nothing, and I was aware of my heartbeat shaking me awake from myself.
    I thought perhaps calm could be restored by my going through the motions of everyday normalcy—showering, eating breakfast, getting dressed.
Breathe,
I coached myself.
Breathe.
In the weird fugue state of the guilt-ridden, I watched Steve get up and go through the same rituals I had. But then I couldn’t bear the pretense of ordinariness any longer. I told him I had something to tell him. I asked him to sit down.
    Once I’d spilled all, Steve pushed back from the table, stood, and turned toward the kitchen cabinet. He didn’t say a word or, at least, none that I heard. I watched him pull the box of needles from the cabinet, place it on the table, and silently begin counting. He looked up.
    “Needles come in bags of ten,” he said, cool and clear. “I opened this new bag yesterday and we used one for my shot. If you’d taken a used needle, I’d be able to find only nine in the bag.”
    My mind was fuzz.
    Steve was talking to me. I heard “ate.”
Ate
?
    “There are eight in the bag, Bill. See?”
    I was starting to understand, coming to ground.
    “You used a new needle—you’re fine. Thank God. They’re all here, except the one you took. Where’d you put it?”
    Now fear gave way to shame, burning my face. “In the garbage.”
    “The garbage?” Steve pulled back, appraising me. “Oh, the trash man’ll love that.”
    Steve went silent, clearly expecting me to speak.
    “I’m so sorry,” I responded. “I—I’m an idiot. I didn’t sleep. I—”
    “Look, I’m glad you’re all right. But . . . do I have to hide these?” He tapped the box.
    I didn’t reply. I was still checking Steve’s math in my head. “Eight in the bag? Are you sure that’s right?”
    He walked away from the table. “Count ’em yourself.”
    I counted. And did so again, later, while Steve went to Walgreens to get a Sharps container. Still, it took me a couple of days to shake the conviction that I’d used a dirty needle, that I might be HIV-infected. Likewise, it took Steve as long to understand my reaction, why my fear lingered. I felt as if I’d nearly been in a car crash, I was finally able to explain to him. And even though I knew I was perfectly safe, I could still hear the screech of tires, still feel the blood rush from the near hit, my pulse racing.
     
    When declaring a person clinically dead, the attending physician or EMT must note in writing that there is no pulse. The carotid artery, just below the curve of the jaw on either side of the neck, is the site most often felt. The pulse is both the last and, in the living, often the first of the vital signs checked. It is the heartbeat by proxy, each throb caused by the powerful contractions that propel oxygenated blood out into the arteries. This outward surge of blood carries such force that the vessels swell to accommodate it; hence a palpable, visible, sometimes even audible pulsation. In all, seven pairs of arterial pulse points dot the human body: at the neck, inner elbows, wrists, and both sides of the groin; in the pit of the knees; behind the ankles; and atop the feet. Typically, arteries are buried deep within the body, but at these points they lie near the skin’s surface and over a bedding of bone. This