The smell of alcohol. The image of a needle on skin. Where can I see this? That’s right, only in the hospitals. When I was seven, my sister was in the hospital and I was there too; the scent of antiseptic alcohol was intense then. My mother sat beside me outside the operating room, waiting for that red “IN OPERATION” light to turn green. Mom was a powerful woman; she could control everything. At that moment, she was quiet and surrendered. Surrendered to let the doctors control her daughter’s fate. Surrendered, like the patient extending her arm towards me for blood collection. “How do you feel?” I ask. “It was very gentle, thank you,” the patient replies. I have asked that question multiple times to many people. But when I’m asked the question by others or myself, it seems very hard to answer. In the living room, I clenched my fist at the cacophony of criticism: “You need to spend more time with family. You don’t need to work now, just study. Stop going out with friends,” Mom said. She was a powerful woman; she could control everything — her job, her time, my time, my freedom — everything. Expectations. Warnings dressed as advice. My mother tells me to wear more modest clothes. To keep my voice down. To remind my fiancé to respect her place in our family. She is not cruel. She just wants control over the things she fears losing — and I am one of them. My father pulls one way. My mother pulls me another. And I? I stay still. I have no control, I surrender. Caught in the tug-of-war, hoping no one notices that I am fraying. I finish the venipuncture. I sneeze when I write down the patient’s name on the tubes. She looks at me, and our eyes meet. Sneezing can cause many problems — allergies, spreading disease, forced isolation.
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