It is 1:00 a.m. I am a third year medical student and the year is 1991. As I slowly make my way down the pale green hospital corridor, my heart gallops ahead of my footsteps, a stubborn lump lodges inside my throat and deep breaths are of little help. Later today I can think about the Knick-Celtics game. Right now, my mind thinks only of the ominous task that lies ahead.

"Well, this is it," whispers that inner voice I call the companion, which always seems to delight in my trepidation. "You said you wanted to be a physician well..." Quickly, I stifle the annoying thought as yet another night nurse whizzes past. No sooner than she vanishes into the darkness of the hospital's hallway, the companion returns: "What if you botch this thing up ... doctor? Are you sure you have the right instruments ... doctor? Will you remember which tube is for what ... doctor? And what if this patient has some hidden complication ... doctor? Did you hear about the other medical student who accidentally killed a patient ... doctor? How I hate the companion!

It suddenly dawns on me that I have been standing in front of room 232 for several minutes-- exactly what I had promised myself not to do. But these seconds are crucial to my ultimate success; the companion's words have to be rebutted now or failure is inevitable. "Don't worry about inflicting pain; this is for the greater good,"
I reassure myself. "Just open the door, show lots of teeth and confidence."

Night nurses whiz past me. Damn night nurses; they seem so purposeful, so confident, so busy all the time. Paying no attention to me standing here motionless in white, one almost steps on my foot as she zooms by. " Sorry, doctor," she says hurriedly. Suddenly, she stops and takes notice of me; perhaps her years of experience have bestowed her a sixth sense about doctors who stand motionless in front of patient's rooms; "Is everything all right, doctor," she asks in an almost sympathetic tone. And before I could muster a response, she adds, " Is there anything I can help you with." (She knows you are clueless, adds the inner companion.)

"No, not at all," I lie, offering a half- hearted explanation about not knowing the location of the patient's room. The lack of expression on her face tells all. I am wasting her time. She nods and moves on. Now the time has truly come for action because if she catches me still frozen in this spot when she returns, I am certain to plummet down the nurses' sliding scale for physicians, aptly named because its slippery nature makes climbing back into favor nearly impossible.

With this fate fast becoming a possibility, I gently open the door to room 232. A pair of startled eyes greets mine. I wonder if they see past my painted smile. "How are you this evening Mrs. Beverly?" I ask in that loud tone we medical professionals use to establish command over the moment. I had seen residents and nurses do it hundreds of times. "Fine doctor," she says in that hesitant tone patients use when a smiling, loud talking person wearing white, carrying a stethoscope and other shiny objects enters their space. I introduce myself and tell her that I have come to draw her blood. Then I ask the classic neophtye's question, "Is this a good time?" The idea here is she would vehemently refuse the procedure. Then, at least, I could document her refusal in the chart and lament to my colleagues over how hard I had tried.

No such luck. "Go right ahead, doctor." she says, thrusting her upper extremity toward me. The words, "Go ahead doctor" echo endlessly in my inner ear. Trapped, I begin the process of laying out the materials, all the while making small talk designed to relieve patient anxiety. It certainly relieves mine. How I long for my pal, Joe, the cadaver backs at Anatomy Lab. Though stiff, frigid and malodorous, Cold Joe, would never ask questions. Once I accidentally spilled a pack of M&M candy into his abdominal cavity and spent hours retrieving them, not because of I was hungry as my colleagues teased but because I had developed a profound respect for Cold Joe's decision to hand is body over to medical science so that people like me could continue to better help and understand those who are alive. I liked him because he would not complain, or say "ouch" when he was accidentally sliced, diced or punctured. The living are not nearly as forgiving; they are less receptive to poking, puncturing, and prodding. Some will even poke back.

You may feel a little stick now Mrs. Beverly, it'll only be a couple of seconds," I say casually. Droplets perspiration tumble down our necks as I diligently palpate her vein. ( A lab technician would have drawn 40 bloods by now,doctor whispers my inner companion). Though meant for good, a long, thin needle glistening in the light can strike fear in hearts of the most intrepid individuals, perhaps with the exception of my wife. Amazing woman that she is-- allowing me to practice on her for many nights during my first year of medical school. I still vividly remember her outstretched arms reddened with multiple hematomas, a kind of living tapestry of my failed attempts to find a vein. Oh the joy we shared one rainy Tuesday evening when I finally succeeded. "I am so happy for you, honey" she said with the kind of child-like admiration. We hugged triumphantly and kissed like honeymooners. " Are you proud of me," I asked her.

"Yes dear...but why I am still bleeding... and my arm...it's swelling up." Oh the horror of the grisly sight that greeted my eyes when I turned around to see blood everywhere, over her arm, over the sheets and on the floor. We exchanged a quick glance. She said nothing but her pleading eyes said it all, "Do something now!" The shock of the moment wore off and I leaped into action. Quickly, I snapped the tourniquet, which I had forgotten to remove, off her arm and held pressure. "I am so sorry," I said sheepish tones, worried that I had truly hurt the one I love. I could already envision the next episode of " Divorce Court ," with me standing before that tv judge being sued by my wife for malpractice. And I wasn't even a doctor yet.

But love, as they say, is forgiving and kind. "Just remember to remove the tourniquet and apply some pressure, honey." she said in the tone a wife uses when she is nagging about the toilet seat being left up. "And, honey, you can let go of my arm now, she added aimably" Still in shock, I had been holding pressure to her arm for several minutes."Your arms look as though they've been through a blender, " I said in a lame attempt to lighten up the moment. "It'll heal ," she reassured me. That week she wore only long sleeved blouses to work.

Just as my wife did, Ms Beverely closes her eyes for the moment in acceptance of the impending invasion and turns her head. I knew this had to be a direct hit because Ms. Beverly would not be contented to wear long sleeved outfits for the next week.

Gently, as though about to disconnect the wires of a time bomb, I steadied my trembling hand. In one swift motion, the needle breaks past Ms. Beverly's skin. "Ooo!," she says. "Are you all right Mrs. Beverly," I ask, the panic ready to burst inside me. "I'm okay," she said calmly. "I don't like needles." "Me neither," I respond with a smile. "Don't worry, I am almost done." Meanwhile, not a drop of blood has entered the collecting tube. Dear God, I pray silently, let this be a perfect hit. Don't let me have to stick this woman again, or have to wake my superiors for help.

Bonded by a needle, a glass tube and silent expectation, Ms. Beverly and I are one for the moment, but it feels as if we are sharing eternity. At last, a trickle followed by a steady stream of beautiful, "red gold" fills the tube. Feeling more like a vampire for the moment, I hasten to suck more blood by rapidly switching tubes before my good fortune or Ms. Beverly's supply runs out. At long last, I hold in my hand four tubes of blood. "There we are Mrs. Beverly, that's all there is to it," I say in confident tones. She looks at me and smiles, " That's it? I didn't feel a thing doctor," she responds. Funny, that word, "doctor" sounds much better right now.