Shortly afterward another nurse appeared bearing IV solution, tubes, syringes, needles... the works. I laid down as she strapped a tourniquet around my arm and began her search for a vein. It was a slow, meticulous search, which necessitated a smaller needle; she knew she would never probe the large one into any of my poor, tiny veins. The nurse opened a drawer, producing a needle which had plastic tabs on either side of it; "This is called a butterfly needle," she told me. "Butterfly..." I echoed, peering gratefully at the tiny needle with plastic wings. She drew the tourniquet tightly about my arm once again, this time hastily securing a usable vein and taping the needle in place; wasting no time, the IV bag of solution was hung from a pole above my head, into which a syringe was emptied and consequently diluted. Immediately I began to taste the liquid running through my vein, but I subdued my discontent, hoping that the sensation would disappear; it did not, however, until the drug had filtered into my system completely. As the bag of solution gradually coursed through my veins, slowly, due to the small size of the needle, the nurse re-entered the room to watch its progress. When it had emptied, she raised the bag from its pole, removed the tube connected to the needle in my arm and opened two syringes; hooking them, one at a time, into the butterfly unit, she squeezed the drugs from their containers. My vein which accepted the drugs felt icy, as if a frigid breeze had been directed on my hand from an internal source; an involuntary shudder passed through my body. "Okay... you're all finished," the nurse said, smiling widely. She pulled the needle swiftly from my hand, pressing a square of alcohol saturated gauze to the arm, then wrapping more gauze tightly around the needle "wound" to prevent further bleeding. I found that pressure applied to the area helped immeasurably to ward off bruises and I would therefore often hold my hand or arm in a vice-like grip for several minutes after a needle had been removed, thereby lessening the chances of a gruesome bruise and its accompanying discomfort. Thus, I held my hand tightly with the other and slid off the table as my Mom stood to leave. "What are those?" I asked the nurse, pointing to two white canisters made of cardboard. "Those are in case you get sick... do you want to take one with you?" "No... I feel okay so far. I'll see you tomorrow," I replied, happy that one injection was over, yet realizing the fight had just begun for me.