I’m basking in the afterglow of running the gauntlet of angry Utahns waiting to have their blood work done at the draw station when none of the phlebotomists managed to report to work, so another staff member who knows phlebotomy had to step in, even though that’s not her job.

The people in that waiting room were hungry because these are fasting tests. They were sick and old and impatient. They had things to do or nothing to do that they’d rather do elsewhere than at the draw station.

One had a repairman coming. Another needed to get back to his morning gardening. A third was assessing the situation from a systems-theory perspective. Things weren’t run like this when he worked in IT for military hospitals, he told me.

A fourth tried to jump the line and complained bitterly when he was told he couldn’t do that. A fifth ran through the halls with blood dripping from her arm where the needle had been inserted for the draw.

And then there was my favorite, an octogenarian who turned to her husband and shouted, “Well, this is going to take forFUCKINGever” loud enough for everyone waiting to hear.

Also, even with all the peeing I do day in and day out, there’s one time I can’t pee. It’s when someone tells me I need to provide a urine sample and hands me a clear plastic cup.