A small passage from the piece I'm working on. Feedback is much appreciated!
The halls were constantly buzzing, coating the deeply rooted pessimism with a liveliness that helped me forget, and hospital staff made their way in and out of our room at all hours. I knew much of it was a mindless routine, the steady indifference broken only by a high systolic number or a stubborn vein, but it made me feel significant knowing all these strangers cared whether or not I lived, even if it was their job. Sometimes they collected blood, other times they recorded the figures that flashed on the monitors, or “just popped in to check up.” Without having to say a word, their uniform told me what they had come for. Looking more like businessmen in their button-down collared shirts and ties, the doctors almost always had glasses on, but not much of an objective. Whenever they came around, I had to suppress the urge to ask them why they even bothered. On the other hand, the phlebotomists, dressed in long white lab coats and blue latex gloves, had only one intention. They move the fastest, judged the least. I secretly wished the blood would seize to flow so that I could see them, syringe in hand, finally faced with failure. The ones who visited the most were dressed in matching sets of cotton-candy pink, Betty Boop print, mellow yellow. They wore sweet aromas, wedding rings, warm smiles that mismatched their black-rimmed eyes.