Allow me to continue to recount some of my experiences from my recent “vacation” at Pardee Hospital in Hendersonville this past week. Some of these tales are intended to be lighthearted; some more serious. Of course, all are necessary for you to know if you want to get to heaven… See what I mean about lighthearted, or at least that was my intent 😎
My daughter took me into the ER at Pardee Hospital early on last Monday morning (ca. 7 a.m.).
Just before we arrived at the ER entrance and I had just had an episode of dry heaves on the way (I had taken along a plastic bowl, just in case, but it was not needed), I tried to use a little humor to keep her from worrying too much about what’s wrong with dad.
So I told her that I promised I would not embarrass her by telling a silly joke I had just devised, once we were inside the ER. Okay, let’s hear it, she asked. Well, I said, I was thinking that when there were enough ER staff surrounding me I would quip that I had heard that this was a real party hospital, so here I am. Where’s the party?
She rolled her eyes (in a loving way) and thanked me for sharing and especially for promising not to actually pretend I’m a comedian with that goofy pun.
Fortunately there was no line in the ER. They quickly found my records from August and September of 2023 when I had the severe gallstone attack and the subsequent gall bladder removal surgery. I was very soon back in one of the ER treatment rooms.
The ER staff doctor, a pleasant man, came in within minutes and began to interview me about my symptoms. As I related the excruciating pain in my midsection, the fulness and bloated feeling, the fact that even one sip of water would send me within seconds into a spell of the dry heaves, and more; he palpated my midsection.
The palpations elicited no pain whatsoever, except in one particular spot. He then quickly ordered an IV drip of saline solution, and to also draw blood for screening for numerous levels of whatever they look for.
He also said he would order a CAT scan to take a look at the whole body from throat to thighs (my words, he was more technical). He then left for a few minutes while one of the nurses began to prep me for drawing blood and inserting a saline drip port.
I warned her that two years ago, my veins were troublesome to find and even more difficult for medical persons to get the needle in properly. I told her that in 2023 four different nurses had poked me in various places on my left arm, right arm, left and right wrists, and once on top of the back of my hand—all with no success.
Finally, the fourth nurse got one in at the crease of the elbow on my arm where an earlier nurse couldn’t get it in. That was 2023. This time the first nurse got it into the crease of my right arm on the second try.
Why do I share all the gory details? Only because I was like a lot of people who have (in my case, had) “needle dread.” Over my adult life, whenever I had to get a blood test for whatever reason, I would caution the nurse that I would get a bit sweaty and feel lightheaded but I had never passed out. They would let me lie down for the “ordeal.”
They would invariably tell me about guys that were 6 feet 5 inches tall who had the same needle dread and actually would pass out. Two years ago, and again this past week, I had no such dread, no cold sweats, no lightheadedness, etc.
It’s all in the mind, of course, because I have had numerous injuries, causing a whole lot more bloodshed, on construction jobsites or on the football field or basketball court and those incidents never caused me to experience any such symptoms.
Those injuries all happened with no warning, and it was no big deal. Not that the injuries were no big deal; some definitely were, but I am speaking of the weird reaction some of us have experienced when you know someone is going to stick you. That’s when my brain would kick in and do whatever it did to cause those clearly irrational physiological responses.
Anyhow, I am certain I am over it now, and so wouldn’t you know, when the phlebotomist nurse came in the next morning (Tuesday, pre-op), I began telling her “my story” of my troublesome veins, etc.
I asked her if she couldn’t just draw the blood from where the IV port had already been in my right arm but she said no, they could not risk any contamination of the fresh blood to be drawn.
I told her I had heard of guys that were big boys, 6 feet, 6 inches tall and 270 pounds and how some of them actually would pass out.
She said, you know what’s funnier than that? Tell me, I asked.
She said, I’ve been doing this 12 years and I have seen this many times where guys of any height and build will ask me to use a butterfly. I interrupted and asked what does a butterfly bandage have to do with it. She explained, no, a butterfly needle, and she showed me one.
They think it will go in easier, but actually, that has nothing to do with it. It’s all in the technique and she explained the proper technique. And all during this conversation, she had already glided the needle into my arm so smoothly I had hardly felt a thing.
She continued explaining what is really funny about some guys who request the butterfly are guys with a whole body full of tattoos! Now that’s funny, doncha think?
I complimented her sincerely for her friendliness and superior expertise. She came back the next morning for my final blood draw. Same thing. It was done before I hardly realized she had stuck me. (Just to not take any chances of triggering myself, I usually don’t watch the process.)
Okay, that’s my true confession about needle dread. I had thought I would have time today to get into the conversation which the ER doc initiated with me when he returned to the treatment room after ordering the CAT scan, but I am calling it a wrap for today.
The conversation was not medical related. Yeah, that’s a tease.
(To be continued.)
~END~
