[Written sometime around mid- to late 2016, but as relevant today as then, I reckon.]
“You cannot do that!” is what a well-meaning nurse told me yesterday at the chemo-ward, or whatever they call the place you sit in for several hours whilst intravenously imbibing what I like to call Shiva-Shakti juice.
Actually, this is what the second nurse said. The first one was unable to insert the needle into any of my veins even after three rather painful attempts. Apparently, my veins were small and would disappear on her. Bummer for her, and for me.
She said she’d get another nurse. As that one began to survey the situation, I politely (I’m always polite and friendly) said, “Let’s make this one count. If it doesn’t, I am out of here. Four is my daily limit for needle insertions.”
That’s not even counting the one I already had in the blood lab ward, where my Philippine lab technicians love me to death — in part because I always bring them home-baked cookies (courtesy of my sister Sandra) and in part because we laugh so much that others nurses come running in to be sure everything is OK. They flirt with me and I flirt right back. Or, maybe it’s the other way around. Whatever.