Have I ever mentioned how much I dislike needles?
As a child, I would run, scream, cry and even lock myself in the bathroom to avoid a needle poke. I only slightly improved as an adult.
At 36, I went one Saturday morning with my ever adoring hubby to get my annual blood work done. He thought bribing me with breakfast and shopping would be the preverbal carrot.
It was a great plan and it may have even worked, had we not had to wait.
By the time it was my turn, I was a wreck. I was trying to be brave. I started to become even less brave as they tied that glorified rubber and around my arm and said those fateful words, “make a fist”. I was done.
He was there as I walked back into the waiting area. We walked to the car and he asked, “how was it”. I burst into my laugh-cry and responded, “I didn’t do it!” He chuckled and took me to breakfast anyway.
At 39, when I was pregnant with Arden, I spent the 6 weeks prior to her birth in the hospital. And guess what? More needles. I was required to have an IV at all times. But I also have the veins that #1, run in fear when they see a sharp object approaching and #2 fight with all their might to push that object out once it has been placed. That meant that each IV, that in theory could last 3, possibly 4 days would last no more than 2. Often less than that. Trying to get that thing in was challenging too. A minimum of 2 tries for each IV. One day, it was 5 attempts by three different people.
Then, I was diagnosed with Endocervical Adenocarcinoma. Just getting to that diagnosis took it’s fair share of pokes. Blood work, an IV for the MRI (times 2) and a finger poke to test my blood sugar before my PET scan. (Don’t even get me started on the convincing I had to give myself to drink the berry flavored barium...😝)
The day day of surgery, required not one, but two IV’s. Oh, and a shot of lidocaine to numb the area before the first IV went in. (That was my breaking point that morning. I actually started to sob a bit). They were gracious enough to wait to put the second in after I was in the OR and sound asleep.
After surgery, there were still more pokes to come. I’m not sure if it was a side effect of the anesthesia or the stress from removal of all of my parts, but my blood sugar that first day was all out of whack. At one point, it was around the 200 range. (Normal is 70-120). That required a finger poke several times a days over the next few days to monitor it.
The day came when it was time for me to go home. I thought I was in the clear with all the needles. Then my nurse walked in and let me know that for two weeks, I would have to do daily injections to help prevent blood clots.
She really wanted me to do one before I left. Again, I’m not that brave.
I don’t think I’ll ever be that brave. Once home, I had to have Art do them. I know he dreaded it. But I just couldn’t.
In my last post, I talked about my tattoos. Just three little dots, but it still leaves me wondering how people have the patience or the pain-threshold to sit through a more intricate design.
Yesterday, at three weeks post-op, and I was ready to celebrate no more needles. And yet, here I am in ER with an IV that took multiple attempts. On the plus side, the IV was already in for my CT scan saving me from a little more torture.
There are more needles. More testing. More poking and prodding to come. It’s not enjoyable, but it’s necessary. And all the while, I’ll be singing these words: (quietly in my head, if you’re lucky)
May this journey bring a blessing
May I rise on wings of faith
And at the end of my heart's testing
With Your likeness let me wake
MUSIC BY KEITH GETTY; WORDS BY MARGARET BECKER COPYRIGHT © 2002 THANKYOU MUSIC
As a child, I would run, scream, cry and even lock myself in the bathroom to avoid a needle poke. I only slightly improved as an adult.
At 36, I went one Saturday morning with my ever adoring hubby to get my annual blood work done. He thought bribing me with breakfast and shopping would be the preverbal carrot.
It was a great plan and it may have even worked, had we not had to wait.
By the time it was my turn, I was a wreck. I was trying to be brave. I started to become even less brave as they tied that glorified rubber and around my arm and said those fateful words, “make a fist”. I was done.
He was there as I walked back into the waiting area. We walked to the car and he asked, “how was it”. I burst into my laugh-cry and responded, “I didn’t do it!” He chuckled and took me to breakfast anyway.
At 39, when I was pregnant with Arden, I spent the 6 weeks prior to her birth in the hospital. And guess what? More needles. I was required to have an IV at all times. But I also have the veins that #1, run in fear when they see a sharp object approaching and #2 fight with all their might to push that object out once it has been placed. That meant that each IV, that in theory could last 3, possibly 4 days would last no more than 2. Often less than that. Trying to get that thing in was challenging too. A minimum of 2 tries for each IV. One day, it was 5 attempts by three different people.
Then, I was diagnosed with Endocervical Adenocarcinoma. Just getting to that diagnosis took it’s fair share of pokes. Blood work, an IV for the MRI (times 2) and a finger poke to test my blood sugar before my PET scan. (Don’t even get me started on the convincing I had to give myself to drink the berry flavored barium...😝)
The day day of surgery, required not one, but two IV’s. Oh, and a shot of lidocaine to numb the area before the first IV went in. (That was my breaking point that morning. I actually started to sob a bit). They were gracious enough to wait to put the second in after I was in the OR and sound asleep.
After surgery, there were still more pokes to come. I’m not sure if it was a side effect of the anesthesia or the stress from removal of all of my parts, but my blood sugar that first day was all out of whack. At one point, it was around the 200 range. (Normal is 70-120). That required a finger poke several times a days over the next few days to monitor it.
The day came when it was time for me to go home. I thought I was in the clear with all the needles. Then my nurse walked in and let me know that for two weeks, I would have to do daily injections to help prevent blood clots.
She really wanted me to do one before I left. Again, I’m not that brave.
I don’t think I’ll ever be that brave. Once home, I had to have Art do them. I know he dreaded it. But I just couldn’t.
In my last post, I talked about my tattoos. Just three little dots, but it still leaves me wondering how people have the patience or the pain-threshold to sit through a more intricate design.
Yesterday, at three weeks post-op, and I was ready to celebrate no more needles. And yet, here I am in ER with an IV that took multiple attempts. On the plus side, the IV was already in for my CT scan saving me from a little more torture.
There are more needles. More testing. More poking and prodding to come. It’s not enjoyable, but it’s necessary. And all the while, I’ll be singing these words: (quietly in my head, if you’re lucky)
May this journey bring a blessing
May I rise on wings of faith
And at the end of my heart's testing
With Your likeness let me wake
MUSIC BY KEITH GETTY; WORDS BY MARGARET BECKER COPYRIGHT © 2002 THANKYOU MUSIC