It took her three sticks and lots of digging to start the I.V. this morning. I knew it wasn't going to be a good stick because she started by saying "ooh this is a good way for me to start the day - this will be an easy stick!" Duh. Everyone knows you don't start a day with an easy stick by saying you're going to start the day with an easy stick. You're pretty much guaren-damn-teeing you're NOT going to start the day with an easy stick when you claim you're starting the day with an easy stick. And righty-o ... it was not an easy stick. It was in fact, the epitome of the opposite of an easy stick. It was everything a stick shouldn't be. It was a classic "bad stick". It should be in the hall of fame of Not Easy Sticks. If someone were going to write a manual of how to NOT easy stick someone, this nurse could be the SME. I'm not sure I've ever seen worse aim. Once, a long time ago, my grandmother told me she was going to show me an easy way to thread a needle. We were sitting on her gold and cream Louis the something-er-other couch in clear eyeshot of the giant wooden fork and spoon that hung against the red and white wallpaper in the dining room. I was working on a teeny tiny little cross stitch that my mother gave me to start when she and my father left me there for a week while they went home to "straighten some things out" about grandmaw's "condition". Unlike my grandfather's "condition" which involved a c.b. radio and a whole lotta beer, my grandmaw's condition was much more contained - to her head. Crazy as a loon she sat there showing me the quick and simple way to thread a needle. I'm not sure what was easy about it. It took her about 10 minutes to get ready - most of that spent rolling about 2 feet of my peacock blue thread around in her mouth so it could soak up as much grandmaw spit as possible - and then the rest spent squinting and eyeballing the needle like it was going to fight her. The whole thing ended badly when after aiming and missing, aiming and missing, aiming annnnnd missing 100 times she decided what was wrong with me was I didn't drink enough buttermilk - which for years I thought was my grandfather's code word for Pabst's but as it turned out, he really did drink the stuff. She then proceeded to the kitchen to pour me a glass and make me a sandwich, which she in turn fed to the dog who she claimed "looked a lot hungrier than some silly girl trying to thread a needle". My point? My grandmother could have taught that nurse who started my IV this morning a thing or two about aim.
My other point was, there are many things I don't like about getting my follow up scans. The starting of the I.V. is just one of them.
I'm gonna need some more "buttermilk".