Day four of this particular party means a couple things:
1) I have now met four different resident 'doclings' who apparently have all made it their mission to desperately over-compensate for the current Attending MFM's borderline-curt bedside manner. It's adorabe too because they have less than six seconds to do so before they are abruptly tugged out of the room by the invisible force-field that tethers them to him. Honestly, I don't sweat his brief visits. He thoroughly cuts the BS and doesn't seem to believe in making predictions that may just prove false.
2) Time for a new IV site! I believe there are two types of people: those must watch the needle enter their flesh and those who can't. I fall into the latter group. Once the little bugger has punctured my skin, we can be total pals, but no sooner. In the moments *during* it's mini assault on my outer layer, it's fully necessary that I chose a nice spot on the wall or ceiling to scrutinize so I don't freak. This habit started during my blood donation days back in collage and holds especially true with the 1 bazillion gage needle presently pumping no-baby juices into my system.
Question for ya: when is a hand not a hand??
When it turns into a pincushion.
'Our charge nurse is really good at placing IVs,' my nurse pointed out in a confident manner which should have been a clue that the universe was about to turn on me. I only tempted fate further by joking with the poor woman as she scattered her materials along my blanket: 'I hear you're really good, so no pressure.'
Naturally, it then took three attempts by two separate nurses in two different limbs to find a cooperative vein.
You should have seen the bloody mess my poor husband and son walked in on...the kid may only be 15-months-old, but he will for sure need therapy now at some point.
Now I have a sparkly new IV site in my right arm and a battered left hand. If they discontinue the mag today, I might actually be bummed.