In the midst of all the chaos about my kidneys failing and my bladder possibly being injured, my IV vein is not doing well—it hurts so badly that I have to put an ice pack on it whenever my medicine starts flowing.
“It stings,” I tell my nurse as she hands me a new ice pack.
“You know, I really think the IV team should come and look at it. I don’t want your medicine leaking out of your vein.”
The image of my medicine leaking into my arm horrifies me. I imagine my body as some kind of chemical dump yard—far from the healthy person I was before I gave birth.
“Call the anesthesia team first, please. I cannot be awake if they need to give me a new IV. I really cannot handle that right now,” I blurt out irrationally.
“You have to be awake if they give you a new IV. They have to confirm that they placed it correctly,” she tells me, hesitantly.
“No, really, I cannot be awake if they give me a new IV,” my anger explodes into sobs.
My preferences in this situation do not matter. I know this. A nurse from the IV team will come to my room. And I will be awake when she does.
“Here let me check your vein,” a nurse from the IV team says.
She is incredibly kind and I feel like a maniac for hating IVs so much.
“You know what? I can feel your medicine going in your vein. It’s fine—I don’t think you need a new IV yet,” she smiles.
“Really?” I say as my whole body relaxes.
Then she holds my hand and asks me about my son’s birth. She asks me how I am doing. To her, I am more than my test results.
I cry as I tell her about how traumatic the birth was and how much I miss my baby now.
“I can’t believe all of this happened,” I say. And she cries with me. She is a mom, too.