Baby Bird Breaths
I’m a medical nightmare. I have been since the moment I was born a ball of dislocated hips and shoulders, and I will continue to be until these hips and shoulders finally collapse. But until that day, it seems one of my life's purposes is to torment the medical industry. I won't list examples of past experiences right now, but know that I'm a master of keeping doctors and nurses alert and humble.
Upon the request of my pulmonologist -- who was acting upon my request to perhaps retire my leaking, bulky, incredibly-comfortable-yet-a-nuisance, 12-year-old Porta-Lung in exchange for a portable BiPAP ventilator -- I went to the hospital yesterday for blood work. To be more precise, it was for blood gases, which are taken from the artery as opposed to standard blood work which is taken from the vein. Blood gases measure my levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide during the day on room air, and they also hurt like a mo-fo because arteries are deeper than veins and have more nerves. I hadn't had gases in maybe ten years, but I remembered the pain.
Taking my blood requires skill, because I have baby-bird blood vessels. Usually a self-confident, older phlebotomist brags about how "it'll only take a minute" to my preliminary warnings and inquiries of "I'm really difficult" and "Are you good at this?" only to discover that, no, there aren't any veins popping up no matter how tight you make the tourniquet; no, I can't straighten my arm so you can try my elbow; no, it will not take only a minute. Seven pricks later, either a younger fresh-out-of-phlebotomy-school woman or a 30-something man gives it a try and succeeds on their first try. I add their name to my mental list of blood takers that I like, which is far shorter than my do-not-ever-touch-me-again (you sadistic, unskilled, know-it-all bitch) list.
Yesterday, despite having both Susie (fresh, young) and Bob (40, taking his teenage daughter to the American Idol concert next weekend), the gases were unsuccessful yet, surprisingly, almost pain-free. I should have suspected the upcoming failure when Susie opened the first syringe, commented on how it was "sticking" and not working perfectly, then turned to Bob and asked, "You think we should try it anyway?" (I, sitting at the table and watching in horror, offered my opinion: "How about you use the other, unopened syringe sitting right there?") With the help of an ultrasound machine to hear my faint pulse, they did manage to hit the artery in my right wrist. My blood filled the syringe too slowly, however, clotting in the needle after less than 0.1 cc's were collected -- 0.4 were required. I left the hospital an hour later with gauze taped to the undersides of both wrists. I looked like a suicide gone awry.
Tonight marks phase two of "Rachel gets to someday sleep in a real bed," when I go for a sleep study to determine by "need" for respiratory assistance at night. Having slept in an iron lung for 12 years, requiring various portable ventilators while napping or when needing to successfully cough, and not being able to doze off for more than a few minutes unassisted, I estimate that I'll fail the lungless study within an hour -- a decade ago I did it in two. Hopefully then I can come home where my baby-bird body can rest comfortably and without the hindrance of breathing.
Upon the request of my pulmonologist -- who was acting upon my request to perhaps retire my leaking, bulky, incredibly-comfortable-yet-a-nuisance, 12-year-old Porta-Lung in exchange for a portable BiPAP ventilator -- I went to the hospital yesterday for blood work. To be more precise, it was for blood gases, which are taken from the artery as opposed to standard blood work which is taken from the vein. Blood gases measure my levels of oxygen and carbon dioxide during the day on room air, and they also hurt like a mo-fo because arteries are deeper than veins and have more nerves. I hadn't had gases in maybe ten years, but I remembered the pain.
Taking my blood requires skill, because I have baby-bird blood vessels. Usually a self-confident, older phlebotomist brags about how "it'll only take a minute" to my preliminary warnings and inquiries of "I'm really difficult" and "Are you good at this?" only to discover that, no, there aren't any veins popping up no matter how tight you make the tourniquet; no, I can't straighten my arm so you can try my elbow; no, it will not take only a minute. Seven pricks later, either a younger fresh-out-of-phlebotomy-school woman or a 30-something man gives it a try and succeeds on their first try. I add their name to my mental list of blood takers that I like, which is far shorter than my do-not-ever-touch-me-again (you sadistic, unskilled, know-it-all bitch) list.
Yesterday, despite having both Susie (fresh, young) and Bob (40, taking his teenage daughter to the American Idol concert next weekend), the gases were unsuccessful yet, surprisingly, almost pain-free. I should have suspected the upcoming failure when Susie opened the first syringe, commented on how it was "sticking" and not working perfectly, then turned to Bob and asked, "You think we should try it anyway?" (I, sitting at the table and watching in horror, offered my opinion: "How about you use the other, unopened syringe sitting right there?") With the help of an ultrasound machine to hear my faint pulse, they did manage to hit the artery in my right wrist. My blood filled the syringe too slowly, however, clotting in the needle after less than 0.1 cc's were collected -- 0.4 were required. I left the hospital an hour later with gauze taped to the undersides of both wrists. I looked like a suicide gone awry.
Tonight marks phase two of "Rachel gets to someday sleep in a real bed," when I go for a sleep study to determine by "need" for respiratory assistance at night. Having slept in an iron lung for 12 years, requiring various portable ventilators while napping or when needing to successfully cough, and not being able to doze off for more than a few minutes unassisted, I estimate that I'll fail the lungless study within an hour -- a decade ago I did it in two. Hopefully then I can come home where my baby-bird body can rest comfortably and without the hindrance of breathing.
posted by Claire C. Cake at 10:09 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home