I got plugged in today.

It’s called a Power Port.  It’s an implantable central line.  An IV that no one has to start.  Just feel for the bump, pop in the needle, and voila.  Venous access.

To stick this thing into my chest, I reported to the same outpatient surgery center where the lumpectomy was done.  We went through the same pre-op process…history, medications, allergies, bla, bla, bla…  And then the anesthesiologist started my IV.

This guy was a very nice person.  He chatted with me about my medical student son, asked about my husband, thanked me for the gingerbread cookies I’d brought for the staff.  And it took him three tries.  Three sticks.  An anesthesiologist with three attempts to get a good IV line in a reasonably healthy adult.

This didn’t bother me so much as it astonished me.  In my nursing practice, anesthesia is the gold standard when it comes to IV starts.  Can’t get a line? The patient’s really overweight, a tiny baby, in shock?  Call anesthesia.  Which is why my heart went out to my poor anesthesiologist this morning.  He apologized profusely and broke out in a sweat, and heaven forgive me, I laughed.

“Don’t make me come over there,” I said.

“For though a righteous man falls seven times he rises again.”  Proverbs 24:16



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