Sometimes it takes 7 tries to get the vein.
|
Hi Reader, It’s Monday evening as I write this, but it’s the end of what feels like a long week for me because I had to get an MRI today. Actually, I had to go back to finish my annual MRI. Getting MRIs is nothing new for me. Since being diagnosed with MS in 2012, I’ve been getting them regularly. But every time it still feels like an ordeal. And this time was no different. Usually I go to the same medical facility where my neurologist (and all of my providers) is located, but because that facility happens to be a hospital, suddenly this time my insurance decided to deny the location and instead approved only an independent imaging center. When I get MRIs, the imaging is done with and without contrast. That means that after the first set of images are taken, the radiologic technician injects contrast (kind of like a dye) to highlight specific parts of soft tissue and render a more clear image. My appointment was last Thursday. Everything was going fine—until the tech had to inject the contrast. He came into the imaging room and pushed the button to slide me out of the MRI tunnel. He asked me which arm I wanted the contrast injected, and I said, “Left.” He rolled up my sleeve, tied the tourniquet, told me to pump my fist, tapped my arm to find the vein, and poked the needle in. Remember all of this is happening while I’m laying down on the MRI platform, ear plugs in, a cage around my head. I couldn’t see anything and I could barely hear the muffled sound of the tech’s voice. Something happened and all I heard was, “Oh, oops.” Pain shot through my arm. “I’m going to try the other arm, okay?” I think I heard. “Uh-huh,” I said. He rolled up the sleeve on my right arm, tied the tourniquet again, told me to pump my fist, tapped my arm, and poked the needle in. He couldn’t get the vein. His muffled voice said something about getting one of his coworkers. The coworker came into the room, and it was harder for me to hear him than the first guy. The coworker tried getting the needle placed twice before telling me I would have to come back to finish the contrast images. I left the imaging room, went back to the lobby, spoke to the person at the front desk to schedule a second appointment, and asked how they would prevent this from happening next time. There would be different techs on duty for my next appointment, they said. I left with a gnarly bruise on my arm and a second appointment. That appointment was today. To say I was dreading it would be an understatement. When they called my name, I said that my husband would be coming with me for the injection. They sat me down in one of the changing rooms and I explained that after four attempts at my last appointment, the techs couldn’t get the contrast injected. “I would like the injection to happen before I’m in the MRI machine,” I said. “I don’t want to have ear plugs in and not be able to hear, or have my head covered and not be able to see.” “That’s no problem,” the tech said. “Which arm do you prefer?” “Left,” I said, “But you can see what happened last time,” I said, and pushed up my sleeve to show her the bruise. She brought me a warm towel and asked me to put it on my arm. “It will help elevate the veins,” she said. She left and came back with a tray of supplies. “We usually don’t do our injections in here,” she said. I motioned to my husband Jeremy to sit down next to me, on my left, and I grabbed his hand. “Let me see your arm,” she said, and started tapping around the crook of my right elbow. She put the warm towel back in place and left again. She came back with another tech who started tapping my arm. “Rosie is the best,” the first tech said. Rosie pushed my sleeve up farther, tied the tourniquet, told me to pump my fist, tapped my arm, and poked the needle in. “It keeps moving,” she said. She pulled the needle out. “Let me see if I can find a better spot,” she said, and continued tapping my arm. She left and came back with a red flashlight. She turned off the lights in the room and held the red light up to my arm, searching for a vein. She tried a second time and didn’t get it. It had been six attempts by three people on two separate days and no one could get the needle into my veins to inject the contrast. I already knew my veins were problematic. Hell, with all the injections and infusions I’ve been getting in the past two years since my relapse of MS—five days of high-dose steroids and an infusion every 28 days—one nurse let it slip that my medical chart has me noted as a “hard stick.” But I didn’t know it was as bad as this. “We can keep trying,” Rosie said, “but it’s up to you. I don’t want to keep poking you.” “What happens if it’s not done today?” I asked. They explained that they would let my doctor know and they’d have to refer me to another facility, “where they have people who do this all day,” one of them said. I closed my eyes. Swallowed. Let out a deep breath. “You can try one more time,” I said. Rosie asked her coworker to flush the line and get a new needle. She left the room and Rosie continued to tap my arm, moving closer to my hands and wrists, trying to find another vein. “We don’t like to do the hands,” she said, “it really hurts.” She found a spot she liked on the side of my right wrist. She left to check on her coworker. While she was out of the room I turned to Jeremy, resting my head on his shoulder, my left hand grasping his, and I saw a vein on the side of my wrist in the same spot Rosie found on my right. She came back into the room and I pointed at it, “What about this one?” I said. She tapped it and said, “That one’s pretty prominent.” She left the room and came back again. “Okay,” she said. “We’re going to try one more time, but I want to get you on the MRI platform. We won’t give you the ear plugs or put on the head cage until we get the injection, but I think the position will help.” I agreed, walked to the imaging room, and got positioned on the platform. Rosie wedged a portable table-top under my left shoulder so that I could rest my arm, extended. She placed the tourniquet, told me to pump my fist, tapped the vein, and poked the needle in. I heard Rosie say “I got it,” and then “no, it moved,” and then, “okay, now I’ve got it,” and back and forth several times before she said she would inject the contrast slowly. “You’ve got roly-poly veins,” Rosie’s coworker said. “It keeps moving,” Rosie said. She undid the tourniquet. “That did it,” she said. “I’m going very slowly, to make sure I stay in the vein.” It seemed like five minutes, but it was probably only one minute or less, and the contrast was finally injected. I came home exhausted, wondering why this happened. Why it took three people and seven tries to get the contrast injected. Why I had to go to that place, and why the insurance didn’t approve the hospital facility, when it had all the times before. But, of course, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter because there isn’t anything I could have done about any of it. There is nothing I could have done to get the insurance to make a different decision. There is nothing I could have done to get a different imaging center approved. There is nothing I could have done to get one of the three techs to be better at injecting contrast. When Rosie didn’t get the contrast injected after her second try and she asked me if I wanted to try again here’s what went through my head: I could stop now and end the discomfort. But I’d just have to face it again at some future date. And that would be coupled with the added inconvenience of having to return, or go to some other imaging center, for yet a third time. Which would I rather? Continue to endure? Or start all over again? Starting all over again meant potentially having another day like today, which I wanted to avoid at all costs. So I chose to endure. Sometimes it takes seven tries to get the vein. And sometimes it takes seven (or an unknown number) of tries to get ANYTHING you want in life—like finally writing that book, submitting it, querying it, getting it published. And the question is: what are you willing to endure today for the possibility of future gain? Janna Have a question or some thoughts to share? Hit reply. Your email lands right in my inbox. Join me: Mini-virtual writing retreat for women writing nonfiction
Who am I and what’s this email all about? I’m Janna. I’m a book coach and editor for women writing nonfiction. I write weekly emails with tips, motivation, inspiration, and encouragement for the writing and creative life. I support women with coaching and editing on writing, finishing, and publishing their nonfiction books in my private community More to the Story. (Yes, editing and manuscript review is available for community members.) One of my mantras is: Tell stories without shame. I believe that we can find health, wellness, and happiness in life when we share our personal story with others, because it helps us come to terms with what makes us who we are. |