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A Bad Vein Day

Long term cancer patients get ‘bad veins’. Their veins hide, and need gentle coaxing, heat and occasionally, a good old spanking. It is not a new phenomena, nor is it one I have not encountered before and thus not spoken about before. It is, however, one that I have not had to think about for a long time.

My current world does not require much thought of veins, and I assume that this makes me normal because I did an imaginary survey and most people do not give much thought to their veins either, unless one is being vain (geddit?) and fearsome of the their bulging hand tunnels. I do not not have bulging hand tunnels.

Most of my time now, the Medically Trained People want to take stuff out rather than put stuff in, which is much, much easier and is merely a short, sharp scratch and a permanent bruise on my left arm. Yesterday, stuff needed to go in, bone juice to be precise, and my veins, without a doubt, did not want it. It took three, rather painful attempts to get the cannula in, which surprised me because six weeks ago, the needle went in with the greatest of ease. That’s right, cannulas still involve a needle and a tube.

For me, it was a reminder that this is part of my life now; needles, bloods, delays and pain. It was also a rather timely reminder that my current treatment is a vast improvement on my previous treatments, when a cannula was not a rare occurrence. Way back when, I was always sporting bruises on my arms, always worried that there would not be a suitable vein and I would experience pain, and I would always get ill from what had gone in. That does not happen anymore.

So, yesterday, for a brief moment, I allowed myself go rejoice in my situation, and all because this happened:

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And yes, I did keep the cotton wool on for my journey home; it ensured I was given a seat on the 73 bus.

EJB x

P.S. In six weeks time, I will definitely seek out my favourite nursing assistant for this task. She has the magic touch, but I have never said it to her face so as not to induce undue pressure.

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The Little Princess

Yesterday, I was absolutely positively excited and relieved when Mamma Jones entered my hospital room to tell me I was being moved up to haematology. It was even better, I was moving up to T13, back with T13s Angel.

What followed after that, seemed like an incredibly long wait until the porter arrived to wheel me up, it may have been a long wait, I currently have no concept of time, so it could have been 10 minutes.

It was a long wait in my time, because by yesterday morning, I was truly dissatisfied with the treatment I had received after coming through A&E. I had been put in a private room on a ward I was well acquainted with after last year. The room was not clean. There was blood on the floor and somebody else’s urine in a jug in the bathroom. Mamma Jones found a bogie on a wall. It was just, not nice, and it set off an uneasy night, which was made worse by the nurse’s response to my concerns about the cleanliness. She was coarse, dismissive and appeared to have no understanding of myeloma nor what being neutropenic meant. Upon arrival I had asked for some more morphine, and she said she would bring it in 30 minutes because it had not been two hours since my last dose; it did not come. She advised me, neutropenic and all, not to touch a lot in the room if I was concerned about the cleanliness, that comment made me itch. I also asked for some water, which I finally received at 07:00hrs. Prior to that, however I was given 11 pills to swallow, fortunately I had taken my own water. When my water was delivered in a jug, I asked for a cup, and I was told that there were no cups available. I did not drink the water.

During the night, I requested some drugs which the on call doctor had prescribed me. The ward I was on did not have these in stock, and another nurse said that the pharmacy would dispense it in the morning. She had tried to source the mouthwash for me, but failed, but was able to give me something similar, so I was thankful that she had tried to help me. In the morning, I then queried this again with the nurse with the jug, and I was told that she would not be able to give me any additional drugs until I had been seen by the doctors and as I should not have been there, she had no idea how long I would have to wait. I responded with a smile and condescension and explained that I had been promised the drug the previous night, and that she did not need to wait for a doctor because a doctor had prescribed it on my file. After a few minutes of her arguing with me, she then grabbed my file handed it to me, and said that I should point it out then. I did just as she asked, and she left. I did not get the drug.

As I waited for Mamma Jones, it was clear that people had no clue about me. Nurses, porters, cleaners and other staff wondered into my room without washing their hands, or they left my door wide open. The cleaners for example had a conversation with each other in my room with the open door about my complaints about the cleanliness. At one point, I heard somebody outside my room say ‘no,no, no, you cannot go in if you have a cough… She’s got something which means she can get more ill’.

When the porter finally arrived, I was tired and ill, but I was ready to be moved. We were accompanied up by a new nurse, who was, odd. Odd is the best and most appropriate word. After I was out of the room, and Mamma Jones was gathering my belongings, she said ‘have you got your tiara?’ I was confused by life in general at this point, and responded as such, to which she responded with ‘you know, little princess’s have tiaras’.

I am 29. I have cancer. I am in the middle of a transplant. I am no princess. Try a day in my shoes you haggard, spent too much time in the sun, horse faced wench.

This made me angry for the rest of the day, to be sure. The anger grew however, when thankfully, I returned to a place that 11 months ago, made what was happening so much easier, and I encountered some exemplary care. There is no other way of describing it, though I am pretty sure I will try during my staff.

It may not be that haematology nurses are any better than other nurses, but for me, they have something that makes it easier to manage my illness, so imagine what wonders come out when they are treating somebody who is having a transplant. Yesterday, one of the Angels had to go through some of my excrement for medical purposes. Unbelievable.

It seems to come so easily to them, and that made me angry, I could not see why the handful of nurses (they do not deserve my usual moniker), would spoil it for a majority. Fortunately for the dear, sweet wonderful NHS, I am with Medically Trained People all time and I see the good they do. If, however, my experience had existed solely of the hours I was in yesterday, then well, the less said the better.

Maybe I am a princess because my main Angel (for you get a lead), told me that she was happy that she had me and said when she saw my name on the list of patients she hoped I would come to T13 because she remembered me from last August. Yep, that gives me a big head. It upset me at the same time, because I do know what I did differently with the nurses down on the first floor.

As the day progressed, the main Angel was angered by the earlier comments by the woman, and raised it via the Angel Sister, who by the way, is also very nice. Not at all scary, which is always a bonus. To cut a long story, slightly short, the nurse thought she was being funny. As for the cleanliness, I will be complaining about that in due course, but I am just thankful that I got out of there.

I am told that whilst I may change rooms at some point, I will not be leaving T13, and to that, you can get an Amen. The illness is definitely here, in all of its glory, and I need to be in a place where everybody knows my name, or at least, be somewhere where the care as at the absolute highest of nursing care.

I believe I am where I should be, and my, is that, and the IV, making this much, much easier.

EJB x

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