Cathy the Nurse

I was in the hospital for a day and a night last week, which is itself not worth getting into here other than to say that spinal tap headaches are evil and are preventing me from sitting or standing for more than three minutes at a time. Anyway, I'm lying here, flat on my back with this laptop, for one reason: to give you advice. And the advice is this: beware of Cathy the Nurse.

Cathy the Nurse is friendly but creepy. She's an older midwestern woman who will remind you of Kathy Bates' character in Misery. Only weirder. She will awkwardly praise your doctors for having made the brilliant decision to perform your spinal tap, even though it is standard procedure. She will sing their praises.

Cathy the Nurse will, when she can't quite reach the digital thermometer, grab your wastebasket and upend it. She will begin to climb its unstable, plastic upside-down self until you, in your pathetic patient gown, insist that perhaps she should find someone taller to reach it and that climbing a plastic trash can six inches from your aching head is unwise. Thankfully, she will listen to you.

Cathy the Nurse will not like the looks of your IV spot. She will insist that it looks red and irritated. She will sort of smack your arm and ask you if it hurts, which it will because she hit you right where the needle is going in. You will be stupid and foolish and say, "well, actually, Cathy the Nurse, that did in fact hurt a bit." She will be thrilled. She will find a new spot for the IV. She will put it in your wrist. She will compliment you on the size of your veins right in front of your wife, which, let's face it, is sort of weird for everyone.

Then, then, then, Cathy the Nurse will begin the IV repositioning. She means well. She means to help. She wants to do well. She is nuts.

Cathy the Nurse will rip the old tape off with great flourishes. She will deceive you into thinking she knows what she's doing by removing the old IV swiftly, neatly and with little pain. She will put a band-aid on it. So far so good.

Cathy the Nurse will then make the new vein in your wrist stand up and salute by putting a blood pressure cuff on your forearm and setting it for "tenderize." The vein will stick out about 4 inches, which she'll compliment. More awkwardness will ensue. Then she'll ready her equipment. There will be lots of little wrapped things all over your lap, which will become her, um, work table.

Cathy the Nurse, before puncturing your wrist, will then do this strange move by which she removes just the index fingertips of her latex gloves. Perhaps so she can get a better grip. Perhaps because she likes to feel the blood on her skin. Ah, but I get ahead of myself.

Cathy the Nurse will then insert the needle, but only after saying about twenty times that it's made of plastic not steel. Great. You will look away, like you always do, you puss, and she'll do it. But she'll do it REALLY SLOWLY and it will hurt like fuck. Much more than an IV going in has EVER hurt, and certainly much more than the old one was bothering you, even after she swatted at it. But, finally, she will finish. The pain will subside. You will breathe.

But, then will come the best part of all. This will be the part where Cathy the Nurse teaches you that there is indeed such a thing as "spilling blood." See, Cathy the Nurse will have put in the IV needle only, with no tubing directly attached. What this will mean is that she now has to take off the little cap and put on the tube with her big, slow, midwestern, fumbling hands. "This might bleed a little, but don't worry," she'll say to you. This will actually make you chuckle, because well before she finishes the first two words of that sentence, blood will in fact start spilling from open end of the IV. Spilling. Spilling down your hand, spilling onto your blanket, spilling onto her work table. It will move fast and remind you that blood has this thing of WANTING to come out of you if you let it.

Cathy the Nurse will then act fast, which will be clumsy and slow. She will finally, finally, Jesus, FINALLY get the tube on. She will apply tape. Okay, NOW you can breathe. Almost.

Cathy the Nurse will now have to clean up the blood, which she'll decide she cannot do properly with all of that blasted tape. She will untape her first round of tape, which will hurt like it always does, and swab your arm and hand with no fewer than 800 alcohol pads. Every time she wipes your arm, she knocks the needle, which is no longer taped down. This will take perhaps the remainder of the evening. When she is satisfied with the cleanliness of your arm, she will retape. She will mean business. She will use lots and lots and lots of tape of various sizes. She will paper mache your arm. She will make you hope to god you don't get released the next day for fear of all that tape having to come off.

Which of course you will. And the other nurse, the new nurse on day two, will shake his head as he rips off piece after piece after piece after piece.