Needled

Yesterday, my daughter had a medical procedure. (It went well and she’s fine, thankfully.)

But the procedure required her to have an IV – and my daughter HATES needles.

She comes by this honestly. When she was small, she had another health issue (that, thankfully, also turned out fine) which required multiple IVs and blood draws.

And I know, as her mother, that NO ONE has EVER been able to get her on the first try. They always have to stick her more than once, drag the needle under her skin hoping to hit a vein, leave her with bruises.

Back when she was small, one nurse, when she finally succeeded, dipped something in my daughter’s blood (maybe the needle?) and drew a smiley face on her arm with it, chirping, “All better!” My daughter brings up this memory, which is seared into her brain, every time she faces a needle.

So, for yesterday, I, in the interests of making things easier on her, called her doctor who prescribed a Valium.

The phlebotomist was clearly put out. My daughter had asked me to be with her while she got the IV. This woman said snippily, “Don’t you think she’d be more comfortable without you?” My daughter, literally nodding because of the Valium, mumbled, “Whatever.”  I stepped outside.

It took this phlebotomist two sticks to get a working IV. She had to drag the needle around. She left a bruise.

Still, I heard her say at the end, “See? You could have done this without taking anything.”

Lady, the Valium was the only thing keeping my daughter from clinging to the ceiling by her fingernails.

I wish people wouldn’t be so judgy. Is it really so difficult to assume that other people have reasons for doing what they do?