The Botched Blood Draw Part One

“Go run out the stress from that blood draw,” Maggie says to me from the couch as I adjust my ponytail, position an ear bud snuggly in one ear and step out the back door.

I turn to tell her, “I’m sorry I’ve been so tense today, I just can’t believe that nurse stuck a needle in Nora’s arm twice, and we still didn’t get her labs done today…and I have no idea how I’m going tell Tyler about that speeding ticket from this morning…”

I look up to a sky lit with oranges and pinks – the sun is beginning to set. Tyler will soon be home from work. I try not to envision his face when I tell him I was pulled over on the freeway on the way to Children’s Hospital. I can see him now: he’ll suddenly stop whatever it is he’s doing and stand paralyzed, with wide eyes while he listens to my speeding ticket story. Once I’ve finished talking, he’ll slowly lower his forehead to the kitchen counter top and let out a long slow exhale. And when he stands up, he’ll use his hands to slowly pull the shape of his entire face down down down, exposing the reds of his under-eyelids…Oh God he’s going to angry whisper isn’t he? I can hear him now, he’ll lower his voice to a harsh whisper to say, “Jess. JESSE. I’ve told you so. Many. Times. To slow down when you’re driving on the freeway…” Then of course, he’ll need two minutes to seventy-two hours to process the entire situation while I focus on avoiding potential trigger words and phrases such as: 1) “I’ll drive” 2) “budget” or 3) “car insurance.” 

I watch Maggie cuddle in closer to Nora on the couch holding her tight, like she did this afternoon during a palliative-care lab draw in our living room. The draw involved a perfectly positioned needle in Nora’s arm and blood flowing into a collection vile, until quite unexpectedly, the blood stopped. The nurse tried again to collect the full sample we needed by sticking a needle in Nora’s other arm – but the blood never came.

I begin to consider how and when to tell Tyler about the botched blood draw… before or after I tell him about the speeding ticket? I know I don’t want to tell him – I know I would rather tell him I got one hundred speeding tickets than have to tell him the black and blue bruise forming on his daughter’s forearm is from a nurse digging though her veins with a needle while the pin prick scab on her other arm is from yet an additional, unsuccessful, attempt to draw her blood.

I tell Maggie, “Every time someone botches a blood draw or an IV placement for Nora, all I can think about is every other failed attempt she’s had – five years’ worth of botched IV’s and lab draws. With each miss I’m swarmed with this overwhelming sense of helplessness…I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t fix it…”

I watch Maggie reach for a book to read to Nora. She places her left hand over Nora’s right hand, and helps her open the book to the first page. Nora leans in close as Maggie offers me an empathetic nod.

“When Nora was in the ER just this winter, they stuck a needle in her arm FIVE times before they got her IV placed and labs done. Do you know what one ER nurse told me right off the bat, when I asked her to call CHET team – the IV placement experts – first, before anyone even tried to place her IV? She said, “I think it’s only fair you let the nurses try first. Besides CHET will only come after a nurse has failed twice.”

Can you believe she used the word fair? Fair? FAIR?  Fair is when I am driving 87 mph in the fast lane, and I get a ticket. That is completely fair. I didn’t even argue today when I got pulled over. I felt so bad for the poor officer; he had no idea what to do with me. He tried and tried to help me come up with excuses. But I just asked how much he thought the ticket might be and how long I’d have to explain the situation to my husband.”

I watch Maggie help Nora turn to the next page of the book, Nora leans in close and gives the page a kiss. Maggie smiles and whispers, “Ahhh, that’s so sweet, Nora.”

I continue to vent, “Personally, I don’t think it’s fair that Nora and I are subject to lectures about what is or what is not fair. You know, I think we can all agree, that the fair thing for a child like Nora, or any child, is to minimize and eliminate unnecessary hurt, pain and discomfort. You know what is simply, completely and ridiculously unfair? The reality that a child receives a lousy hospital grade band-aid for every bloody, failed attempt to access a vein. Everyone knows a lousy band-aid feels like packing tape adhered to skin. For Nora, the process of peeling off that band-aid is almost as uncomfortable as the process of having a needle in her arm.

I begin to pace back and forth across the hardwood floor as my headphones drag still attached to my cell phone — clack, clack, clack, clacking as I move across the floor. Maggie whispers something to Nora, Nora looks up at her, and smiles – a bright toothy grin – and looks back at her book.

I continue to pace as I think back to the winter, back to ER and to the FIVE failed attempts to place Nora’s IV. I had rushed Nora to the ER that morning, when she started to sound like she was breathing under water in our living room… and of course, I couldn’t have gotten pulled over for speeding on THAT particular drive to Children’s Hospital… No, of course it couldn’t have been when I had a clear and reasonable excuse for speeding down the freeway. Surely, I would have gotten out of a speeding ticket that morning AND we probably would have received some type of personal escort…

Tyler left work to meet me at the ER. As soon as he arrived, I took a short break to clear my head and get some air. He stayed with Nora as a medical team attempted (again) to place her IV. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I came back. His eyes were wide and his face was pale, both his arms were wrapped around his daughter who was sleeping against his chest, sleeping like she does when she has no other way to escape the pain. Sleeping because, it’s her body’s way of coping. Sleeping because, it’s her way of fighting back. Tyler was staring straight ahead, at a wall of medical storage cabinets. And when he heard my voice, asking him how it went, he looked down into Nora’s bright blonde crown of curls and said quietly, “They didn’t get it. I asked them to stop because she’s hurting. I needed them to stop, it’s too much Jess. We’ll try again in a minute.”

Suddenly I stop pacing. I tell Maggie, “All I know is, I wish it could be me in pain, a thousand times over than one of my children. And anytime Nora’s hurt could have been avoided or at the very least, minimized, I get lost in this upside-down emotional vortex, and quite frankly, I don’t know how to free myself. The worst part about all of this is at the end of the day, this type of pain is never on purpose. I choose to believe that every single person we encounter on this path is doing their best for Nora and for our family. But I also know a lousy band-aid actually compounds my child’s pain. My God, I’m trapped. No wonder I feel helpless.”

“I think you should go on your run,” she says, without looking up from the picture book. I watch her help Nora turn the next page.

“Fine. You’re right. When I get back, promise me you’ll have some type of brilliant plan to help me break the speeding ticket news to Tyler. I’m just thinking out loud here, but it may not be so bad coming from you…”

Maggie smiles as I kiss the top of Nora’s head. I push in my earbuds, select a song on my running playlist titled “HAPPINESS,” and walk out the door towards the street, glancing up at a sunset sky now full of light purples and pale pink. I position myself towards the setting sun, but I know I’m not ready to move forward. Instead, I open a note on my phone titled “Target Shopping List” and write, “Find gentle band-aides for Nora’s hospital bag.”

I quickly turn up my music, step into the street, and begin to run. And for the first time today, I feel my body, mind and soul begin to work together – moving in the same direction – forward.

As I run towards a hill and begin to climb, my mind begins to drift back over my long day, to the speeding ticket and the botched blood draw. Again, anxiety creeps in as I consider how to tell Tyler about the day’s events. I try not to think about the look on his face…  

Instead, I keep moving – running – forward. I look ahead, to the moment after I tell Tyler about the speeding ticket and the botched blood draw – the moment when he reaches for me and pulls me close to his chest. And how eventually, with his arms wrapped tight around me, we’ll end up laughing when he says, “You better get that sweet ass signed up for traffic school…” I know we’ll end up kissing in the kitchen until Everett runs around the counter and attaches himself to a set of legs for a “group hug.”

He’ll tug at our knees and reach for our hands to lead us to Nora in her chair and demand, “Nora up.” Which will of course, signal the start of a pre-bedtime dance party around the kitchen table. Tyler will get down on both knees to unbuckle Nora from her chair. He’ll ask her to dance as he kisses both hands, like she’s “Queen Elsa.” She’ll smile – a big, happy grin and put her hand to her mouth to reply “Yes.” But, before Tyler lifts Nora from her chair, to dance with her across the floor, he’ll hold out her arms to look for signs of the botched blood draw. And when he sees the black and blue marks forming on her forearms from the needle in her arm, he’ll kiss each mark twice and tell her he’s sorry she got “poked” today. Nora will point her ballerina toe and smile– reminding him it’s time to dance.

I move to the top of the hill, color fills the sky and valley all around me, but I don’t stop for the view. Instead I keep the pace, I continue running towards glowing thoughts and images of us —my beautiful family – growing our lives around, over and through pain — dancing still and always around the kitchen table.

Click to read “The Botched Blood Draw Part Two,” or “The Botched Blood Draw Part Three”