You don't know me....

“You don’t know me.” That’s what I thought when the nurse-in-training came to get me set up for my bi-weekly infusion. And, as luck would have it, I jinxed the blood-drawing part of the routine, drawing from my permanent Port-o-cath. First time ever that it has refused to give blood. She tried all the tricks in her bag—another bolus of saline, move your head to the right, now to the left, stop right there, don’t move, lean bac, lean forward, put your feet on the floor, another bolus of saline into the port, then through the routine again. I tried to cooperate, trying deep breathing, conscious relaxation of my muscles, but to no avail. Finally, she said “Does it matter which arm I use?” meaning “I’ve given up. I’m going to have to use the vein in your arm.” Another, more painful stick than the one I’ve already had into the Port-o-cath.
I wonder if it was my gut reaction, my antipathy, that caused the problem. There’s no good reason not to like this gal. It’s just that she’s not one of the “regulars”—the ones I talk to, the ones who know my cancer history, the ones who ask about Jonathan, the impending granddaughter, my plans for the holidays. This gal is more like a technician—cool, competent—well, except for not getting my port to give up blood. It’s not her fault. It’s mine. I’ve gotten accustomed to the comfort of the routine of “my” nurses. I’m like Jonathan, I don’t adapt immediately to change that’s not of my own making.
This is just a little taste of what “comfort” is to an ill person. The comfort of routine, of caring caregivers, of a sense of rapport with them. I need to try harder with this gal. Next time I’ll try to engage her in conversation, give her a big smile.