The first time I was turned loose to give an unsupervised injection as a student nurse was not my idea of freedom.
Under the hawk-eyed stare of my teacher, I had carefully drawn up the medication, a pre-operative injection to help the patient relax before going to surgery. Putting the loaded syringe on my little plastic med tray with the patient’s name card next to it, I started out from the nurse’s station and walked down the hall on jelly filled legs.
I wouldn’t say I was nervous. I would say terrified.
I paused at the doorway, trying to collect myself. There was a human being in that room who was soon to be at my mercy. I’d had many “practice shots” with oranges and my lab partners. I had even given shots to patients under the teacher’s direction. This wasn’t going to be the same. I would be alone.
I wiped my moist palms down the sides of my ugly kelly-green pinstriped uniform dress and gripped the little med tray with both hands. My mouth had gone cotton dry and I struggled to get some moisture into it so I would be able to speak to the unfortunate man in the second bed from the door.
“Mr. So-and-so,” I began, “I’m here with your pre-op injection.”
He just blinked at me. I could read his mind. I had helped with his bath, changed his linens and fluffed his pillows. That was all right for a student nurse. But to stick him with a needle without any witnesses around — that was something else.
“Dr. Blank ordered this,” I said in the most authoritative voice I could muster. I silently prayed he couldn’t see my knees knocking together.
Somehow, that convinced him and he rolled onto his left side as I pulled the bed curtains to give us some privacy. Checking and double checking his ID wrist band against the med card, I braced myself for what was to follow.
I found my injection site on Mr. So-and-so’s behind, swabbed the area with an alcohol pad and drew back my hand, preparing to dart the needle into the spot.
As the needle came into contact with his rear, Mr. So-and-so shrieked and jerked away. The needle had practically bounced and was barely sticking into the skin. Not a success, to say the least. I wanted to crawl under the bed, but my task wasn’t finished. I held my breath and pushed the needle in farther, pulled back on the plunger to be sure the needle wasn’t in a blood vessel, and carefully injected the medication. Mr. So-and-so just lay there as if he were paralyzed. Then I withdrew the needle and again swabbed the area with alcohol.
“You’ll feel drowsy in a few minutes,” I mumbled as I put up his bed rails. I avoided looking at his face and rushed from the room.
My face on fire, I went to the nurses station to record the injection. As I reached for the chart, the red DIABETIC sticker in the corner practically shouted at me. How could I have forgotten that a diabetic’s skin often becomes thickened after years of taking insulin? I felt like a fool.
Mr. So-and-so came through his surgery and began recovering nicely. I was assigned to him again a few days later, much to my dismay. How could I face him? I greeted him and started asking the usual questions about how he was eating and did he have any pain.
“My stomach feels fine,” he said, “but the hip where the nurse gave me that shot is so sore I can hardly sit down.”
It was my turn to blink at him. Did he really not remember it was me, or was he just being kind? I didn’t ask, and I won’t ever forget it.
Everybody Has A Story welcomes nonfiction contributions of 1,000 words maximum and relevant photographs. E-mail is the best way to send materials so we don’t have to retype your words or borrow original photos. Send to: neighbors@columbian.com or P.O. Box 180, Vancouver WA 98666. Call Scott Hewitt, 360-735-4525, with questions.
