I have absolutely had it with anything to do with veins. Yes it’s that good old time again- IV’s. Or rather not IV’s. Because IV’s require access. And I haven’t got it.

As a result of having a very rubbish chest at the moment, I went up to clinic yesterday to start IV’s. Unfortunately the only appointment they had was at 9.30am which meant leaving the house at 8am. Now anyone who knows me will be aware that me and mornings do NOT mix. In fact I have an extremely poor relationship with anything that involves being alert before 11am. Anyway, having decided that I needed IV’s, they got the port needle in without any problems and after a few hours of administering drugs and collecting four huge carrier bags of drugs and a massive yellow sharps bin, I was on my way…just in time for my brain to begin waking up and saying “Have I missed something?”

Now at this point I should update those who are not familiar with what a port is and in particular, the unique personality of my own one. A port is a small metal device that is buried under the skin on the left side of my chest. It is put in during an operation (which I had in January) and is plumbed into the main vein leading to my heart. Because I have had so many courses of IV’s and blood tests in my life, my veins are pretty much useless and won’t allow any access. However with a port there is easy access to the bloodstream as all that needs to be done is to insert a special gripper needle into it and hey presto, unlimited access! At least that’s the theory…

Mine never read the instruction manual. It never learnt to read full stop. My port is as much use as a chocolate fireguard because it keeps spitting the needle out. Where a needle is meant to stay in position for 2 weeks at a time and be very difficult to remove from the device, mine gets itchy feet within a few hours and decides that holding needles in place is too much like hard work – so gives up. During my last course of IV’s I had about 4 needle changes in the first week, after which my port still didn’t feel it was getting enough attention so decided to get infected for a change. My port was then named Emily. For those of you who know Emily this will make perfect sense. Naughty, attention-seeking, and with a tendency to stamp its feet in protest. I’m talking about my port of course…..

So may be it shouldn’t have surprised me that at 3 am this morning I woke up with an agonising pain that felt like I was being prodded with a red hot poker in my chest. Yes that’s right. Emily had decided that she couldn’t sleep so I should wake up and entertain her. Since I hadn’t done this she had gone all pouty and spat the needle out. Getting up at 3am to remove a port needle and dressing is not my idea of fun. Getting back to sleep after was less so.
I refused to get up early to work out what to do with Emily and slept until 11am, before re-evaluating the situation. As far as I could see, there was no point in spending an entire afternoon driving to Bristol and back to get another needle put in, as more than likely it would be spat back out by the following day. That left two options – either going to my nearest A&E for a venflon or finding out if the local Minor Injuries Unit could insert one. As CF patients are meant to avoid A&E as much as possible due to infection risks (although I guess an exception can be made if one’s leg is hanging off or similar) I decided to try the latter option and rang them up.

Hurrah! It appeared that it would indeed be possible to get the local MIU to put one in for me and even better – it was only a sunny 15 minute drive away. Feeling very pleased with myself we turned up there at 1.30pm and were told the doctor was out on calls but would be back within the hour.

Unfortunately when said doctor arrived I realised that she was in fact one of the GP’s from my village practise….the very worst GP in the history of the Universe. Dr S is middle-aged, miserable and moody. She has the personality of a wet fish and is permanently grumpy. Funnily enough, although the 3 other doctors at the practise have 2-week waiting lists, you can get an appointment with Dr S on the same day, probably within 5 minutes. That’s how good she is. This was going to be great fun….

I was called in by the nurse and walked down the corridor of doom to meet Dr S, who looked me up and down with a scowl.

“I don’t really understand what this is all about but you’d better come in” she mumbled. Good start.

I sat down and explained the whole situation. That I simply needed a venflon inserting until I could see the CF team again on Tuesday to dicuss my port. That I’ve had venflons put in at A&E before when my lines have failed over a weekend, but that my team preferred us not to go into A&E’s if possible due to infection risks.

“Hurrumph” said Dr S with another scowl “Can’t see why, there is no difference between going there and coming here”. Which would have been a sensible retort if it wasn’t for the fact that the MIU is constantly deserted, except for the occasional old lady wandering in – probably for a bit of conversation – and pointed out to Dr S that in comparison to sitting for 4 hours in a very busy A&E this option was much more preferable.

“Sounds ridiculous to me” she snapped. Oh good, this was going well.

Next she told me she didn’t think anyone should have a venflon in for a whole 3 days. Which is intriguing as she’s the first doctor who has ever stated that this was a problem. I managed to convince her that since in the past I had often had them for a week at a time, I doubted it would be an issue.

Then the fun started. Dr S begrudgingly mumbled that she would “give it one try” and brought the sister back in to assist whilst I laid down on the couch. She poked around at my veins, making very doubtful noises and frequent mentions of “scarring” and “it’s going to be difficult” which is always encouraging to the patient I find. May be I should have realised why at this point the sister pointed out that I could “always come back at 6pm when Dr G is on who does this sort of thing regularly”…it was obviously more than a subtle hint, but I didn’t pick up on it and agreed to one try by Dr S.

Next Dr S took out the venflon and tossed it on the bed. I think this was the point I started to realise that her hygiene procedures might not be that good. I had been waiting for her to wash her hands (after all she’d just walked in after spending the last couple of hours on the road) but when she started to unsheath the needle I realised that she had no intention of doing so. With visions of septicaemia flashing before my eyes, I took a deep breath and was impressed to hear myself saying “Would you mind washing your hands first please?”

I think I offended her. She gave a rather indignant snort but couldn’t really argue with it, so shrugged and said “If you want”. She then headed to a nearby sink where upon the sister pointed out to her it was the wrong sink and that she should use the one on the other side of the room with the disinfectant soap. As she was washing her hands the nurse caught my eye and winked and nodded approvingly at me, clearly impressed I had spoken up for myself.

When she returned she picked up the venflon and started peering at it. I think it was at this point that I realised she probably hadn’t seen one for about 3 decades as she wasn’t even sure how it worked. Apparently they had been “all different” when she had last used one and she couldn’t even work out how to put it in. With a lot of guidance from the nurse she decided to go for it. At this point I realised she was about to insert probably the biggest venflon sharp I have ever seen and with my confidence in her abilities was at an all time low, I was on the verge of grabbing my bag and legging it out the door.

It was too late though so I just gritted my teeth and gave her the benefit of my overwhelming doubt. This may have proven foolhardy however because her first attempt backfired when she couldn’t even get it through my skin. She held the weapon up triumphantly (gleaming in the sunshine) and announced “Hmmm, I think this one is blunt” before going in for a second attempt with it.

Now I’m very good with needles and with needle-associated pain. After years of being stabbed repeatedly and having junior doctors doing a botched job of inserting lines into my veins, I’ve developed an ability to mentally detach my arms and let them do their worst. However nothing had prepared me for an attempt by Dr S…

Firstly she missed the vein spectacularly. Secondly she failed to realise this. Thirdly she decided that if she kept pushing as hard as possible into my arm with it, it might just strike gold. I’m surprised the bloody thing didn’t appear out the other side of my wrist.

AAARRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now most doctors realise when they have missed a vein and retract the sharp immediately, along with profuse apologies. Not Doctor S. She was hanging on with a grim determination, leaning her entire 15 stone bodyweight onto the needle, for some reason apparently believing that my veins were located somewhere near the floor.

My brain quickly registered that she had no intention of finishing her mission and that only I could stop her.

“PLEASE COULD YOU TAKE IT OUT! OUT! TAKE IT OUT! NOW!”

It took a couple of seconds to register but finally she twigged. Oh. Hurting. No vein. Take out needle.

The nurse was by now nearly as terrified as me having witnessed Dr S’s attempts to skewer me to the bed and rapidly grabbed my arm and started pressing on it.

“Hmmm I don’t think I got the vein” Dr S announced.

GIVE THAT WOMAN A PRIZE!!!!

“Don’t worry about the bleeding” she went on “it’s not from your artery”

YOU DON’T SAY?! IT’S NOT FROM ANYTHING RESEMBLING A BLOOD SUPPLY LOVE BECAUSE YOU NEVER GOT NEAR ONE!

“I’ll give it another go when it stops bleeding” announced Dr S.

You what?

I cleared my throat and said, in only a slightly wavering voice, “Errrr how about I come back later when Dr G is here?” in as nonchalant a manner as I could manage. The nurse was standing behind the doctor with a panicked look in her eye and started madly nodding at me and winking. Clearly she was dreading another attempt as much as I was.

“Oh well, OK” said Dr S grumpily as I fled out the door.

At 6.15pm Dr G inserted the venflon in 3 seconds, with barely a flicker of pain. He was clearly a pro and a very nice, friendly one at that. He also appeared to know quite a bit about CF and was very chatty. He checked it flushed ok and sent me off with a smile. What a difference.

It was perfect. Well apart from one thing. I’ve just tried to give my evening dose of drugs. And nothing – NOTHING – can be injected into the venflon. It doesn’t work. It’s packed up before I’ve even used it. I give up.