Essay Posted on Spoonie Press

I wrote a personal essay for Spoonie Magazine about a particularly frustrating evening trying to give myself an IV.

Living with chronic illness is a whole thing, but I love when I have a little space and can find the humor in it.

This was the original link https://bit.ly/notaseasyasitlooks, however, it appears it is no longer available. So, here it is for your enjoyment!

I stabbed and grunted, poked and winced, then gave up and cried. My arms looked like something out of Trainspotting, and yet the full syringe of essential medication lay on the bed taunting me.

I had spent most of the day battling a stomach swell and trying to convince myself I didn’t need to do my nightmarish IV infusion, but, as always, it hit a point where I couldn’t ignore it. I gave myself a pep talk, found a mindless murder show to watch on HLN (the Homicide Lady Network as I lovingly call it), and settled in to give myself IV medication. Occasionally it goes really well and I’m back to living an hour later. Other times I can’t find a vein and the attack gets worse and worse until I finally concede and go to the emergency room.

On this particular night, my husband was out of town with one of my kids, and it was just me and the one who can’t drive. Of course. I didn’t want to call a paramedic, it seemed a little dramatic (cue my mother’s voice in my head), but I didn’t think I could drive myself to the ER. Sure, I could call a friend, but for some reason, it never occurs to me when I’m freaking out and blinded by pain. I worry they’ll judge me, or see me as weak, and I can’t handle anything difficult when I’m in excruciating pain and my brain is screaming “YOU ARE DYING! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!”

I reached out to a private doctor I have used once or twice to see if he had a nurse I could pay seven million dollars to come start a line for me. Considering his business is mostly giving vitamin IVs to celebrities and hungover frat boys, he’s always very interested in what’s happening with me when I call. I always enjoy the ambient sound around his voice and imagine he’s at some swanky party surrounded by Hemsworth brothers with his feet casually soaking in a hot tub.

“Is it the HAE? Where is it? How do you feel? You sound terrible. Let me see what I can do.” I grunted and sniffled and, like a superhero, he quickly hung up and lit the bat signal with a fancy remote control he was gifted by some actor’s kid who is into robotics but also develops apps no one needs.

One hour and one tear-filled shower later he called to tell me he had someone on the way.

I hobbled out to the living room and set up all the medical equipment I had already opened so she could just blaze in the door and get the job done. Every minute that passed my pain grew, my dizziness worsened, and I felt I may pass out in a giant pool of vomit. Each tiny pinprick I’d inflicted upon my arms was now beginning to swell, hard little pea-sized black and blue lumps forming on my inner elbows and hands. I applied Arnica to them as I counted my breaths and continually told myself, “You are fine. You are going to be fine.”

Finally, the doorbell rang and a small Ukrainian woman in her mid-fifties wearing a Minnie Mouse face mask that looked like it was made for a toddler walked in. Over her shoulder was a Trader Joe’s tote bag filled with her “work stuff” and a contraption she probably used to hang IV

bags from. I informed her this one is just a giant syringe, no bag, and she immediately tried to upsell me.

“Maybe while I’m here we should do a vitamin IV! This whole thing could be solved with electrolytes I bet...”

Her peppiness and clear lack of social awareness immediately annoyed me. Granted, I was at the end of my rope, but come on.

I pointed out that I had everything laid out, hoping this would nudge the process along so I could begin to get some relief. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes as a wave of nausea hit me. A tiny drop of sweat ran down my nose and into my mouth as I tried, with every fiber of my broken being, not to start the horror show of nonstop vomiting.

“You are very sweaty. Why is your face so red?” she asked me as if she thought she was coming to give a healthy Kardashian a “let’s get even more beautiful” treatment.

“I’m feverish and my blood pressure is very low,” I muttered as I turned to the bright yellow bowl beside me, thinking I may puke but just drooling a bit instead.

“What’s your diet like?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?” I replied.
“What do you eat? Are you healthy person?” she said, concerned.

“Yeah, I eat fine. Can you please help me, I really need this medication asap, sorry,” I heard the unnecessary apology and rolled my inner eyes at myself.

“OK, but you know, if you got your diet under control you wouldn’t need all this poison to feel good,” she began what I feared would be a lengthy lecture. “A vegan diet and homeopathic treatments...”

I interrupted her.

“I was born with no C1 and very little C4 in my blood, the only way to counterbalance that is to replace it with this,” I pointed at the large, clear syringe on the table. “It’s not narcotics or even anything interesting. In fact, to most of the population, this is the equivalent of saline...” I drifted off as the room started to spin and I felt a tidal wave of heat rise from my knees to my forehead. I closed my eyes and went silent.

“You obviously have thyroid issues,” she said as I opened my eyes. She was pointing up and down at my clearly overweight body, and I managed to take a moment to feel ashamed. Nice. Thanks, lady. I obviously felt awesome and was totally thrilled with the way my life was going, so a little pep talk about dieting and my disgusting physical appearance at the moment was a huge help. Much appreciated!

Finally, we got down to business and it looked like we were going to get somewhere. She picked up the needle, commented on the bruises on my arms then proceeded to do exactly what I did for an hour earlier in the day with similar results.

“You have hard veins,” she said. “But don’t worry!” she chirped as she pulled a 1950s heating pad from her shopping bag and wrapped it around my arm. “This does it.”

We sat in silence for a brief moment before she began the constant stream of irritating and useless word diarrhea again.

“I have a patient who is 97 and he has cancer, I show you a picture.” She reached for her phone and as she presented me with the photo said, “He’s Jewish, but he’s a nice one.”

I wondered if I heard her right. “Excuse me?”
“You know, the Jewish can be mean, but he’s a good one.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I started to say, realizing I was not communicating my horror correctly. A stream of drool began to form in the corner of my mouth and I grabbed my trusted yellow puke bowl again.

“Here’s another client,” she swiped to show me an elderly woman receiving an IV. “Vitamin C turned her life around, she had dementia and now she’s much better.”

I smiled and nodded politely, turning my face away from her and holding my breath to push the nausea down.

“If you are nauseous I have some Black Walnut herbs in my purse, I can make for you,” she stood and walked toward her purse. I was growing more and more angered that this process was

taking forever, especially considering I was paying out of pocket for it. I just wanted to go lie down in the dark, did she not understand how much I wanted to go to sleep? No, no she didn’t.

“I don’t really want to take anything,” I whispered politely as she produced an unlabeled, naked brown bottle of mystery tincture from her canvas tote.

“It’s good,” she said dismissively and walked toward me.

“I don’t want your purse herbs!” I insisted, a little rudely. She paused and put them away, shaking her head in subtle disapproval as she returned and sat beside me. I couldn’t feel bad about snapping. I knew I probably should, but I just didn’t.

After several more tries, she finally managed to get a needle into a very painful vein in my hand but I was so happy I didn’t care. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath as she told me story after racist story...

“I need to have a tooth pulled but I can’t find a dentist I like. They are all crooks. Well, except the Japanese, they are the best dentists. But they aren’t kind, you know? I mean as a people.”

Oh. My. God.

“I have an ovarian cyst the size of a large orange and they want to remove it but I don’t believe in anesthesia so I’m not sure what to do.”

I looked up at her. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said, genuinely meaning it.

“I have it because the man in the apartment next to me won’t stop smoking the marijuana and I called the cops but they say it’s legal to smoke in his home so there isn’t anything they can do. They told me to move! It’s crazy that I have to be the one to move...”

“I agree,” I nodded. “That’s terrible.”

“This is why it’s important not to be overweight,” she looked at me accusatorially, “all that fat is toxic and your body can’t fight even the smallest toxin. You’ll get cancer if you aren’t careful.”

I felt like pointing out that she was 85 pounds dripping wet and she was the one afflicted in this scenario, but I refrained and nodded politely instead.

“Yeah I gotta lose these Covid pounds,” I tried to joke. “And much, much more,” she smiled.

My courtesy smile immediately went away and I returned to wishing she would leave. As she pulled the needle from my hand and began cleaning up, I felt the weight of potential disaster slowly rising off my shoulders.

Minutes later she texted me her number from across the room and told me to call her for vitamin IVs so we can get me off all the “toxic poisons” I put in my body. I had actually been wanting to try anti-inflammatory infusions, but I couldn’t imagine spending one more expensive moment with this lunatic. I nodded and smiled, showed her to the door, and as she walked down my front steps she turned to me and said, “Can you watch me walk to my car? Lots of vagabonds over here and they like to steal my needles.”