I walk onto my 45-bed med/surg unit. The day-shift R.N. meets me at the nurse’s station with her typical greeting: “It’s a mess.”

No matter what is going on, in her world it is always a mess. Sometimes, though, she is right. She’d been trying all day, she says, to get an IV in. The IV nurse will be on her way shortly.

The IV nurse would have been the one to deal with the “mess,” but she’d seen her chance to go on to better things when I hired on. I couldn’t blame her. It was a big unit, and it took lots and lots of steps to cover it during an 8-hour shift.

After report, I gather my supplies and make my way to the lady who needed the IV. In spite of her bulk, she seems to disappear into her bed. She peers at me over the covers and her eyes get big and round when she sees what I carry.

“I promise,” I say, halting by the door, “I won’t try unless I think I can get it.”

I sit on the edge of her bed and gently massage her arm while I look for a vein that hasn’t been assaulted yet. She visually relaxes as I run my fingers lightly up and down her inner forearm. It is my favorite spot on “hard-to-get” patients. It offers a straight, and normally untouched, avenue, plus the site allows the patient both elbow and wrist mobility.

My heart goes out to her. I can sense her fear and her dread. I see the faint bluish line of the vein tracking up her arm. This is it. My one and only chance.

Her eyes never leave my face and I must betray my relief at the sight of flashback into the IV catheter hub for the strain leaves her face and she smiles.

“Where have you been all day?” she cries, as I secure the line and restart her fluids.

I can see this lady clearly today because for five days last week, I was that lady. Knowing needles were coming, knowing that they were vitally necessary, but dreading them just the same. It seems ironic that shortly before this I’d written about my dislike of needles.

It started with a tickle in my throat. I thought, great, another cold, right when I’m having the house painted and Thanksgiving around the corner. By next afternoon, I knew it was no regular cold. I had chills, fever, body aches. But when body aches can be a constant in your life, it’s hard to give them much credence as a barometer of your overall health.

That evening, I made a trip to the urgent care, Influenza A. Fantastic. It’d been at least 20 years without a flu, so I sucked it up. Deal with it.

That was the plan, but 48 hours later I was in the emergency room. The urgent care had sent me there. My main complaint upon returning was chest pain, so they went into defensive mode: EKG, baby aspirin, and 911 to ER. They mentioned the possibility of pneumonia, but offered me an ambulance ride for good measure.

I said no; we’d drive the ten minutes. Once there they checked me out, started an IV, drew lab work and ordered a chest x-ray, and then booted me out to the waiting room for what seemed like hours. (It was. Definite way of knowing you’re not having a heart attack.)

I seriously doubted cardiac involvement, but I was quite worried about my respiratory status. I was weak and unsteady on my feet. I felt on fire and my chest felt as if the flames lit up higher every time I coughed. Worse was what I was producing when I did cough, and the amount increased steadily. I was bubbling over.

I worsened as I waited for an ER bed. Once there the nurse took my temp, 103. “Huh,” she said as she looked at the reading. She took it again. “Yep,” she said.

Yep, I was bad off.