Port Draw

Normally I schedule my port draws early in the morning so I can get in and out before I have to be at work. Today, since this is unscheduled but high priority, I find myself trudging down the hallway to the infusion center at 4 in the afternoon. The place is practically deserted. No one in the waiting room. Only one receptionist behind the counter. Intake nurses laughing and playing in the check in area, relieved the day is at its end.

I check in, offer my arm for the inevitable armband with all my vitals imprinted in the little square Q mark, step on the scales and watch my blood pressure monitor go berserk, reinflating to squeeze the bajeebies out of my arm in retribution for my white coat anxiety levels. Normally I am ushered to a small cubicle for my port draw, but the nurse who services that area has gone for the day. I am taken to an infusion pod. I cringe inside even though I know I am only here for bloodwork.

The nurse seats me and locates an access kit. She begins unpacking the myriad pieces. Her phone rings. She answers and is immediately drawn in to an issue elsewhere. She excuses herself and disappears. I lean back in the recliner and shut my eyes. I have never been on this wing of the center. While there are windows, it seems shadowy and dark here. There is a gentleman in one of the other pods. He looks weak and tired, pale and without any strength. I say a quick prayer for him. It must be serious for him to be here this late. He is alone, how sad. His IV machine starts beeping and he opens his eyes, startled. The nurse does not come and he closes his eyes, too tired to be concerned.

The nurse returns and apologizes to the man, turning off his machine and resetting. He must not be done yet. She hangs a small bag of blood, pats his hand, then turns to me again with apologies. I tell her not to worry. I am in no hurry. After bloodwork, I am going home and am not anxious to sit in rush hour traffic. Better to sit here in peace. She flashes me a grateful smile just as her phone rings again. She apologizes and is out of the room in a flurry of white. I take a deep breath, enjoying the quietness. Outside a crow caws. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blares. But the noise dies away quickly and I am left with only the gentle whir of the IV machine in the pod next door.

A verse from the 23rd Psalm flits through my mind. "He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul." I recall wandering through Letchworth State Park with Drew, leisurely enjoying the rainbows dancing in the spray of the fountain near the Glen Iris Inn, surrounded by deer grazing on the grassy lawn, the beautiful fall colors reflecting in the still pond just down the road. I relax. My breathing slows. I could take a nap here. What a precious moment of rest.

In a few minutes, the nurse returns and releases the man in the other pod, calling a golf cart to transport him back to the lobby area where his family is picking him up. I am sure the very thought of walking that far was overwhelming to him. At last, almost an hour after I arrive, the nurse is able to help me. We chat and laugh while she sterilizes my port area and hooks up all the geegaws and gadgets, sigh with relief when the blood flows easily, and in less than ten minutes (eight of which were prep), I am on my way smiling. Rush hour is over now and I am rested.

I pray for the nurse as I head to the parking garage, thanking the good Lord that I am walking under my own steam, feeling far better than my pod compatriot, and heading to my own comfy cozy apartment where I can continue my peaceful jaunt by the still waters. I do feel restored. Life is good.