Jesus, open the door

In a French-speaking country, it's always a welcome change to have patients who actually speak English. It makes me miss Liberia something fierce, where I could always chatter away with my kids and their mamas, but I take what I can get around here.

Right now, A13 and A14 are home to a lovely mother-son pair from Nigeria. They speak English, and the little boy is appropriately comforted when I pat his back and tell him sorry, yeah? During report this morning, we heard that his mama needed an IV. Multiple attempts the night before had been unsuccessful, and so the lot fell to me for the final try.

Since we spoke the same language, we chatted while I got my things ready and started looking for a vein. My search turned up a sad dearth of possibilities, and given the sheer number of times she'd already been "jabbed" (as she put it), I figured I'd let her know that my own chances weren't the greatest. I explained all about valves, using the analogy of a door, shut tight against my needle. She nodded in understanding, her eyes wide as she peered at my Yovo hand, which I was using to demonstrate. (White skin has the advantage of letting veins show through nicely. My husband says I'm transparent.)

I tied the tourniquet, swabbed her arm with alcohol and looked up just in time to see her squeeze her eyes tight shut. She lifted her free hand to the heavens and proclaimed a blessing over my Yovo hands with the fervor and gravity of a Southern Baptist preacher.

In the name of JESUS, I pray that the door will be open to your needle! Amen!

I added my own amen, and stuck in the needle. Unfortunately, the door remained shut and locked, and I failed miserably, having to call the OR with my tail between my legs and explain why their patient would be coming to surgery without her precious cannula.

I appears that Jesus was not sanctioning IV starts this morning.