Trying to put a needle (for the peripheral venous catheter) in Abbe was, as always, adventurous. And this time it just wouldn’t work. No needle. We have a few favourite nurses in ward 323, they know exactly how to get the needle in place, almost always on the first try. But the rest of them haven’t really got a clue. And when clueless they pull out the mask. I sometimes wonder why the bother at all, with the needle bit, I mean. The mask is there, isn’t it? But I think they’ve somehow got more control over the intravenous procedure.
When Abbe opened his eyes he was as pitiable. His throat all sore after the intubation (respirator) and gastroscopy (camera in tube down throat) and his eyes filled with silent accusation. How can you let them do this to me? Mum? Dad?
Good question, that.