I knew that morning had finally arrived when a young, clean-cut doctor appeared at my bedside. He introduced himself as Dr. White. He explained that he'd been reading my charts, and that he'd been informed about my accident from the night before, about the blood-stained sheets. He had a small metal tray in his hand. I couldn't tell what was on it. He asked if he could see my forearm.
Still a little groggy, I raised myself up on my elbows.
"Here," I said, extending my right arm.
"Sounds like quite the mess last night," he said. He held my wrist with one hand, and ran a finger up my forearm, almost as if he were tracing some veins just underneath my skin.
I apologized.
Dr. White twisted my arm slightly, and then ran his hand back down my arm. He tapped at my wrist a few times.
"No, no," he said. "No need to apologize. We just don't want you losing any more blood."
He wiped away some dried blood from the base of my wrist. He used a cool alcohol swab, then dried the skin with a gauze. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain where the gauze had been. I looked down. He'd inserted the small needle at the very base of my wrist, and re-attached my I.V. to the end of it.
"What?" I was still confused. Why did he put the needle there?
"Don't worry," he said.
He took some adhesive tape from the table behind him, and taped the needle and a small amount of the IV tubing to my wrist and forearm.
I tried moving my wrist. It was awkward and uncomfortable. If I bent my wrist even a little bit, I could actually feel the needle. The only way to avoid discomfort was if I held my wrist perfectly still, perfectly straight.
"Look," I said. "This is really uncomfortable. Can't you put it in my forearm or my elbow or someplace?"
He shook his head.
"That's the point, now, isn't it? To make sure that it doesn't come out again."
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