Where This Meets That
Yesterday was to be the extraction of my third, and final, kidney stone. Sadly, it didn’t turn out that way, as the doctor’s scope revealed that my ureter on the effected side is too small to allow his scope to proceed. So, instead, I now have a stent in place aimed to amend that by April Fools Day, when I’ll once again allow this doctor to . . . well, on to my point.
The fates were frowning from the start. My veins have always drawn praise from vein-stickers, every time I’ve ever had to give blood or have it drawn, but yesterday, in the hands of a rookie nurse, they went “rolly.”
The poor lady’s first two attempts aimed at prevalent veins on the backs of my hands. Both failed and left me with little puncture points and a wave of lightheadedness that bought be a few minute respite before a different nurse would take a stab.
As I looked at the gauze taped to the back of each hand, I joked to my wife that I looked like I was coming down with a case of stigmata, a phenomenon in which wounds recalling those of Jesus’s crucifixion appear on an individual. As soon as I said the word, I corrected my diagnosis instead to, “stick-mata,” for it had resulted from the nurse “sticking” me with the needle.
Oddly, this isn’t the first time I’ve suffered this ailment, and during Lent at that!
Several years ago, I transplanted a redbud sapling whose branches, unbeknownst to me, bore poison ivy. During that process, I drew the back of my poisoned hand to wipe sweat from my brow, leaving me a terrible set of inflamed welts across my forehead, which I then jokingly referred as my “crown of thorns.”
Now, branches of a redbud sapling are really nothing but “sticks,” themselves, albeit still connected, which brings me back to yesterday. The third “stick,” stuck into my wrist by a more seasoned nurse, finally struck gold, but by the end of the day, three “sticks” had left three “holes.” You could call that a “holey trinity” of a wholly different sort than this Catholic has ever wanted to be seen with!