Color Coordinated
I'm always fascinated by the different personalities I run into whenever I go to give blood. I think there's a part of me that has a preconceived notion of how a nurse should be (you know, Clara Barton's warm nurturing), and rarely do I meet nurses who could fit neatly into that description.
There's the jolly African woman who mothers me in her thick accent. The young, male nurse who jokes with me, trying to distract me from my hemorrhaging arm. The stern supervisor, who walks around making sure everything is running smoothly, stopping to smile and wink at patients.
Even though I'm a regular blood donor, I still get a little queasy whenever I go. The stick of the needle makes me uncomfortable, and then once it's in, I absolutely cannot look at the needle. Or the filling bag. So sometimes, it's nice to have a nurse who can distract me from focusing on that.
Today's nurse, however, didn't seem to be that kind of woman. She had a serious face, and made no effort to chat me up with small talk. It was all business as she marked my vein and sterilized my arm. She walked over to her dressing table to prepare everything she needed. Watching her, I saw as she looked closely at my shirt, then proceeded to dig through her pile of bandages until she found the bright red tape. I laughed.
"Coordinating with my shirt?" I asked. She smiled sheepishly and laughed a little. "I always coordinate. It makes me mad when I can't."
Clara Barton's got nothing on the color coordinators.
There's the jolly African woman who mothers me in her thick accent. The young, male nurse who jokes with me, trying to distract me from my hemorrhaging arm. The stern supervisor, who walks around making sure everything is running smoothly, stopping to smile and wink at patients.
Even though I'm a regular blood donor, I still get a little queasy whenever I go. The stick of the needle makes me uncomfortable, and then once it's in, I absolutely cannot look at the needle. Or the filling bag. So sometimes, it's nice to have a nurse who can distract me from focusing on that.
Today's nurse, however, didn't seem to be that kind of woman. She had a serious face, and made no effort to chat me up with small talk. It was all business as she marked my vein and sterilized my arm. She walked over to her dressing table to prepare everything she needed. Watching her, I saw as she looked closely at my shirt, then proceeded to dig through her pile of bandages until she found the bright red tape. I laughed.
"Coordinating with my shirt?" I asked. She smiled sheepishly and laughed a little. "I always coordinate. It makes me mad when I can't."
Clara Barton's got nothing on the color coordinators.
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