The first time I went to the ER for my bronchitis, the triage nurse did not believe my warnings, which I provided in between violent coughs, about the veins in my left arm.

“You can only use my left arm because I had 5 lymph nodes removed from my right arm in 2010.”

Do they ever listen to me? God no.

The first time he stuck me, he could tell almost immediately that he did not find a vein. The second time he stuck me, this time in the forearm, he said, “I think I got it.”

I coughed (barked?) out, “NO, YOU DON’T GOT IT,” after feeling both him digging around and hot burning in my forearm.

The ER nurse, responsible for the third poke, fetched a Vein Finder before subjecting me to a third unassisted stick in my arm. “Hey, next time you’re in this situation, just ask for a Vein Finder right away. Explain you have difficult veins, and that way, you don’t get repeatedly stuck like this.”

Each poke is like adding an ounce of physical trauma to my body, especially my left arm. Think of how many times I have endured a poke in the arm, cut of the skin, or radiation burn to the skin in the last 16 years. The three pokes may not be significant for a triage nurse to care about in his day-to-day job routine, but every time I experience a degree of physical pain, it’s like adding a grain of sand to a jar.

It accumulates slowly over time.

I associate my left arm with pain, with bruising, with scarring and weird vein discolorations.

When I had my colonoscopy this week, I asked the nurse who was prepping me to use a vein finder, providing the same spiel as a above, including the story of my first trip to the ER.

Did she listen to me? God no.

Luckily, the nurse for the second ER visit did listen to me and spared me from additional grains of sands. So I’m batting 50%. So… yay?

However, as I type here now, I unsurprisingly have three little bruises (compared to the first ER visit) on my left arm. The third and final bruise on my arm came from a medical professional using the (what now) Vein Finder. My patient notes probably make note of the tears I shed after the second failed attempt to insert an IV into my arm.

I wonder if they mistook my tears for anxiety, but they don’t know that it’s more than that. It’s a culmination of 16 years of countless sticks into my arm, and watching the sand in my jar fill up ever so slowly.

I wish I could provide direct feedback to these medical professionals after the fact and say, “Hey, you inflicted needless pain on me when you didn’t have to. You could have just listened to me from the beginning and that way, I’m not walking with three visible bruises on my arm for all to see.”

Translation: You made me walk around with a visible reminder that I am someone who is ill.

If you are someone in the medical professional, please listen to your patients. I didn’t tell the first nurse about my difficult veins in the midst of a violent coughing fit for the sake of hearing myself talk. I was having a hard time just even BREATHING.

Sometimes that “Big pinch” really fucking hurts, okay?

Next time, I won’t suggest that they get a Vein Finder before looking for a vein to insert an IV. I will demand it.