Stacey: Idiot Or Non-Idiot?

I’m thinking…… non-idiot.

But others would say different! Apparently!

Yesterday was a treatment day, and I think my sister knows by now how treatment days go. Every other week she has a blood test to see if she has, y’know, blood and everything. Stacey has, if you recall from past Eewy Medical posts, a port: a permanent IV line under her skin. Why does she have this odd thing? Because she has “uncooperative veins” and she’s forever getting pincushioned by inexperienced medical folk. Port = for-sure impalation.

This is important because at the hospital they only do port draws upstairs. So here are the true facts that Stacey knows: She has blood drawn every other week, she has a port draw, not a pincushion draw, and they only do port draws upstairs. They don’t do them downstairs.

So yesterday, Stacey goes upstairs for her bi-weekly port draw (which they only do upstairs.) The nurse at the desk (I believe Stacey used the word “chickie”) tells her:

“Oops! You’re supposed to be downstairs for this!”

“No, they don’t do port draws downstairs.”

(With the condescending tone reserved for dim little old ladies) “I’m sorry, I know it’s confusing! But today you’re having your blood drawn downstairs, ok?”

OK! So I’ll stop here to explain something. In our family, many virtues are highlighted, but the one that garners the most attention and praise is intelligence. Wordplay, insight, uptake, debate, quick wit — these are highly valued, and they are the ways we enjoy one another’s company. Part of showing respect for one another is the base assumption of intelligence and, by extension, competence. So if Stacey tells me she’s supposed to be upstairs because it is her blood-draw week, and she has a port, and they only do port draws upstairs, a respectful response would be “Huh! It doesn’t say that here — let me take a look and see what I can find out.” It would be a pretty big insult to say “I’m sorry, I know there’s no way you could have a good reason to think that, so I’m going to completely dismiss your opinion, ok?”

Yeah, so that’s pretty much what miss chickie said. Well, you can imagine Stacey’s response, all the stronger because when one of these appointments goes long, everything gets pushed back and she ends up waiting around all day.

“No. I have a port, and they only do port draws up here. I have an appointment up here for this blood draw.”

Chickie goes back into the office to talk to someone. “OK, you’re supposed to be here every other week, and the alternate weeks you get your blood drawn downstairs.”

(With growing irritation) “NO. I only get my blood drawn every OTHER week. I’m scheduled to be here every other week  because I have it drawn every other week, and I have that done here because I have a PORT and they ONLY DO port draws UP HERE!”

Chickie goes back to talk to mystery office person, comes back out: “You’ll have to go downstairs.”

Stacey grits her teeth and makes that Grandma Ridgely face. “Oh for Chrissake!  Do they have anyone downstairs who can do a port draw?”

Chickie shrugs sheepishly.

“Fine, I’ll go, but they are going to send me right back up here. I’ll be back.” Stacey stomps out.

As it turned out, by sheer luck there was someone downstairs who could do it (not very well) — on any other day, they would have sent her back up. Which would not have been too pleasant for Chickie since by then my sister was a seething mass of firey rage.

The moral of the story: don’t insult a Bancroft girl’s intelligence. It makes us cranky. You wouldn’t like us when we’re cranky.

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