Pain Management

As I slowly started to come to, I opened my eyes and saw my sister to my right and looked down and saw tape over my wounds. I asked my sister, "How many shots did they give me, my chest is really hurting?" She said, "Twelve shots." I was surprised but relieved in a way.
About three weeks ago, Dr. Ferrante explained that in order to alleviate some of my chest pain, due to my Costocondritis, he recommended that I get a steroid/local anesthetic shot in my chest. He said this procedure was pretty simple, but had to be done using an X-ray to avoid puncturing my lungs. Since my rheumatologist also recommended this same procedure and I was tired of my chest hurting with every breathe, I immediately agreed. After I spoke with a friend that had the similar injections I grew a little apprehensive after she described the pain and the needles involved in the procedure. Dr. Ferrante explained that I would be under IV sedation, so I wasn't really worried about the pain. I was ready for relief, so it didn't matter.
I had never had an IV or an out-patient procedure done for that matter, so I didn't think the shots were that big of a deal. The day before I received a pre-admission phone call from UCLA Hospital. After I confirmed all of my information and hung up, I became slightly concerned. I started to realize that this procedure was a little more than just a shot. The next morning, I arrived on time to the hospital and filled out my paperwork. The lady at admissions was so serious and cold that I was almost a little leery of what to expect from the hospital staff. Having taken my Mom to the hospital many times, I knew that hospital medical staff weren't usually the best of people, but luckily for me I didn't have Kaiser. As she directed me to the double doors. I looked at my sister with some apprehension and she gave me the same look in return.
As we entered, the two nurses at the counter greeted us with a smile and told us that someone would be right with us. Almost simultaneously, a nurse approached us and asked what I was there for and looked at my paperwork. Immediately a petite middle-aged woman with blonde hair approached us and introduced herself as, "Wendy, my nurse". She immediately directed me to my hospital bed.

On the bed, there was a bag for my belongings with my gown, footies, and head cap. I changed into my hospital outfit and then nurse Wendy immediately brought in two warm blankets. I laid down and she gently wrapped them around me. I was surprised by her caring demeanor, yet she did make many sarcastic jokes along the way, which I thought were hilarious because it did lighten the mood.
After a doctor came in and introduced himself as one of the doctors that would be assisting Dr. Ferrante during the procedure and explained what was going to be done. I knew then that this was just not one shot, but in fact a pretty serious procedure. During all of this we heard loud yells coming from the hallway. Nurse Wendy looked at us and then walked out to see what was going on. She came back chuckling, "That was the doctor announcing he has arrived." "What doctor is that?", I asked. She replied, "your doctor." My sister and I gave each other surprised looks. I didn't know what to expect after that, but everyone was really nice, so I felt comfortable for now.
Nurse Wendy then hooked me up to an IV which was basically painless, beside the fact that she had me in suspense with a 3-2-1 countdown before she put in the needle. She gave me the rope to her call button, which she said she would appear like magic. I was intrigued by her sense of humor and kindness, perhaps because I was not expecting this at all. After waiting 10 minutes, another doctor came in to introduce himself and then a nurse that told me she would be in the room assisting Dr. Ferrante as well. They both told me, "We just want to help your pain go away." I felt a little better about the entire experience.
Twenty minutes later, two doctors came in and told me, "Its your turn." They wheeled me into the operating room, then moved me to the steel bed. As I lay there, I realized that there were six doctors and two nurses in the room, I really started to get apprehensive. Suddenly a nurse yelled, "Timeout". Then the other nurse said, "We're not ready for timeout". I thought that was funny because I didn't even know what timeout was. They fixed my gown to make the incision area accessible. Then the nursed yelled, "Timeout!" The other nurse and doctors froze. They started to ask my my name, verified my information and procedure. So that was Timeout, I was found that to be very thorough on the hospital's part, but so extreme that it was funny to me.
The doctors sterilized the area and hooked me up to the monitors. As I looked up to see my lungs in the x-ray machine, I noticed one of the nurses injecting my IV. I asked her what she was giving me and she replied with a sly look, "Something to relax." Just then Dr. Ferrante injected started to inject my clavicle bone. It hurt so much but then after I knocked out. I was so confused when I awoke, because I could see the doctors wheeling me back to the room where my sister was. I asked her what happened. She said I had been talking to the nurse the whole time. I started to laugh because I remember, but like a dream.
I received 12 shots that day, but in the name of pain, I was willing to take some for the team. Even though my bruises and injections sites look ugly, I had great doctors and nurses and that makes everything better. Having a courteous medical staff surprised me, since I was used to watching my Mom's and Grandma's nurses during the many times they were hospitalized and how inconsiderate and insensitive they were towards the patients. I think I received pretty good treatment. My rundown is that sometimes that caring hand during a uncomfortable experience is sometimes the only thing that carries the patient through. For a patient in a gown and feeling vulnerable is already an embarrassing experience, that the last thing they need is a mean nurse giving them a hard time. Thanks UCLA staff, I hope this helps my pain.