On my big morning, the Doctor called to ask a few screening questions. Even over the phone, he had great bedside manner, highlighted by the remarkable ability to ask if you were a Molly abuser, without even remotely implying that you were a Molly abuser. He apologized that he wouldn’t be sending his most attractive RN -- another client had specifically requested her -- but her sub-in, Mike the Physician Assistant, had a laid-back competence perfectly suited for this ridiculous situation. After setting up the drip, he assessed my forearms for entry points, and noted that I had “small veins”. That was not news I would have liked to have received from a hot nurse.
The insertion was painless, maybe because Mike used a smaller needle due to my tiny, effeminate blood vessels. A smaller needle meant the bag would take longer to drain -- a full 20 minutes instead of 16 -- but the solution didn’t hurt flowing in, so no big deal. (Apparently cold solution can cause some discomfort, so if you think you’re VIP enough to keep Mike waiting on a freezing sidewalk, think twice, or apologize and ask him to warm the bag up on your radiator -- really, this works.)
The Doctor had told me that if someone requested hangover treatment more than twice a week, he’d most likely refer them to counseling. He’s practiced medicine for 30 years, and still maintains two urology clinics, so while this extra cash was no doubt welcome, there was no reason for him to enable trainwrecks. Mike, who frequents ICU and ER wards on his regular beat, added that he wouldn’t treat an obviously intoxicated client, or anyone who clearly lived in a “heroin dungeon”; this treatment was only for otherwise-healthy people who’d overdone it. I think Mike is the first person to tell me I looked otherwise-healthy since the early '90s.