I was seven and it was at the end of another short six weeks; time for another blood transfusion. For a few years this was how my life was divided up, in six week periods, leading to the next transfusion. It was dad's turn to take me and I fretfully walked along by his side till we reached the treatment room. Not surprisingly I at this stage had a phobia of butterfly needles let alone cannula shunts for transfusions. A normal visit would leave me stressed out and drained. This was to turn out to be no normal visit.

It was time for the magic' cream to be wiped off the backs of my hands and the shunt to go in. Which hand?' the nurse asked. I pointed to my right one, it was always the same hand if I had a say in the matter. Arguably a bizarre choice considering I am right handed, but over the years I always have tried to protect my left hand.

The nurse griped my hand in her gloved one and I buried my head in my dad's shoulder and sucked in my breath in anticipation. Just a small scratch now' the nurse said. Undoubtedly the most infuriating phrase that nurses always say, no matter whether it's a finger prick or a long needle shoved into your pelvic bone. As the needle pierced the skin and was quickly replaced by the shunt, I released my breath.

I'm sorry it's got to come out again honey, it's not in correctly.' I stared in horror first at her and then appealingly at my dad. No argument it had to come out. The procedure was repeated in the same hand. I am so sorry; it's still not in correctly.' The procedure began again in the same hand. By this time I was bathed in a cold sweat and struggling to breathe. Third time lucky and it was in to stay for the next few hours. I was attached to the IV and was settled down in a bed, my right arm safe under the blanket from the nurse.

Things were bearable for the next hour and a half, although I had unusual pain in my hand from the start, which I assumed was due to the excess holes in my hand. I kept quiet until the pain became unbearable and had spread up to my wrist and beyond. Dad it really hurts' I moaned as I lifted my arm out from its hiding place, and then stared terrified at the skin of my wrist area above the bandage.

Above the white bandage my normal skinny suntanned arm was almost unrecognisable. It had blown up to twice its normal size and the skin was stretched taut and was black. The nurse went white when finally my dad tracked her down which terrified me even more. All she said was It has to come out'. At that I freaked out and screamed the place down, I was adamant that I was not having another one.

Other nurses came to assist and naturally insisted that it had to come out, even though it was too late and the damage already had been done. However to a petrified seven year old this was not an acceptable reason. The drip was stopped and the shunt removed from my damaged hand which had swollen and turned colour as well.

As it was vital that the drip be started up as quickly as possible because a new bag had to be started and we were now behind schedule, there was no magic' cream for the left hand. The head nurse cleanly pierced the skin first time and I was off again. I remember spending the rest of the visit with both arms and head firmly under the blanket, shaking from the trauma.

We were told later that the shunt had been put in incorrectly, not even close to a vein. Consequently the blood was being dripped into my skin vessels instead, causing the arm to swell and change colour. It took months to heal and I was left bruised along the side of my wrist for years as a result, until it finally faded.

Learn more about this author, Hannah Curtis.
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