6:40 AM, a SurgIV nurse we'll call Dana is at her kitchen counter in Lake Worth doing the ritual every shift starts with: the bag check. Fluids in their temperature sleeve — check. Formula vials against today's manifest — check. Catheters, sterile kits, the monitoring cuff, emergency meds per protocol, sharps container, tablet — check. Twenty pounds of clinic, zipped and shouldered. Her phone shows the day: six stops, Boca to Jupiter, first one flagged by dispatch with the note every morning-route nurse recognizes: "Client says: please hurry."
7:15 AM — the Boca hangover
The door opens on a 32-year-old in sunglasses — indoors — who whispers "thank you for existing" and returns to his couch fortress. Dana's seen a thousand of him. Screening questions (chest? breathing? just the classic misery? — the classic misery), vitals, the two-second stick he doesn't notice through his hoodie sleeve request, and the Hangover formula running by 7:30. She watches the color come back the way it always does — like someone adjusting a dimmer — while he narrates last night's decisions with increasing coherence. By the bag's end he's upright, negotiating with a group chat about brunch. "You're a wizard, Dana." Not a wizard: a liter, B vitamins, and anti-nausea meds. But she takes the compliment to the car.
9:30 AM — the standing appointment
A Delray retiree, 71, monthly Myers', who has Dana's chair (his late wife's reading chair, he mentioned once) already angled at the window. She knows his veins, his blood pressure trend, his grandson's baseball standings. This is the half of the job no one photographs: twenty minutes of drip time that's really a wellness check by a clinician who'd notice if something were off. Something was, once — a blood pressure reading she didn't like, a call to his doctor she insisted on. "My daughter says you're the reason I caught it early," he told her after. The Myers' runs 45 minutes. The visit matters longer.
The bag holds the clinic. The nurse brings the judgment. The judgment is the job.
Noon — the West Palm executive, and a no
Lunch-break Energy Boost for a finance director who works through her drip on two screens — routine, until the screening. Fever last night. "Just run it anyway, I have a board thing." Dana doesn't run it anyway. Fever plus fatigue gets the redirect conversation — flu season is real, a drip doesn't treat influenza, and the board thing will survive a telehealth visit. The client is annoyed for ninety seconds, then — this happens more than you'd think — visibly relieved someone made the call for her. Dispatch rebooks her for next week, contingent on symptoms. Revenue lost; the entire point of the company retained.
2:30 and 4:00 — the group and the long drip
A pickleball foursome in Wellington — one living room, four Recovery drips run in overlap, the kitchen-call debate from Saturday's round-robin re-litigated at volume. Then the day's slow movement: a first-time NAD⁺ session in Palm Beach Gardens, where Dana does the thing that separates experienced NAD⁺ nurses — narrates the flush before it happens, finds the client's silent rate in fifteen minutes, and settles in for the long, quiet infusion while he watches golf. Her tablet chimes: tomorrow's manifest forming. Sunset over the Turnpike on the drive to the last stop.
6:15 PM — the Jupiter marathoner
Final stop: a 44-year-old six days from her first marathon, running the 48-hour protocol a few days early around her taper. Nervous energy, a hundred questions — Dana's favorite kind of client. Drip done by 7:20; race-day texts pre-promised. In the car, the shift's last ritual: restock list, notes filed, sharps logged. Six houses. Six completely different reasons. One bag. "People ask if I miss the hospital," Dana says. "I tell them: I see six patients a day, I know all their names, and every single one is glad to see me. Nurses know exactly how rare that is."
This could be your living room
Myers Cocktail $249
Somewhere between the hangover and the marathoner, there's a slot with your name on it.
B-Complex · B12 · Vitamin C · Magnesium
Your address, somewhere on the route
Tomorrow's manifest is filling tonight — a hangover, a standing Myers', someone's first NAD⁺, maybe a foursome. The route has room. The bag is checked. Somewhere between the Boca sunglasses and the Jupiter taper, there's a slot that could be your couch — and a nurse who'll remember your dog's name by visit two.
This article is for general education and is not medical advice. IV therapy at SurgIV is administered by registered nurses under physician-written protocols, with a health screening before your first visit. Talk to your doctor about what is right for you.
