I'll try & get ya all caught up w/ what's been going on.
I saw this picture one night surfing around, it's called "Finish Line".
I really related to it...slow & steady all the while hanging out at the beach.
> Please visit the the talented artist, Ruth Basler Burr right here.
Finally finished the infusion part of chemo. Round 10 of Ox was on Feb. 11. Damn, hard to believe in some ways. I say that thinking back on the day of the last infusion and insertion of the picc line. I was actually getting good at this shit. When asked some questions by the nice lady behind the check-in desk, I was able to tell her; I am here for this, then I go upstairs for that, and then back downstairs for cocktail hour. After that, the picc line will be removed and...i hesitated, kinda smiled and said I will be done (i omitted "with this shit") Dang. She understood. Totally understood.
"Ok Sir. Have a seat and we call ya in just a lil while. Is there anything I can get for you?"
I really love Charleston.
Then I was led to the operating room >> in my clothes! Oh yeah, no changing into a gown this time. I'm liking this. The two nurses in the radiology operating room were very kind. They engaged me in my small talk...answered my questions...they were in tune:
A: keeping me calm and comfortable
B: prepping me all sterile like while getting ready for the Dr. to arrive
Doc came in. I could tell he was a super nice guy. The kind you wanted for a neighbor in a small constricted neighborhood. One thing though, .... he was a "soft talker". The Seinfield Puffy Shirt episode started playing thru my head. I kept my smile to myself as he looked over my left arm.
He looked it over real good too, for what seemed like 10 minutes (i'm sure it was a lot less). He asked me questions about my dealio, pertaining to the picc line that he was to thread thru me. "Most people have the picc line left in..."
yesyes - i know that soft talker doc who i already like and feel confident/comfortable with and who would probably make a great neighbor.
"my oncologist wants (i wanted it this way too :) me to have a picc inserted before these last rounds of chemo and then remove the line afterwards." That didn't seem to satisfy 100% as an answer. "my veins really can't handle the caustic nature of oxiplatin anymore..." That registered with him ~ Cool beans, let's get the show on the road.
The Doc told me what i already knew, but it really registered when he said it. Basically that 3 picc lines in 6 weeks, in the same arm, was maxing it out. Ok, lost a little bit of my comfort level there. A few seconds later, "but, you'll be fine." I heard him loud and clear.
Same thing when I am just having blood drawn...i don't look. And i have had a whole friggin' lot of blood drawn over the past 7 months. It's no lookie. The head is turned, i tell my mind to wander, small talk if necessary. It will be over before you know it. Granted, having approx. 40 cm of silicone tubing treaded in you is a bit more "involved" than having a test tube's worth of blood drawn, but ya go w/ what works for you.
All done. "That was fast", I usually say. I say that when the procedure went, in my mind, nicely. The xray confirmed proper placement of the line and I get helped up so that I am sitting upright on the OR table.
"I'm good to go", I say before my feet hit the floor. The first couple of steps are unsteady but I'm movin' on. I thank the Doc and the nurses one more time before pushing open the OR's door.
I feel "buzzed" as I walk thru the waiting room, into the main hallway and the bright light and make my way towards the elevator. Up to the 3rd floor. Luckily the wait to see Dr. Wall is brief. You feel kinda odd, at least i did, sitting in a waiting room w/ a plastic dongle hanging from your arm. The visit is short. Vitals look good.
Back downstairs to the new chemo room. Again I feel "lucky" having the picc line; plug and play baby. I can't help to overhear the conversation between another patient and a nurse. They are trying to get his IV started.
"Does this hurt?"
"let's try a different vein."
"Ok, I have it in."
"Here we go..."
"Are you ok?"
"is it burning?............................"
I close my eyes and say a quick yet 'forceful' prayer to help the nurse get the chemo rolling. I always hated the beginning. Searching for a vein, plunging the needle in, the first rush of a drug.
"Ok, i'm gonna flush you now..."
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