I have a shiny new port

So I've survived yet another surgery, not that there was really ever any risk that I wouldn't. It's really more emotional survival. I found a pain killer I can use! It won't work for major surgery but for this one it's just fine. The worst part about this surgery is my tape/glue/bandage allergy. My chest is all red and swollen from where the bandages were. I just took them off today so it looks particularly nasty, but on the plus side I also showered today so I'm feeling human again. I skipped chemo the day after and postponed it for a week. Dr. Lee was out of town so I did it without his okay. He'll just have to deal. My body. I get to do what I want with it. Kinda. Because my schedule is all messed up now. I'll have treatment three weeks in a row followed by three glorious weeks off. Whatever will I do with myself? Oh, and I have super good news...I have money! The government is going to give me money because I can't work. It's only half of what I was making when I was working, but it's better then nothing. I'm not going on any lavish vacations, but I might buy a new rug for the kitchen...and maybe a new pair of jeans.

Never forget, and forever uphold the ideals of democracy

On this, the remaining minutes of September 11th, 2007, I give you a part of the Gettysburg Address by our 16th President, Abraham Lincoln.

"But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate -- we can not consecrate -- we can not hallow -- this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."

Alice in Wonderland

I'm feeling a bit like Alice these days. After I learned that I had cancer, I met the White Rabbit, or rather, a doctor in a white coat who looks like the Chinese-American version of the absent minded professor. He was explaining to me the direness of my situation and then he said something which made me laugh and from that moment I placed my life in his hands. When he told me he would do everything possible to make me well again, I followed him down his rabbit hole. What I discovered was no Wonderland in the traditional sense; rather this Wonderland is a world of endless tests, scans, needle poking, and chemotherapy. Every two weeks I spend several hours with the Mad Hatter, the March Hare, and the Dormouse, but we have saline solution instead of tea. The Caterpillar is a CAT scan technician, who clearly lives a rather interesting life judging by his numerous tattoos. The Duchess is a woman in the billing office I've only ever spoken to on the phone. But throughout my journey in Wonderland I've never met The Cheshire Cat. Never once has a person with an eerie yet beguiling smile told me the truth about Wonderland, that, "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." It is madness to poison the body to make it well, and yet it works for some, so I keep coming back to this Wonderland, and will until the Queen, breast cancer, is dead or she takes off my head. What worries me is that I'll be stuck here for the rest of my days, that I'll become a permanent resident of Wonderland, ever searching for that illusive, disappearing cat with a half-moon smile.

Why I Think Hospitals Suck

This list is in no particular order.....

Food. While the food at Northwest Hospital is the best hospital food I've ever had, it's still hospital food.

Piss and shit inspections. I had to pee in a "hat" so they could measure my output. I was also not supposed to flush the toilet, but did anyway. When they discovered this I was reprimanded, but that didn't stop me. I was willing to pee in the nasty, stinky, hat, but I draw the line at shit inspection.

Every couple of hours they come in and take your blood pressure, your temperature, and your pulse. Notice I don't blame the Nurses Aides that have to do this; it's just lame that it has to be done.

Hooked up to IV’s. After so many rounds of chemo you'd think I'd be used to it, and to a certain degree I am, but it still sucks. Especially at night.

A really, really uncomfortable bed that makes lots of noise. Despite wonderful advances in bed technology, they're still lumpy and made my back and neck ache like crazy.

Nurses and/or assistants who have only a limited understanding of English. I know this sounds racist, but after what I've been through I can't help but be a little peeved. It just seems wrong to put someone in charge of your health and well-being who can't understand most of what you say to them.

Said before, saying again....people employed to take blood draws that can't find a vein to save their lives. I've decided they're sadistic and like to watch people squirm.

Entire staffs of people who have no clue what's going on and yet are entirely in control of your existence.

Being told that you'll have surgery at 12 and not able to eat until afterwords, and then being told the surgery will be later and you'll still have to wait to eat.

Being told day after day that even though you feel better you will have to stay another day.

Loud people in near-by rooms who hoot when the Mariner's score, say "rock on" when their food is delivered, and tell every person that comes into their room about their cool iPhone. I wanted to walk in his room and explain to him the concept of an "inside voice".

Crappy televisions. What's the point of giving me a bunch of channels I don't have at home (Animal Planet rocks!) but on a blurry TV with terrible sound?


....and that's the small corner of hell I've been living in since July 13th. Home now and hoping never to go back but know it's bound to happen sooner or later.

Stingy Nettles

When I was young I frequently went on weekend excursions with my best friend Jamie, her mom Lisa, and her little brother Mikey. One weekend in early summer we all piled into Lisa's Chevy Blazer and we took off for Whidbey Island, a frequent destination. This trip we were picking up Jamie's older brother Jesse, who lived with her dad, and bringing him back to the mainland to stay for a few weeks while her dad took an extended trip. When we got to the house we were immediately dispatched outside and out of Lisa's hair for the rest of the afternoon.

With little else to do, we agreed to let Jesse lead us on a hike through the rolling pastures and evergreen forests that make Whidbey Island so picturesque. The weather was sunny and warm but windy as the island typically is. Jesse took us straight into the pastures, weaving over, under and through barbed wire fences. Despite the barriers, we didn't see any livestock, so I wasn't paying very close attention to where I was stepping until I planted a foot into a slick pile of manure. To step in manure is embarrassing enough, but as I tried to step out of it I slipped and dropped a knee into the mess. Now thoroughly mortified and smelling not so pleasant I desperately wanted to return home. I was afraid of getting lost and since no one else wanted to turn back I reluctantly continued on the trek.

I was relieved when we finally reached our destination, a lovely evergreen forest smelling of pine and moss and blessedly free of piles of cow manure. My relief shortly turned to dismay as the skin on my hands, arms and legs began to sting like crazy and white bumps began to appear. It felt like I imagine acid would feel on one's skin, and that in fact was the case for we had just tromped trough a patch of stingy nettles, a short leafy plant native to the Northwest. I had never felt their legendarily painful sting before I was shocked by the agony and immediately began crying. I was not alone in my misery; Jamie was also in pain although not crying as I was. Mikey, who was very little at the time, was wailing at the top of his lungs at the pain. Jesse was indifferent to our discomfort, and seemed to have conveniently managed to avoid the vicious plants. Now I definitely wanted to return to the house as quickly as possible, and was not alone in the sentiment. Jesse assured us that it would take as much time to get home if we continued on so we did. Needless to say no one was having fun anymore. I had managed to stop crying, but just barely. Mikey was inconsolable and hysterical. Jamie was irritated with all of us.

Jesse led us to a shallow icy cold stream that numbed our skin and dulled the pain. Mikey finally calmed down but continued to cry and I was simply relieved to wash some of the cow manure off of me and lessen the pain. Unfortunately we faced a new problem. Mikey wouldn't leave the stream bed because as soon as the water warmed up to our body temperature the pain returned just as painful as before. We still had a ways to go and Mikey wouldn't budge. With sunlight fading fast we knew it wouldn't be long before it would be too dark to see well in the depths of the forest so we spurned Mikey on despite his reluctance. The rest of the journey was a blur of pain, frustration, and bad tempers.

Upon returning, Lisa was furious with Jesse and accused him with intentionally taking us through the nettle patch. He spent the rest of the night in his room, but that didn't seem like a suitable punishment to me. Mikey was immediately placed in an oatmeal, baking soda, or some other equally soothing home remedy bath. I was forced to remain a stinky mess but Lisa did offer to wash my pants for me. Eventually Mikey finished his bath and since neither Jamie nor I wanted to go third, Lisa made us bathe together. I felt a little awkward taking a bath with someone else because that wasn't something I normally did, but the relief from the stingy pain was worth it. I have never been so reluctant to leave the bath tub in all of my life.

Getting Poked

When you're sick you get poked with needles a lot. Before my first treatment I had a port-a-cath surgically implanted in my body. It's this donut shaped device located over my right breast just under my skin that's attached to a tube that is inserted directly into my artery. It makes chemo infusions way easier and as a result there's less damage to the veins in the arm and less chance that the toxic chemicals will do tissue damage. So, after I got the port I thought I wouldn't have to get my arm poked anymore, but alas, I was wrong. Every time I go in for treatment they have to take blood samples to determine if I'm healthy enough for chemo. Every time I get a scan done I have to have an IV so they can inject me with dyes.

And here's the heart of this rant. Why can't they ever get it right?

Lab technicians are specially trained to draw blood, and most hospitals now employ people who are specially trained to insert IVs and rove around the hospital doing just that. So if these people are specifically trained in the fine art of needle poking, why do they still mess up my veins? Don't get me wrong, there are some who are masters of their craft. One tech at the Cancer Center ("Dann the Mann") has never once missed my vein, but of the two others one has missed it every time and one has missed it a couple of times. Today for my CT scan I had an IV inserted by one of those roving specialists, and this was the third time I'd seen this woman and the third time she's missed my vein.

Missing the vein or poking all the way through a vein hurts, some times it hurts a lot. Once about 10 years ago one of the nerves in my arm was pricked and damaged by a needle during a blood draw. It took about a year, a painful year, for the nerve to heal. Things are worse now because ever since my mastectomy I'm not allowed to have any pressure put on my left arm. No blood pressure cuffs and no turnicates allowed. So my right arm takes the full brunt of constant poking and frequent mishaps.

Today, as I'm nursing my aching arm and watching the bruise appear I wonder how it is that hospitals continue to employ people so completely incompetent at their job.

Spermologer

A person who studies sperm? Not exactly. It's either a person who collects and studies seeds or a person who collects trivia. I am well known for collecting bizarre, random, and often useless facts, for example, there are twelve different ways to break a $1 bill. The fact that perplexes me is whether or not it is correct to call a single fact a sperm. If this is so then why are sperm called sperm? Are they also random, useless facts? I imagine all the facts I know swimming about my head, their little tails propelling them through the fluid of my brain searching for something to impregnate. In a standard deck of playing cards, clubs is the only suit in which all three face cards have two eyes. Does this fact mean that I am already pregnant? Am I continually pregnant, each fact pushing me further along until some moment in the future when my swollen brain expels everything it knows? Or do I become pregnant with every single fact and give birth to that fact every time I impart it on others? Is one of my children the fact that Illinois Ave is the property landed on most in Monopoly? I've begun to feel the oppressive weight and responsibility of the facts. It is important that people know that the average person spends roughly three years of their life watching commercials, for knowing this fact might prevent it from actually happening. Trivia has also ruined my social life. When friends are up for a night of Trivial Pursuit, the first person they invite is the one that knows that Beethoven's 9th symphony is roughly 70 minutes long, and that's why the maximum recording time on a compact disk is 74 minutes. For every other social gathering, I'm the last on the list. No one wants to be around someone pregnant with facts for the fear that one of them might burst into an otherwise lighthearted conversation. I've begun hiding my facts, refusing to let them out. I'm dying to tell someone that Pez was originally a peppermint candy invented in Austria, and is short for pfefferimnz. I've become a secret reservoir of forgotten knowledge that the world is better off not knowing. My head is overflowing with sperm.