The port placement surgery went just fine. My friend drove me to the hospital at 7am and I was scheduled for my 915 hand. I filled out the paperwork and showed my insurance card for the 517 period this month (as much as I complain about the copays, I’m very grateful for insurance.) They gave me yet another prescription and told me to wait.
When the nurse called my name, we entered the surgical bay. There was one big room with a small package bay, one for each gurney. I thought I had a lot of “hurry up and wait” time so I brought a bunch of magazines. I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of Jake’s reading of Vienna in the last two, but I knew even with the load going down I don’t want one to dry up. I wondered about my own TV. Things definitely changed when I had a tonsillectomy in the 80s!
The surgeon opted for port access (meaning a needle and tube) when chemotherapy begins this week. All this to say that now it looks strange—and now. Glam-o-alien. AND you will bring chicken. The author himself.
As the day progressed I got everything prepped and dropped off two tables at the surgical unit. The anesthesiologist spoke with me about the anesthesia and came to find out that I had inconsistent orders. He stated that the procedure could be done under Twilight, but my surgeon had ordered Poppy. The commander would require more recovery time and a breathing tube. While I was dizzy and unable to drive either, I was all for Twilight.
My consultation with the surgeon before the procedure resulted in “let’s do this!” and one of those duplicating rule pistols is the ‘crack-crack’ type of hand-to-hand movement with accompanying sound effects. I came off to the operating table.
The doctors decided that Twilight was fine and I was happy to hear that I didn’t want to have a tube pushed down my throat. There were six people in my procedure room and it made me feel pretty important! I asked what everyone’s duties were, and they introduced themselves, and let me know that they would be watching my bowels, and I went into anesthesia unaware of the answer. Inconveniently, “Michael Jackson can look like you, huh?” It came out of my mouth and I don’t think the medication was even administered. After a while I told three of the doctors/anesthesiologists that I had warned them to make friends with them on facebook when I was there. got home
I was on the working table in the living room when I woke up. They asked how I was feeling, my name and date of birth and wheeled me to the bay in the surgical unit. I told many people that I was a little bit coherent with Twilight, but I went completely out until I got on the IV drip (which was once in my hand, thank goodness. My arm is throbbing veins.) I was in the surgical area for chest x-rays to be sure, veins/nodes in the process they are licked off, properly and of no great importance. The port is about the size of a nickel, but thicker. It’s purple! Oh, and there’s a new POWER port, whatever that means. I think it should work faster and more efficiently.
Essentially, it makes getting chemotherapy much easier and I don’t have to poke needles as often. Great!
The X-rays looked good and I was sent back upstairs to the outpatient unit where I began the first procedure. I stayed there and ate Cheez-its and orange juice to prove it I could swallow. I had to answer basic questions about myself and be sober for about an hour before they let me go. My friend came to see me and we left!
After sleeping much of the day, the area was very sore and tender, but passing over time. I have a prescription if needed. I can’t eat or shower until after chemo on Thursday. This is my fourth week of testing and procedures and weeks ago I learned to ALWAYS inject BEFORE THE DOCTOR’S ORDER because I never know what they are going to do to me or when I can inject again. So I have lots of wet wipes, sponges, deodorant and of course Lysol for the next couple of days.
When the surgeon approaches the port, any fluid that enters it will go directly into the veins. I keep the area covered with a tank top and a heavy coat. The port after chemo is the only part that stays under my skin so it won’t allow me to hold my son or do normal activities.
It will leave a two inch (roughly) scar on my left side around/below my throat. When all this was said and done, I thought I’d tell you about everything I got stabbed in a gang fight. Does it look more like a vault or blood to me? Hmmm…
