Phew, I’m Not the Priority
It’s been confirmed. My appointment to get my port out is not the priority.
Praise God.
Join me in thanking God that my port is being removed. For this I am so grateful. Often during scanxiety, I would pray more for the moment my port would be removed rather than for the scan itself to be clear. My port removal makes the news of remission a reality.
Disclaimer: Somehow, my heart can be so happy and grieve at the same time. My friends who are newly diagnosed, and the friends in this treatment game for way too many days, my heart mourns for you. I am praying that you will have this same victory. That even if your treatment plan has turned into more treatment, you will one day soon be comforted by the same news that you're not the priority. Until then my friend, you will be the priority in my prayers.
I remember all too well the quick turn around to receive care from Interventional Radiology. I would receive a call from central scheduling and the next available appointment would be a few days later. Whether I was getting a bone biopsy, receiving my chemotherapy port, earning my central line for stem cell collection, or gearing up for my transplant without meds for a PICC line placement; IR saw me quickly. I was the priority.
A curtain was the only thing that physically separated us. Come to find out there was even more that divided us. The nurse was doing his rundown with the lady in the bed next to me. He asked her what she was there for and she announced, “To have my port removed.”
Those words were etched in my heart. My cancer didn’t go away. I should have been getting my port out and I wasn’t. Instead, I was getting a bone biopsy of my hip to confirm the spots that lit up on my PET scan were actually cancer. The lingering cancer that resisted the first chapter of chemotherapy.
Before my eyes could dry up, a nurse who claimed she could access my port versus starting an IV in my arm really stuck it to me. If the appointment couldn’t get any worse, the nurse had no clue how to start a line to my port. There was no way I was giving anyone access to my port that day. Access denied.
I highly discourage anyone receiving a PICC line to do so without sedation. For some reason, I was told sedation wasn’t necessary, but I beg to differ. The GOOD that came from that experience: the nurse held my hand the entire time I bawled my eyes out. You know, momentarily after I called her out for not wearing her mask properly…while working over a sterile field.
IR saw several of my darkest moments. Whether it be the shock of the catheter dangling across my chest, or all the rage I kept bottled up inside somehow leaked down my face. IR I loathed you then and I still do.
Yet, there was that one time. To prepare for the stem cell retrieval, I had a central line placed on a Friday and removed the following Friday. My nurse, one of the best I’ve ever had. Fortunately, I had him as my nurse on both of those Fridays. He did his job without a care in the world, and with a confidence that took the edge off the entire experience.
One time he called me asking if I could arrive for the line removal early so I didn’t have to wait for the doctor to be done with a meeting. I remember feeling caught off guard because Tim was at home and he was going to come home to take me. At that particular moment Tim was in a meeting, I couldn’t get ahold of him. I took a stab at it and drove myself to and from the bedside removal of my central line. Parnell was just down to earth and painted a picture clear enough to not get overwhelmed.
Unfortunately, the date of my port removal creates a conflict. Every twelve weeks I have to have my port accessed to keep blood from clotting. My removal appointment is a few weeks outside of that twelve week window. Of course, it’s outside the window. Why wouldn’t it be?
For those who don’t understand how the port works, I hope this helps. Over the last fifteen months, I have had the same port under my skin, on my chest, the opposite side of my heart. This has been used solely for outpatient chemotherapy. Basically, any chemo I’ve received apart from the stem cell transplant.
To the eye, you can see the port beveled under my skin. It’s probably the size of a dollar coin. The tubing inside the port connects to a large vein near my heart. So, when a nurse accesses it he or she has to puncture the skin on the outside of my port. It’s almost as if the poker they use to puncture the skin were a button with a large thumb tack on the back of it. The button literally clips on. Medication is pushed through tubing that connects to the button. Before IV fluids or medications run through the tubing, the nurse uses awful smelling liquids to clean out the foreign object tucked under my skin. It’s usually sensory overload for me.
In the infusion world, chemo nurses know how to access these ports with ease because they do it to administer chemo drugs. Now, an IR nurse, not as much exposure. What ends up happening is they poke several times to catch the spot the port is in. I essentially don’t let anyone besides my chemo nurse access my chest’s device.
If I have any chemotherapy triggers, it’s getting my port accessed. Between the smell of cleaning the skin, the smell of the liquid used to flush out the line, and the poke, I prefer using my arms to access my veins. I better message my favorite nurse to put me on her schedule.
Here’s to July 10th’s port removal. I told you I am not the priority. What a great day it would be if Parnell was my nurse. I do plan on being sedated regardless of what the team suggests. Most of all, when they ask what I am in for, I will remember to whisper, “To have my port removed.”
PS… Don’t you love that we don’t have to find things or people in this world to make us feel important. We are a priority to God. Every moment. Always!
