VIP in the Worst Way
I always thought the day I got my port out would symbolize the end of treatment. The riddance of the necessary alien object in my shoulder. The procedure to place the port was uncomfortable and sad. I was awake for it. Although thoroughly numb, I could feel the tugging, pulling and mild wrenching on my shoulder to get the tube up and over my clavicle down into a direct line to my heart.
It was effective and convenient for chemo treatment. Physical changes to my body that I don’t have any control over cause me to feel a sort of helpless surrender, because there are no other solutions, besides accessing my poor arms on a weekly basis and wearing out those small veins. It served a purpose these past 4 years, even though it was not loved.
The trouble with my port started at the beginning of May as we’ve been dealing with off and on infection. We’ve tried 5 rounds of different antibiotics over the last 6 weeks to no avail. My doctors all finally agreed it was time to call it and remove it all together to get another one placed on the other side of my shoulder.
The appointment was booked for next week, but on Saturday, the red infections around my port started traveling up the line, and a deep ache began to run down my arm. After 7 hours in the ER (which is not very long, so we’re told, compared to the standard wait time currently of days waiting in the ER unit for a room upstairs). I’m “high risk” the girl with stage IV colon cancer and possible systemic infection, and a compromised immune system, so my wait time was cut short. Even hearing my own profile, I think “Wow, that sounds so awful for her. Oh wait. That’s me they're talking about”. To quote The Fantastic Mr. Fox, it sounds like I’ve got “one foot in the grave and three feet on a banana peel.”
Being VIP, the check-in nurse, after creating said profile in her system, instructed me to “stay away from other patients out there in the lobby”. Aye-aye captain. You got it. I’ll pass on thirdsies of the ‘rona, thanks.
The triage nurse called me back, aware of my high-ranking status (It’s just fun to act like I’m a big deal for good reasons) and tried to get an IV in me.
5. Tries. Later. She got a vein and worked to get me a room so I wouldn’t have to go back to the lobby. The head nurse came in to consult “I think rooms 1 and 5 are open. Don’t ask if you can put her in 5, just tell them you’re doing it.”
*You want my autograph? Ok, fine. No paparrazi, please. Where do you want me to sign? The fame, I can’t handle it.*
Just a few hours later we found out that the surgeon who would be removing my port was indeed the same doctor who did emergency surgery on me almost 4 years ago now, Dr. Slovic! We were thankful it was him, he’s a good doc, who was smart enough to check my liver and take samples to test for cancer in other areas before closing me up back in 2018. When he came into the room, he informed us that the Infection Therapy unit wanted to send me over to Providence in Portland for the procedure, because I was so high risk. No one was eager to be the one responsible for removing it, in case something went wrong, like causing the infection to spread worse after opening it, which I’m told is common. Dr Slovic was thankfully confident enough to remove it himself and told the other consulting doctors not to go through all the work of sending us elsewhere.
We were told it would be minor surgery to remove the port but turns out Dr. Slovic could do it bedside in the ER, by himself, in under 20 minutes.
While it definitely was not a fun experience, it was over quickly, and Jamison let me squeeze the daylight out of his hand while I looked the opposite direction. He watched and told me how it was going and when it was over!
Oddly enough, Dr Slovic didn’t close up the wound from where the port had been but shoved it full of gauze, to allow for drainage and healing (barf).
Due to current COVID restrictions, Jamison was not allowed to stay the night with me, which was hard but luckily the night went by relatively smoothly and he was able to come back at 8am the next day. The nurse came in to change the gauze that was filling the quarter sized crater, the ex-port hole (portal?). Unfortunately, the gauze had dried around the outsides of the wound and was very painful to remove. The nurse attempted to pull it out but it felt like the gauze was stitched in there. I couldn’t hold in the sounds of discomfort, so we paused for IV pain meds and gave it another go.
Finally, we got the gauze out. I say ‘we’ because it felt like a group effort in that I restrained myself from the reflex of wanting to reach over and stop her from touching it at all! Cleaning it with saline smarted something fierce, causing sharp pangs of deep ache through my shoulder and down my arm, but what a relief when it was done! Changing the dressing daily is a requirement but should hopefully get easier as the hole starts healing.
So, there’s all the facts.
How Am I Feeling?
I keep getting asked how I’m feeling, which has turned into a more complicated question than I first anticipated.
Jamison kept commenting last night on how quiet I was during all of this. I honestly don’t know what to feel. It’s weird living through something I’ve been anticipating for 4 years, the removal of my port, but under completely different circumstances than what I was expecting. And I’ll probably have to get another port which seems all too hard to process right now. I am identifying that I’m struggling with apathy, I guess.
ap·a·thy
/ˈapəTHē/
noun
lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern.
Jamison had also commented a few weeks ago, with the findings of the three new lesions in my right lung, that I seem more easily surrendered to Christ through this all. While I don’t repeat that to tout that I’m some saint at suffering, I guess to just confess that surrender can morph into apathy. And I am guilty of this today.
I feel more and more the cost and weight of emotions, if that makes sense. Vulnerability and honesty feel like superpowers in some ways, and in other ways come with pitfalls if there isn’t balance.
I can’t “Cast all my cares on Him” if I’m not being honest with what those are.
I can’t bring my hurt, disappointment, sadness, tears and pain before Christ, if I’m trying to ignore them. I am tired of feeling. It’s exhausting.
This might be where that balance comes in for me, keep my extra feely emotions in check and lean into truth.
Step 1: Be honest, allow myself to grieve
Step 2: DO NOT sit with these emotions alone, apart from Christ and the acknowledgment of his presence and desire to “give me peace in all circumstances”
Step 3: Trust that the obedience of step 2 will be met with the faithfulness of Gods character, like every other time I’ve been in this exact situation, in a hospital bed, not really “Liking the way my life is going” (that one’s for you, Dad). God has indeed answered me and surprised me with VIP treatment.