Monday, August 9, 2010

Out Damn'd Port! Out, I Say!

Lady Macbeth, you know, if she had cancer and all.

Well, it's kind of a freaky thing that ever since Friday when The Good Witch said the port has to come out, the port is cooperating.  With coming out, that is.  It's looking freaky folks, one of the black nubs of the port has come up through the surface of my chest and you can feel it like a raised bump of Braille.  It is starting to ooze and just generally, looks awful.  I wonder if he'll put me on an antibiotic.

This thing can't come out soon enough.  Is my body rejecting it?  What the hell?  I have yet to hear of anybody having this kind of trouble with two, count em, two ports.

Tomorrow at 3:30 p.m. I go to the surgeon, to be laid out on his rack, stretched and tortured until I scream "I give, yes, yes, I had a crush on Donny Osmond" and he rips the port out.  Ok.  So maybe that was a little dramatic. 

I think I am running low on bravery.  What aisle is that at Target?  Can you buy some on Amazon?

Will he at least give me a bullet to bite and a shot of whiskey?  How bout a gin martini and a lobster tail to bite down on?

What do you mean no, just lidocaine?

Lidocaine?  That stuff doesn't work.  It's like spraying Bactine on a gunshot wound.


Isn't there something in the Constitution about cruel and unusual punishment? 

The Eighth Amendment:

Excessive bail shall not be required,
nor excessive fines imposed,
nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

Damn, that sounds like our health care system, especially the excessive fines and bails.

This morning I called the chemo nurses line to get my PICC cancelled for today and rescheduled for later this week.  I got their voicemail, so when I hung up, I starting texting Vonda, till I noticed I had a voicemail.

It was my girl, saying it was all taken care of for me.  Today was cancelled, and I am scheduled to have it put in on Thursday at 12:30p.m..

Vonda baby, thank you girl, for always having my back.  Thank you.

So, if all goes well, I should be back to my normal routine by Friday.  Uh, my new normal.  7 weeks to go.

Wanna hear something good?  Other than the damn port, I am feeling pretty fine.  Just peachy.  I am ready to go back to work.

Oh please oh please, let everything go smoothly, let me heal quickly, and let me get back to work, even if it's just one night a week.

Oh please oh please.

Um, I know you people think I am all brave and all, I'm not.  I am a big chicken.  I am a Mother Bear when it comes to my kids and family and friends and pets.  Don't even think about messing with me.  I am also very good and calm in an emergency.  If somebody needs me, I am like WonderWoman.

I've been scared every step of the way.  Not so much the outcome, but the getting poked and cut, the smell of rubbing alcohol and sight of my own blood.  I try and hide it.  I try and breathe through it.  Yikes.

Some party they throw for you!

You should see Flopsy though.  She's lookin good and feelin good. 

Send me good thoughts and endorphins and tequila at 3:30 tomorrow, ok?

See you on the flip side.


and Happy Birthday Mama! She would have been 67 today.  My brother Ronald and I texted back and forth our favorite Mama meals.  Her lasagna.  Stuffed cabbage.  Hobo Stew.  Beef Stroganoff.  Blintzes. Mini pizzas made with refrigerated biscuit dough.

I have many angels, but only one that lost a Lee's press on nail while mixing the meatballs  You ain't lived till you bite down on a mauve fake nail in your meatball.  I was the lucky winner.

She was somethin.

Miss you Mom.  Love you.

Look Mom, no hands...


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