Hello again! I am back, recovering nicely, and overall pleased with my decision to have a port inserted.

My surgery took place last Friday. I wasn’t to receive a call until the Thursday ( you read that right—just one day before) to find out what time my surgery was at and when I should arrive at the hospital. We have been fortunate to have company come down the past two weekends; first, my parents; and last weekend, Jack’s Godparents. Unfortunately, I began an awful Herx just days before my parents arrived, and because of it, was even worse company than I anticipated I would be. The weekend went by all too fast (in both cases), and left me longing for home and loved ones even more than before they came.

By 3:30pm on Thursday  I STILL hadn’t heard back from the hospital to let me know what time I was to come in, and I was beginning to worry; I didn’t want the office to close for the night without scheduling me in! So I called the surgeon’s office, and they assured me that “they usually call after 4pm.” Much to my relief, the phone rang less than ten minutes later, telling me to come in at 11:15am to prep for my surgery which was to take place at 1:15pm.

We arrived barely 5 minutes late (pretty darn good for a girl who takes at least half an hour to get out of bed at noon, never mind at ten thirty!) We had to sit in the waiting room until someone who could admit us called us in to fill out forms, and give me grief for being what turned into 15 minutes late (I don’t think the last 10 counted—we were sitting in the waiting room! Oh well.)

Once upstairs in my shared room (more on that later), I proceeded to enjoy the luxury of changing into a hospital gown. I was almost one of those people you see on movies with their rear ends hanging out the back, but I must have gotten lucky, and instead received the latest trend; for only my upper back was left completely exposed. (Quite high fashion, I thought-- I almost regret not having pictures to share with you all!)

An IV went in my arm , as we couldn’t use the one that had been administering my antibiotics with, because for the second of three times this week, the vein had collapsed. (Side story: the first time it happened earlier in the week my arm slowly but surely started to swell and dent funny and then get all red and hot—*shudder* God’s way, I’m sure, of preparing me once more by helping me say goodbye to the old with confidence.)

All the while, as the nurse wrote down that I had a latex allergy in a billion different places in the same binder, and then wrote it again on a neon orange wristband for everyone to notice, my “neighbours” must’ve had ten guests crammed in on their side of the curtain. All of whom spoke at the top of their voice. The youngest, I think, was in the middle of receiving help with her homework, and we could hear math equations being worked aloud. The rest spoke as though they were not sharing a room with another patient at all; their loud voices adding to glare of the fluorescent lighting and together grating on what was left of my nerves.

The grandfather (or husband to the patient) was quite endearing. It must have been 12:30pm by this point, and the adult children started asking if they could bring the patient something to eat. The patient insisted what the hospital had provided (a bran muffin) would be enough. But the adult daughter carried on to ask if the mother was sure, because she was going to get herself a ham and cheese “samich.” Well, this brought on the scrutiny of the grandfather, asking, “what do you need that for? Didn’t you have breakfast?” (the answer over a long drawn out conversation turned from “no” into, “just two pieces of toast.”) I don’t know why the lady had to defend herself, she was an adult, and it was lunchtime after all! Unfortunately for me, they all traipsed back in with yummy smelling lunches (I had been on a mandatory fast for the past 13 hours!), complaining about the fourteen dollar bananas in the cafeteria and audibly enjoying them anyway. 

Then all of a sudden, the two hours were up, and I was being wheeled away. Matt told me that he loved me, and I got too choked up to respond. And all I could think as they wheeled me away was: if something bad happened to me, he would always remember that I didn’t say it back.

I was stationed alongside three other stretchers and given a gigantic sock to wear over my hair. The nurse just shoved it on, and I wondered why I couldn’t have put it on myself. The lady beside me later got a nurse who put one on her and told her “to adjust it until [she felt] comfortable” ( you can bet I began rearranging my bangs asap so I didn’t have to feel like a dog being pet the wrong way for another second!)

 The surgeon and anesthesiologist each took a side of the bed (and oddly, a side of the coin) when presenting me with my options. Since it was the same surgeon who told me that a PICC line hurt less than a scratch, I was a little wary of his bold assurance that if I went his route of topical anesthetic and laughing gas, I wouldn’t remember a thing. I told him I was really scared, and I didn’t want to hear or notice anything once, let alone a memory I may or may not have of it later. I was told I could be “given something” for being scared, but since I had already been administered Ativan on the way down and was looped to high heaven, I didn’t think he had enough tricks in his bag to win me over. The anesthesiologist kindly offered to put me under, and I took him up on it right away.

Now, I can assure you the sensation was nothing like I had imagined from my television-only experience of anesthetic. You know how when doctors say “pressure” they really mean pressure-like pain? Well, when they told me (as I took deep breaths of oxygen) that what they were about to inject into my IV line would feel “tingly,” they really meant I would feel an awful tingly-like pain throughout all my veins and up into my mask down my nose and throat; but before I could even so much as cough, I was out.

I’ve often wondered if I would be one of those people who question where the heck they were when they woke up from something like that. (I learned I am not). I knew what had happened, where I was (well, in the hospital, I had never been in that exact room before), and that I felt like I had been shot in the chest. My neck was also sore, as I wasn’t told until right before I went in that that was what the procedure entailed (I guess they can’t just follow your vein as they go along, like they do with a PICC, they need to stop halfway through to re-route into the right vein so it ends up right in your heart.) I was quite horrified to see the bandaging on my neck, as it was made to look like the tubing was bulging out from under my skin so far it was more disturbing than the lump the port caused in my chest. (Thankfully, that was just the way they bent the bandage, and the tubing is not very noticeable at all.)

See? Barely noticeable above my collarbone. 

(The IV tubing /scar is far more prominent!) And that's gauze...not tissue, I swear!!

Day one sucked. I was given a shot of Demoral in the muscle of my leg for the pain, so when I got home I felt like I had brutally worked out the one limb, the muscle was so sore. I was given other pain killers to take home, but even still my neck was so sore I couldn’t turn my head, or sit up on my own; that, and my chest kept me from moving my right shoulder at all; so, basically between the pain and the meds I was a bit of a zombie. Our friends arrived that night, but I am afraid I was even poorer company than I was for my parents the weekend before. 

Saturday (day two) I slept all day until 7pm. All that sleep really helped with the pain, and I had some mobility return, but I was still nursing my right side and drained from the previous day’s events.

I should add that my baby  little boy turns two this week, and being that we are away, the festivities have been stretching out over the entire month, mixing in with Easter (in wherein he was far too spoiled with gifts—something we were trying to downplay in our efforts to teach him the true meaning of the holiday.) The men spent all day preparing a “birthday party” for our little guy, including making and icing a dump truck cake (from scratch!!) and buying matching balloons and wrapping paper for the gifts. Our neighbour-friends came over for cake and presents, and everyone was so kind to accommodate me by bringing the cake in my room as we sang happy birthday, and again later so I could watch the gifts being opened. Our efforts about Easter will have to be revisited, I suppose, as when the day was done, after filling up on chocolate cake and staying up late to play with his new toys, my little/big boy left the room waving and saying, “Happy Easter!!”

Birthday boy eating his cake

Monday I went in to get my port accessed so that we could begin using it. I had my dressings removed, and my incisions had healed up quite nicely (and quickly!) to my relief and surprise. I was quite nervous to have the needle enter into the port, but the worst of it was the nurse press down on my tender skin, trying to find the centre of the port and hold it still.  The needle hurt for a second, and then the strangest sensation once it had entered the port itself...as though that was right where it was supposed to be; it felt “right” somehow. I’m guessing like the idea of having a dislocated body part re-set; painful, and then everything is right where it should be. Anyway, we were educated on how to use it, and sent on our way. I had the first use of it that night, and it was great! No beeping machine, angry at me for bending my elbow, no fumbling single-handedly to wrap a sore arm up for the night. I do look even more robotic than with the PICC line in, but it is low enough that I won’t have to wear turtlenecks this summer to hide it! I found out Tuesday morning that I can still sleep with my IV running, despite its new location—yet another bonus!

I want to thank you all for your prayers; they got me through what was probably the scariest experience of my life, to date. You can be confident we are praying for you all!

 "Gee, guys, lay off the pictures...can't a guy enjoy his bottle in peace?"

Blessings and lots of love,

Kate

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD,

 “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. 

 Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.  You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.  I will be found by you,” declares the LORD, “and will bring you back from captivity^. 

~Jeremiah 29:11-13