Port and Infusion Room

Well, the other shoe has still not dropped yet. Over the weekend, I continued to feel energized because of the steroids. I have an appetite and like the doctor warned me, it is hard to turn my mind off of night. Seems kind of cruel to let a recently diagnosed cancer patient’s mind run all night long. My middle of the night energy explains that first blog posting at 2:04 AM. I will be on steroids for two more days. They tell me I might start feeling the effects of chemo this week.

Before this cancer business rudely interrupted my life, I was a little vague about the nature of chemotherapy. Did you drink it, swallow it, inject it? Well, now I know chemo medicine is shot directly into your veins through an IV. Some people have the drugs injected into a vein in the arm, but I get my stuff via my “PORT!” A port is a device that allows easy, long term IV access into my aorta rather than going through the pain of all the sticks into my arm. There are two parts: the injection port where they stick the needle into me and the long, thin tube that is threaded underneath my skin into the major artery in my chest.

I had this thing surgically implanted on Wednesday of last week into my upper right part of my body right below my right collarbone. I feel sort of bionic when I hear the nurses talk about “accessing my port.” It took me several days before I could look at it. I can only just can glance at it now. It weirds me out to have an object inside of me. They tell me I might make metal detectors go off at the airport.

Emma didn’t seem particularly moved by seeing this thing in my upper chest, but in my attempt to take away the trauma by sharing, I decided to show the port to one of Emma’s little friends over the weekend. I think I made a mistake. Her little friend looked a little stunned. I felt bad. This port should come out after I am free and clear of the need for more chemo.

So the chemo is infused into my system while I sit in a nice, big, light green leather lazy boy recliner in the “infusion room” along with all the other chemo patients. I sat for about 4 hours each day. I am getting treated a very new facility here in Austin on 38th just across from Central Market. The ‘infusion room” has the atmosphere of a nice upscale coffee house with nice lighting. The room is huge. It looked like the room could hold about 24 patients. Each oncology nurse cares for 4 patients at his/her station. Beside each light green lazy boy recliner, there is a nice upholstered chair for the friend or family “chemo sitter.” Natural light is everywhere because of all the big windows. Someone really thought of everything. Even the florescent lighting in the ceiling is vented to make the artificial light less harsh. And the nice fake hardwood floors just make everything seem less medicinal.

When I first sat down in my lazy boy, I just couldn’t hold back the tears. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. A lady in another lazy boy smiled at me. I felt a little better. Perhaps the communal aspect of the therapy was good. Most people sleep, read, or quietly talk to their chemo sitter. I was thankful nobody requested the TVs to be put on. It was warm and peaceful in the infusion room as we all sat quietly fighting for our lives.