Needle Art

Simon Cancer Center Indianapolis Day 4
The mornings are filled with doctors and family in the afternoon. I am increasing my work load. Now on an IV for a minimum of 4 hours each day to deal with the complications and concerns I can’t imagine how those who are connected 24/7 can cope. The rolling stand and tubing infusing various chemicals represent the miracle of today’s medicine. While devices evolve to new configurations almost daily, our bodies remain the same, generation after generation. Perhaps if they cannot cure cancer, they can add to the uncontrolled cell growth a way to connect to life saving medications forever painless and even fashionably attractive.
The Art of the Stick
Apparently medical schools treat inserting needles with a variety of options. Here at Simon the methods run the gambit. Some draw through the available IV everyone has. This is a restricted method, not allowed on other parts of the hospital. No new holes and fast delivery are certainly advantages. I learned to drink water and other liquids continuously. At 59 I dehydrate very quickly. Without a lot of water in you veins are hard to find. Having never been in a Hospital for more than relatively few hours, during my extended stay I found the removal of blood from veins is as much art as science. Just as I now know never let an angry woman set an IV, I know that there is no apparent established routine for the actual penetration. The build up is always the same. Doododededahdah, the key noise rattles out of the board and the cabinet opens. Packets are gathered. The bar code reader comes out of it’s holder, numbers are punched in. This phase appears to require a lot of concentration. Clearly the profession has been brow beat to death about making errors. OK by me. A small plastic pan or just the hands and pockets are used to convey the needed materials to me, in bed, and placed on my stomach, leg or adjacent to. A survey of vein locations is done. Some look for the crease between fore and upper arm, classic junkie entry point. My left arm crease looks like a small spot of measles. Some like the back of the hand or forearm, chief among them a Caribbean nurse who raised the state of the art Hill Rom air bed to tit level, applied a liberal swath of alcohol that immediately chilled the site, did a patterned rub and likely cited a silent chant and stuck me without my feeling. I always thought they filled syringes, but in the modern era they set a fine needle on a fixture that is butterfly bandaged to you and accommodates mounting an empty cylinder that fills under my blood pressure. Done well there is nothing, done not so well and it amounts to a bee sting. Some took blood from my IV port, as the cancer center was one of the few places you could. While that is no stick, I sensed messing with the IV had some risk that most nurses preferred not to incur.

Give the Nurses Strength To Endure

Sunday and I just finished my MLD session (manual lymph drainage). No doubt I am experiencing some changes. I can lie on my back a little longer now. My stones feel like someone has kicked the yahoo out of them. That unique ache/throb only a man can appreciate. They look like a flesh balloon swollen together as they are. Nevertheless, we must take this as just another week and an expected new issue that will be unpleasant. Even when Mom was in hospice and we spent a few nights with her I did not grasp the scope of her disease. I just never thought of cancer in holistic terms, as a disease that controls both directly and indirectly every behavior I have. The cold nights have returned. Bought new toilet seats today and wondered as I did how many toilet seats are sold to cancer victims, and for long term sufferers how many are involved. A sure sign of sickness in the house is wearing out the toilet seats.
BAM, like an electric shock Nurse Van touched a place on my leg with her nail. BAM, she did it again.
In the darkness of morning the lights in the bedroom seem harsh and the air cold. Van was making buckets and digging trenches to kick start the lymphatic system and get some draining going. This was her 3rd time. BAM ‘Please no more’, I cried out. Although there was nothing but a nail, the nail was enough. ‘You missed some spots” she said, noting after I lifted my shirt that some marker from the previous day’s therapy was still on my body. ‘I don’t care’ was my response, but I knew from her look that was unacceptable. ‘But if you are self conscious about it we can wash it off ‘, I said. She smiled and said ‘I will get a cloth ready.’ ‘AHHHHHHHEEE, holy sh.., oh my’, proves that we can have differing concepts of what warm is in a wet cloth on skin.
We laughed and I cried. Nursing is a gift, but there is certainly a learning curve. So off we go for my second chemo infusion. The nurses commented on my apparent improvement from last time. Sitting there I assessed my situation. On one side sat a man born in 1934 with his loving wife faithfully attending him. She struggled with the ice dispenser, with much more on the floor than in her cup. ‘Nearly blind’, she confessed, and I hoped she wasn’t the designated driver. On the other a tall slender woman, wearing an expensive wig and dressed in high fashion slacks, sweater and heels. She came alone, knew all the nurses on a first name basis and had a port. When another nurse came in to visit she stood and broke a tear. Up the way a youngster, devoid of color and hair but talking up a storm with her company. And my dear Vanessa, focused on me, caring for me. What a blessing she is. Chemo knocked me down this afternoon. A strange feeling of malaise, an emptiness, a pain but not a pain.