Three days ago, I had a medical procedure that brought me one step closer to “normal” since ending cancer treatment (as if that will ever happen): I had my porta-cath removed.
To those of you who know my saga with blood draws (or who have been reading my blog from the beginning), you may understand what a big deal it was for me to even consider having it removed. Let me clue in everyone else: I’m what the phlebotomists (look it up) call “a difficult draw.” What this means is that a lab technician is more likely to win the Lotto than to get blood out of my veins. If you don’t believe me, you can read about it here.
That all changed when I had the slickest invention known to man (with the exception of Starbucks) installed just under the skin on my chest . . . I had a brand, spanking new “power port” surgically implanted in October 2008, thereby allowing the chemotherapy drugs to go directly into a large chest vein and avoiding the nasty side effect of burning off my arm.
Wait a minute, I finished chemo in December 2008, right? Well, yes. But I have had follow-up appointments with my oncologist every three or four months since then. During each visit, I have had blood drawn for lab testing--and therein lies the rub. No way was I going back to the trauma of being poked five or six times in my arm, all to no avail, even with the “crack I.V. team” having a go at it. Nope, I’m no dummy. I was happy to maintain my port with a routine flush every six to eight weeks at the local cancer care center in order to avoid making my phlebotomist (there’s that word again) feel like Underachiever of the Year. Small price to pay, really.
My husband says that the oncologist never should have mentioned that some people keep their ports for up to 20 years. For some reason, I imagined going to my grave with the thing still there (worse yet, I imagined a skeleton in my coffin years later, all bones with a lovely purple, plastic catheter lying in the midst of them—yeesh!).
Since having the port installed, I’ve repeatedly said that whoever invented it should receive the Nobel prize. The device is not without complications, but overall, it has improved the treatment and lives of --I’m guessing--millions.
So you can imagine my surprise when I cheerfully sat down for a blood draw last August and nothing came out. I’ll spare you all the gory details and cut to the chase: it was determined that the tip of my catheter had been covered over by a “fibrin sheath.”
Basically, the human body recognizes a foreign object and heads it off at the pass by clotting over it (thus, the fibrin sheath). I had some drugs injected to try to un-clot the thing (sometimes that works) and, if I put my arm over my head and took a lot of deep breaths (while lying down with my back arched and reciting “The Road Less Traveled”), it almost, kinda worked. But, you know, who wants to recite poetry while pretending to be in a Victoria’s Secret ad? That sort of stuff gets old.
A few months and one dye study later, I was forced to face facts: my port was clogged and there was nothing that anyone could do about it. My security blanket was about to be ripped from my chest.
I held on to one last vestige of hope when I visited my oncologist two weeks ago. Oh, sure, we did the old clot-dissolving drug trick, the standing on my head, holding my breath, posing as an immense teapot (apparently my Victoria’s Secret days are behind me), but again, all to no avail. I was told to go sit behind a curtain in a corner by myself. I must have really ticked them off.
Alone behind the curtain, I accepted my fate. I would have to face a life with a thousand, painful arm pokes ahead of me. That’s when the lab technician showed up and asked me to make a fist. I explained that I had a port . . . I was just waiting for the un-clotting drugs to work . . . give it some more time, I said.
“Oh, you thought we were going to use your port?” she smiled wryly. “No, we’re going to take it out of your arm, that’s why we have you sitting back here.” Once again, I tried to explain that, silly girl, you just can’t get blood out of MY veins . . . you see, I’m what you call a “difficult draw” and you have to use a butterfly needle (like the kind they use on little kids) and EVEN THEN, the blood won’t come out, so, you see, it’s all really quite useless.
Undaunted, the technician slapped my wrist several times and told me to run warm water over it in a nearby sink and then return to my seat. Obediently, I ran hot water over my wrist for several minutes and returned to her commanding presence. I felt the poke of the small needle in my wrist and prayed. What happened next made my heart leap for joy. Blood came OUT of my wrist and INTO the vial! Hallelujah!
At that moment, I knew that I could face life without my port. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible. The next day, I called my surgeon’s office to schedule an appointment to have my port removed.
And the rest, as they say, is history. With the aid of two Ativan pills (to keep me from freaking out), my port was removed under local anesthetic.
Scars and all, a new chapter begins.
In the spirit of celebration, I put together this short video to remind me of all the reasons I am grateful to have been granted these last two years of my life. With thankfulness for God’s mercy, I look forward to many more.