Ports and storms

"Tell Bob my blood pressure was good," I told my mother-in-law. 

I had the vague feeling she was on the phone with him, as I was coming in and out of consciousness. I also got the feeling I had said this out loud before, more than once, and I had maybe even text this information to Bob before the surgery. I had. 

I had just had a "power port" put in, located just below my left collar bone. Before the surgery I asked a lot of questions -- like will it "catch" on things like straps or clothes. "Most people don't even know its there," I was told. Although, she explained, that for someone my size, it may be somewhat visible from the outside. This thing, about the size of a quarter, is put just under the skin, and includes a tube that goes into a vein. This makes it easier to administer the chemo drugs, as well as take blood for lab work, without having to put in an IV each time. What I didn't realize was that it would still require a needle through the skin to access the port. Shudder. 

Still, the general feel I got from the nurses and doctor, that even though they kept calling this "surgery" it was no big deal. That it was like, I don't know, getting your ears pierced or something. Everyone was so sweet, they brought me warm blankets, and let me bring a prayer card with me into surgery, we had a nice talk about St. Teresa of Calcutta, and seconds later I was awake back in the little room with mom on the phone. It was over. I got some papers to take with me, ate some saltines and had a cup of water, and the next thing I knew I was dressed and heading out in a wheel chair hoping for some real food. Mom kept saying she thought I was still asleep, but I felt awake, just in a sort of peaceful slow motion.

I got home, ate my sandwich, and hit the sofa. Everything was fine. I was a little taken off guard by the very blue and growing bruise that I could see through the bandage, but I'm sure they just forgot to tell me there would be some bruising. It was surgery after all. Bob and I watched a movie that night, and went to bed early. It was all going to be fine.

Saturday I did let myself sleep in a little. When I got up I realized, this thing hurts. I mean really hurts. I took some ibuprofen. I read through the discharge papers. There wasn't really anything that told me there would be this much pain, but there was also no restrictions as far as diet, activity, or anything else. When I got the bandage off, I was startled by the gunshot-wound bruise, the raised bumpy spot that was the port. I thought, "tough up, woman." 

Tough up I did. I'm going back to work Monday, so I thought I'd better start acting like a person who is going back to work. I got busy. I did laundry, vacuumed, you know, the normal stuff, pretty much ignoring the pain but keeping up with the Ibuprofen. Notre Dame was playing later, we had a roast in the crock pot, I even made a cocktail. I was doing fine. Until. 

Until I couldn't. I pretty much fell apart, bawling. Even though there was nothing in the discharge stuff about putting ice on this thing, when I couldn't take it I tried an ice bag and it did bring some relief. By this time I told Bob I wasn't going to make it to Mass today feeling this way. He could bring me communion. I totally expected to wake up in pain, but in less pain, and be able to function enough to get ready for tomorrow. Nope.

Migraine day #2. 

So this is what happens when you know you are overdoing it but you do it anyway. Second verse, same as the first: sound and light hurt, nausea, stabbing headache pain, the works. I spent the day in bed. I guess this was God reminding me that I'm not "all better," I'm not "fixed," and that I am really, truly, still recovering from surgery(ies). 

I had planned another fun post about movies to watch (and not watch) during cancer treatment. I had hoped to spend my day having fun deciding what to wear to work tomorrow. I intended to get things organized. But my body had other plans.