Gaudete, gaudete, PICC line est ejectus

Day 97 

General status update

Nausea demon: full of himself, raring to go  – he woke me at 4am, and we spent the dawn hours together, playing Mah-jong on the computer and listening to podcasts of The Archers. He’s becoming quite an Archers’ fan, after spending the last 14 weeks with me; it was either that or return, screaming, to the Infernal Regions. He’s tough, though, the Nausea Demon – he wasn’t going to be defeated by an everyday tale of country folk, and he likes it more now I’ve explained to him all the key vocabulary like ‘silage; and ‘weaners’. He definitely thinks Tom should stay organic, and has developed a whole theory about how Brenda is going to leave Tom because she doesn’t want to settle down like he does, whereupon Tom will cry on Kirsty’s shoulder and they will end up together, and the tragically widowed Elizabeth will marry Kirsty’s ex, the lovely cricket guy, so everyone will live happily ever after except Brenda. But then Brenda will finally discover her deeply-suppressed inner Sapphist, and not before time, because a lesbian in the village is LONG OVERDUE. Sorted.

Despair Demon: Still confined to the airing cupboard, but I’ve been taking him tea and toast.

Chemo Muse: More and more resplendent and terrifying, especially in light of yesterday’s events – see below. ADDENDUM: no, don't see below, was too tired to write, you'll have to wait until tomorrow.

Chemo Brian: I love him more every day – he doesn’t seem to have done too much damage to my cerebral capacities, and his warm fuzziness is so consoling when things get really bad. I think he is sponsored by the makers of Lorazepam – they work very well together.

PICC line: see below

Hair: it LOVED the Reiki on Monday, and is lobbying for an Indian cranial massage at my next complementary therapy session, on the grounds that my head should be taking priority in soothing treatments after the repeated assaults from the chemo drugs and the agony of the Cold Cap: it has a very good point. The Cold Cap actually made me cry for the first time this week. It hurt so much, despite a big dose of painkillers, that I just lost it, and it was marginal as to whether I ripped the damn thing off my head. But I didn’t. My sister, when I told her about this, reminded me that the first time I had the Cold Cap I barely flinched, and I seem to be finding it harder to bear every time. I think I’m just so worn down by horrible things happening to me physically that my resilience is seeping away; I’m limping towards the finish line. Still, the Cold Cap has saved my hair, and there’s only more session to go.

Anxiety level (1-10): considerably reduced after what happened at the hospital yesterday –see below.

State of mind: not quite as joyous as I was, because although there is only one more dose of chemo to go, there are still two whole sets of side effects to endure, and they’re kicking in big time already this cycle.

When I went back to the Chemo Ward yesterday to receive the injection of Pegfilgrastim to boost my immune system, Matron Becky sprang a little surprise on me.

‘I’ve had an idea’ she said ‘about your PICC line. You’ll probably say no, but I just thought I’d mention it.’

I was all ears, obvs. Was there some way we could punish the PICC line for its complete failure to perform, for the third time running, when FEC5 was about to be administered on Thursday, after performing perfectly three times in a row at times when it didn’t really matter? I’d definitely be up for that, my once deeply grateful attitude towards the PICC line, for sparing my veins and its ease of use, having been transformed into sullen resentment after all the trouble it’s caused me during the last three doses of FEC.

‘You’ve only got one more dose of chemo to go’ said Becky ‘and the PICC line has caused major problems for the last three doses. You’ve had the last 2 doses into your veins anyway, and that hasn’t caused any problems at all.’

She picked up my left hand and examined it.

‘There’s a good vein there on the back we still haven’t used – what would you think about having the PICC line taken out, and just using that vein for your last dose of FEC? If the PICC line was gone, you wouldn’t need another two hospital appointments to have it flushed before your last dose of FEC on April 4th. You wouldn’t need to come back to the hospital at all until your pre-chemo check on April 3rd. And it would make you a lot less stressed before your last chemotherapy treatment, because you wouldn’t be worrying about whether or not the PICC line would work.’

Wow – no more PICC line? No more dressings covering half of my upper arm, forever reminding me of my cancer patient status? No more weekly hospital visits to maintain the damn thing? No more anxiety about its stubborn refusal to perform at the vital moment?

I was immediately giddy with excitement at this opportunity to simplify and de-stress things, to start cutting my umbilical ties to the hospital even as the chemo finishing post is looming into sight on the horizon.

‘That sounds like a very good idea, Becky. When could I have it done?’

Inserting the PICC line had been an intricate procedure involving ultrasound and local anaesthetic; I assumed that taking it out would require an appointment back at the PICC line unit.

‘Now. It’s really simple – I just have to pull it out. You won’t feel a thing.’

And she did, and I didn’t.

I think I heard a tiny scream from the PICC line as it was dragged out, though - but I have no sympathy at all. Let its fate be a warning to all future PICC lines who feel the need to be temperamental - THIS is what will happen to you if you get on the wrong side of Matron Becky...

And there is my actual PICC line, the narrow stripy catheter lying twined around the orange thing. This picture was not posed by a model.

The other good thing that happened at the hospital yesterday I will have to tell you about tomorrow, as the nausea is getting to me, and I’m very tired, and I have to lie down right now.