The other day during chemo, it was nurse Trudy (the hunchback) and another elderly woman I didn’t know.
Immediately I became deflated as I went to sit in the corner- hoping to escape Trudy’s eyes but forgetting my drugs are “called” out for all of the nurses. In any event, I sat in the corner, situated my tray table and the thing that holds the medicine up high and prayed for the other woman.
Nurse: Hi, I’m (forgot/don’t care). Which side is your port?
Me: I don’t have one.
Nurse: (gasps. tisks. shakes head) That is no good young lady. It is very dangerous to get the type of drugs you’re getting in your veins.
Me: I have good veins though.
Nurse: You won’t for long. How long will you be on chemo?
Me: (knife to my heart) Indefinetly.
Nurse: I was a pic nurse since 1980 and the best of the best. All my patients have had ports. It’s safer for you, its safer for me…
Me: How is it safer for you?
Nurse: For one thing, if these drugs were to get into your tissue …
Meanwhile, had nurse Jamie been there, she probably would have said contrary to the nurse- in fact, she’s told me many times my veins are great and its only because the old nurses are used to ports because its easier for them.
So, after hemming and hawing, but knowing this is my only recourse, I’m doing it two days after my ass surgery.
The rush? I need to be off one of my drugs for a few weeks before and a few weeks after the procedure- in order to heal. Now, judging by the random geriatric cut on my ankle that I didn’t feel, nor know was there until I did… (which is still not healed)… I’m effed.