Drilling for Blood

I brought my homework to read. I know the TPA treatment requires an hour to take effect. I should have brought next week's homework as well! No one had requested that my oncologist order the TPA treatment, so the nurses decided that perhaps they had not sufficiently coaxed my port on Monday. They would try again.

I am ushered to a private room with a reclining chair and adjoining bathroom. The royal treatment! The nurse puts me through all the same paces and then some - lay back, lean forward, raise your arm, lower your arm, cough, turn your head, stand up, bend over. Nothing.

A second nurse comes in. Likely I was not encouraged enough, so she puts me through all the exact same positions and trials as the first nurse put me through plus a ton of flushing. Still nothing. Then a third, tough looking nurse comes in. Surely she will be able to convince me to cough up enough blood. Same positions, same stuff, same result.

Each time I ask the nurse if they will please call my oncologist and request the TPA. Each time they tell me that the TPA will likely not work because my port seems to be positional. Finally, the first nurse comes back and tells me she will call my doctor. Thank goodness. I sit quietly and read. Someone from the pharmacy comes in, talking on her cell phone, mumbles something about my port, and exits. Hum.

After a good hour has flown by, they finally get the TPA. One wrinkle. Its frozen. They have to thaw it out. Three hot packs and a lot of manipulation later, they inject the TPA and leave me to soak. I read. I complete the assigned reading. I close my eyes to rest a bit, but there is much movement in the hallway which I can see through the glass door.

People walking toward the infusion rooms drag their feet, slumping along reluctantly. Family members who are accompanying talk loudly, as if to quell the discomfort through volume. Nurses flutter back and forth carrying medicine and gear. A doctor or two steps quietly past, buried deep in someone's chart. Back, forth. Back, forth. Little snippets of inane conversation leaks into my cell.

"I told her not to go, but she insisted. Look what it got her." (A day of freedom)

"Why didn't they tell us about the potential for bleeding out?" (They don't tell you anything unless you encounter it).

"I refuse to give up. There must be something more we can do for her." (Maybe she doesn't want to do anything else. Maybe she has had enough).

Suddenly I tire of the little games and the dark scenarios. I turn on the TV, something I have not done in months. I read through the menu. There is nothing that appeals, but the need for conversation that is NOT about cancer is strong. I select the show Psyche. I haven't seen that in quite some time.

Generally I don't believe that anyone can, through the sheer genius of their brainpower, overcome great odds and figure out riddles that escape the normal human. If we could do that, cancer would be gone. But I play along, having figured out the scenario long before the solution is offered. At least it is a distraction.

Timing is perfect. Just as the show ends, the nurse returns and I can see that she absolutely does not believe that the TPA will have done the job. She is just going along with the idea to eliminate it as a solution. We both know that the next step is to surgically replace the port.

But I have been down this road before. The symptoms are exactly the same, and TPA worked before. I have every confidence that it will work now. And to her amazement, first draw bring a more than sufficient supply of deep red liquid. She is floored. And glad.

It has made her day that the solution was so simple. She is practically dancing. I tried to tell her. But its OK. I am glad to have made someone's day! I figure I am good for another 6 months or so. Thank the good Lord.